The faint glow of pre-dawn light filtered through the curtains of Izamuri's suite. His alarm chimed softly at 5:00 a.m., and he stirred almost immediately, mind already snapping to the day ahead. Today wasn't the race, but Friday's free practice was just as important—a chance to put yesterday's frustrations behind him and focus on what truly mattered: speed, consistency, and control.
He slid out of bed, stretching his arms overhead until his joints popped. The shower was quick but refreshing, steam curling off the tiles as he stepped out and toweled down. He dressed in a plain T-shirt and joggers for breakfast, packing his racing undersuit neatly in his bag to change into later at the track. A final check—wallet, phone, room key—then he was out the door.
The hotel hallways were quiet at this hour, the carpeted corridors muffling his footsteps. As he descended to the buffet hall, the faint hum of conversation reached his ears. He wasn't surprised by the sight that greeted him when he stepped inside: Hojo and Tojo, already entrenched in their self-declared "first breakfast" of the day.
The twins had secured the corner table nearest the serving stations, plates already piled high with an eclectic mix of fried eggs, miso soup, grilled salmon, and three different kinds of bread. Hojo was in mid-story about something ridiculous that had happened last night, waving a butter knife around like a pointer, while Tojo nodded between mouthfuls of rice.
"You two ever sleep?" Izamuri asked dryly as he approached.
"Sleep is for the weak," Hojo replied without hesitation.
"Breakfast is for champions," Tojo added, gesturing at his plate.
Izamuri shook his head but couldn't help a small smirk. "Yeah, well, pace yourselves. It's barely half past five."
Before long, the rest of the crew filtered in. Haruka was first, looking as put-together as ever despite the early hour. Rin and Takamori followed, still yawning. Hana and Ayaka arrived together, hair tied back and eyes sharp, already discussing something about today's setup plan. Nikolai, Walter, Simon, and Daichi rounded out the group, their entrance making the buffet feel suddenly much livelier.
Plates were filled, coffee was poured, and the low murmur of conversation blended with the occasional clatter of cutlery. Most of the talk stayed practical, like tire temps, suspension tweaks, fuel loads. Though the twins occasionally tried to derail it with outlandish ideas. "What if we fitted a cupholder in the EK9?" "What if we attach a speaker on the EK9's roof and play Eurobeat?".
By 6:00 a.m., breakfast was finished and everyone moved with quiet efficiency toward the hotel parking lot. The cool morning air was crisp, the sky just beginning to lighten toward pale blue. Vehicles were loaded quickly: Walter's E190 Estate, Haruka's Corolla, the Hiace van, and Daichi's 3000GT.
The short drive to Fuji Speedway was uneventful, the road still empty enough for the convoy to move together without interruption. As the main gate came into view, the familiar excitement hummed through the group—today, they would see where they truly stood.
The paddock area was still sparsely populated at this hour. Only a handful of other teams had arrived early, their haulers parked neatly with a few mechanics moving about. The air smelled faintly of damp asphalt and morning dew.
G-Force's garage space was exactly as they'd left it yesterday: tools in their designated spots, tires stacked neatly along the wall, and the Championship White EK9 sitting in the center like a coiled spring. Everyone fell into their roles immediately. Rin and Takamori began unloading the gear from the Hiace. Haruka and Nikolai checked over the car's fluids and pressure levels, speaking quietly about small adjustments. Walter and Simon set up the timing equipment, their laptops humming to life.
Just next door, Hugo Speed's garage was notably quiet. The towering Volvo FH16 transporters were parked with their trailer doors shut, and the only movement came from four mechanics in dark blue overalls who were sweeping the hauler's interior ramp and mopping the garage floor. It seemed the rest of the team—including Hugo himself—was still back at the hotel.
Daichi glanced over at them briefly before returning to the EK9, speaking with Haruka about brake bias. "They'll be here before the driver briefing, don't worry about them," Haruka said, reading the thought on his face.
Six paddocks away, the Naka GP setup was a different story. Their massive Scania S500 transporters sat like fortresses, trailers open and lit up despite the early hour. The glow from inside spilled onto the asphalt, casting long shadows. Outside, two of their private security guards lounged on folding chairs by the entrance to the motorhome.
They were dressed in matching black jackets, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses even in the weak dawn light. One of them sipped coffee from a paper cup; the other was idly scrolling on his phone. Both had the same calm but alert posture of men who were paid very well to keep strangers out.
Walter noticed them as he passed by to grab something from the timing tent. "They've been up all night?" he muttered to Simon, who only gave a small shrug.
"Wouldn't surprise me," Simon replied. "That operation runs like a bunker. And with NEIT money behind it, they can afford to."
Meanwhile, Izamuri finished checking his own helmet and gloves, then set them neatly on the workbench. He wasn't going to dwell on yesterday's incident—not now, with free practice only hours away. The car was ready, the crew was sharp, and if the track stayed dry, they could make the most of every lap.
Haruka called for a quick team huddle by the EK9's nose. "Alright," he said, his tone brisk, "today is all about dialing in race pace. No hero laps, no unnecessary risks. We gather as much data as we can, make the changes, and keep the car intact. Everyone clear?"
A chorus of nods and murmured agreements followed.
"Good," Haruka continued. "Let's get to it."
The sound of tools clinking, compressors hissing, and the low rumble of engines warming up began to fill the paddock. The day was just starting, but already, the G-Force garage carried a sense of purpose. While Hugo Speed's crew quietly prepped next door and Naka GP's guarded camp loomed in the distance, Izamuri and his team focused on what they could control—getting their car and their driver ready for the challenge ahead.
By the time the sun finally crested over the peaks beyond Fuji Speedway, the paddock was slowly transforming from a sleepy cluster of half-awake crews into a living, breathing machine of preparation. The once-quiet space beside G-Force's garage began to stir as the deep rumble of diesel engines signaled the arrival of the rest of Hugo Speed's crew.
Two gleaming black vans rolled up alongside the towering Volvo FH16 haulers. Doors slid open, and mechanics in coordinated dark-blue uniforms stepped out, carrying tool cases and small crates of gear. The energy shifted immediately; these were seasoned professionals, each moving with quiet precision toward their assigned duties. One began checking tire pressures on a spare set of Advan A050s, another carried a laptop and telemetry sensors to the pit wall, while two others disappeared into the trailer to fetch helmets and driving equipment.
A few minutes later, Hugo Vatanen himself appeared, stepping down from the cab of one of the haulers. He was dressed in a crisp Hugo Speed polo and black racing trousers, his trademark calm expression set beneath his short-cropped hair. Spotting the G-Force crew, he raised a hand in casual greeting before walking over.
"Morning," Hugo said in that even, slightly accented voice. "Perfect weather for it today."
Walter, crouched near the front-right wheel of the EK9, gave a small nod. "Morning. Looks like your crew's hitting the ground running."
"As they should," Hugo replied with a faint smile. "And you?"
"Ready as we'll ever be," Daichi said, glancing up from the laptop screen where he'd been reviewing yesterday's suspension data. "If the track opens on time, we'll be first in line."
Hugo's gaze shifted briefly toward the white Civic sitting gleaming under the early light. "Then I'll see you out there." He gave a small nod to Izamuri, who returned it with a quiet one of his own.
That calm professionalism was quickly contrasted by a scene six paddocks away. The Naka GP motorhome door finally swung open, and the two men who had been the subject of so many conversations—and curses—over the last two days emerged.
James Hawthorn stepped out first, wearing designer sunglasses despite the still-soft morning light. He stretched lazily, as though waking from the world's most luxurious nap, before adjusting the cuffs of his Naka GP team jacket. Behind him, Mike Hunt followed in similarly branded gear, a yawn splitting his face as he looked around the paddock like he'd just discovered it existed.
They both moved slowly, stretching and chatting between themselves. James took a moment to crack his neck before running a hand through his carefully styled hair, while Mike strolled over to one of their mechanics holding a coffee, taking it without even a word of thanks. The two security guards stationed outside the motorhome straightened slightly as the drivers emerged, their mirrored sunglasses hiding their eyes but not their attentiveness.
From where he stood near the EK9, Haruka noticed them and muttered something under his breath. Rin, busy wiping down the Civic's rear wing, caught it and smirked. "Guess the princes have decided to grace us with their presence."
"They'll be in our way on track before they're even fully awake," Takamori remarked, his tone flat.
Izamuri didn't bother looking in their direction. His focus was fixed entirely on his own machine, now fully prepped and sitting on fresh tires. The ride height and camber settings had been checked twice, fluids topped, brakes bled. All that was left was for the track marshals to open pit exit.
Simon checked his watch and gave a short nod toward Walter. "Twenty minutes until they drop the green for practice. Everything's good on my end."
"Same here," Walter confirmed, closing his laptop and standing. "Once they open, we send Izamuri out on a full-tank run. Simulate the race from lap one."
Daichi glanced at the pit lane, still empty except for a few marshals in high-vis jackets walking the length to check barriers and signals. "We'll queue early. No sense sitting in the garage waiting for everyone else to clog the exit."
The low murmur of preparation carried through the air. A few more teams arrived, rolling their cars down the ramps of haulers or pushing them into the paddock. Toolboxes clinked, tire trolleys rattled over the asphalt, and the smell of race fuel began to linger faintly.
Hugo's crew next door were now fully set up, their own white-and-blue Civic on stands while a mechanic torqued the wheel nuts. Hugo himself was seated inside, helmet in his lap, listening to his race engineer over the headset.
Over at Naka GP, James and Mike were taking their time. Their cars were ready—of course, their mechanics had been working since before sunrise—but the drivers themselves seemed in no hurry. James leaned against the side of his Civic, sipping from a sports bottle, while Mike wandered along the paddock looking half-interested in other teams' setups.
From the G-Force garage, the contrast was impossible to ignore. Izamuri stood beside his car, helmet now resting on the roof, gloves tucked into the visor. His posture was relaxed but ready, eyes occasionally glancing toward the pit lane entrance as though willing it to open sooner.
"Five minutes," Simon said, glancing at the marshal's hand signals down the lane.
The rest of the crew began moving into their positions. Haruka and Nikolai rolled the tool cart closer to the pit wall. Rin and Takamori carried the spare tires and laid them neatly against the barrier. Daichi slipped on his headset and checked radio comms with Izamuri, while Walter clipped the lap timer to the pit wall board.
Even the twins, for all their usual antics, seemed focused, Hojo with a torque wrench in hand, Tojo checking the air pressure in the spare set of tires with surprising care.
The paddock atmosphere shifted palpably in those final moments before the session. The chatter died down, replaced by the faint hiss of air guns and the low burble of engines idling in warm-up. Down the row, a few other teams began rolling their cars toward pit exit, drivers strapped in and visors down.
Hugo's Civic was already on the ground, the team peeling away the tire blankets as Hugo climbed in, helmet on. The faint whine of the starter motor carried over as the engine barked to life, its idle sharp and steady.
Izamuri glanced once toward the blue-and-yellow machine, then back to his own. He pulled on his gloves, the leather tightening around his fingers, and climbed into the cockpit. Straps clicked, belts tightened, and the sound of the B18C roaring awake filled the garage.
From six paddocks away, the Naka GP Civics fired up as well, their exhausts popping in the cool air. James and Mike finally seemed awake, climbing in and adjusting their mirrors, engines revving aggressively as if to announce their arrival to everyone within earshot.
Simon leaned toward Daichi. "This is going to be a very interesting morning."
Daichi's eyes stayed on the pit exit lights ahead. "Yeah. Let's just make sure we're ready when it counts."
And with the last few minutes ticking down, the G-Force Civic sat poised at the front of their garage, gleaming under the early sun, ready to be first onto the track the moment the lane went green.
Not long after, the pit exit lights flicked from red to green with a faint electronic click, and almost immediately the B18C in the Championship White EK9 barked to life under load. Izamuri eased the clutch out and rolled forward, the car's nose dipping slightly as he crossed the painted pit exit line. The morning air was still crisp, the track surface glistening faintly with the last of the dawn dew, but the sight of the empty Fuji Speedway ahead of him was enough to set his focus razor-sharp.
First corner—brake markers flashing past—he feathered the pedal, finding the bite without unsettling the chassis. The A050s gripped instantly, and he pushed through Coca-Cola corner, throttle steady, listening to every change in the car's tone. This wasn't about outright speed—at least not yet—it was about settling into a rhythm, feeling out the balance on a full tank, and getting his mind into race pace.
The first lap was smooth and calculated. No risks. Daichi's voice crackled in his ear, a calm but deliberate tone.
"Good entry into 100R. Keep the steering input steady; you've got a hairpin coming up."
By the time he exited Panasonic and blasted onto the main straight, the Civic felt alive under him. Lap two was faster, cleaner. Lap three, faster still. Hugo's voice came over the shared radio channel from his own pit. "Looking solid, Izamuri. Keep your braking markers consistent."
For the first fifteen minutes, the track was entirely his. He sliced through each section like a metronome, Daichi feeding him sector times from the wall. The Civic's B18C screamed at full tilt down the main straight, echoing across the empty grandstands. Each time he passed pit wall, the G-Force crew leaned over the barrier, watching intently.
Then, the calm began to shift. The first of the other drivers trickled out, two Studie Racing Civics, their liveries flashing bright blues as they merged onto the track ahead. Izamuri closed on them fast, but instead of diving past, he tucked in behind, reading their lines, testing their braking points. A calculated overtake into Dunlop proved the car's acceleration was strong even in higher gears.
Another ten minutes, and more teams rolled out. The Akina Speed's pair sets off, a pair of Civic painted in 2 tone color style, light green over metallic gray. Then Hugo's blue-and-yellow EK9 joining in from pit lane. The moment Hugo exited, he slotted into a gap just ahead of Izamuri.
The next few laps were almost choreographed. Hugo wasn't blocking, but he wasn't yielding easily either—each straight became a chance for Izamuri to study slipstreaming, each corner an exercise in applying pressure without overdriving. Daichi noticed the pattern immediately. "He's giving you lessons out there. Take 'em."
By the forty-minute mark, the track was alive. More and more Civics poured out of pit lane until all 24 entries were circulating. It became a moving chessboard—tight packs forming, drivers defending their lines, others pushing for space. Izamuri worked through it steadily, never flustered, keeping his lap times within a second of each other.
At one point, James Hawthorn appeared ahead, his Naka GP car weaving slightly down the straight. Izamuri didn't bother wasting time—into Turn 1, he dived cleanly up the inside, outbraking him without drama. Mike Hunt was a few corners later, running a wider line than necessary. Again, Izamuri slipped past with no contact, the crew back at pit wall murmuring their approval.
By now, tire wear was becoming noticeable, front-end grip softening, slight understeer creeping into long corners like 100R. At Daichi's call, Izamuri pulled into pit lane, rolling to a stop in G-Force's box. The crew moved with quiet efficiency, checking tire temperatures, making a few damper adjustments, and tweaking rear toe to give the car a little more rotation.
Water bottle in hand, helmet still on, Izamuri listened to Walter lean in. "You're keeping it clean. But on your out-lap, push through 300R earlier—car's got the grip for it now."
"Got it," Izamuri replied simply before climbing back in. The belts were yanked tight, the lollipop sign lifted, and the EK9 rolled back toward pit exit.
The second stint began with more traffic. This time, he treated it like mid-race conditions, holding position behind slower cars until the moment was right to pass. One lap, he shadowed a Kei Racing driver all the way through Dunlop before launching a decisive move at Netz Corner. Another, he defended against a charging Privateer who tried an outside pass at Coca-Cola, shutting the door without losing momentum.
Hugo occasionally reappeared in his mirrors, and when he did, the two settled into an unspoken truce—trading places, each giving the other room when they decided to push. Their cars were nearly identical in performance, and the mutual respect was evident even from the pit wall.
The hours slipped by in a haze of tire squeal, engine note, and the constant rhythm of braking, turning, accelerating. Between stints, Izamuri would roll in, take a swig of water, nod at whatever feedback Walter or Daichi offered, and head back out. The changes were small each time, a click of rebound here, a tiny shift in brake bias there, but each made the Civic sharper, more predictable.
By late morning, the entire 24-car grid was flowing like a living organism. Groups formed and broke apart. The G-Force pit crew watched intently as Izamuri handled himself in every situation—closing gaps without panic, defending without weaving, and managing his tires so well that even at the end of a long run, his lap times barely dropped off.
From the pit wall, Haruka spoke quietly into his headset. "If he can keep this up in race conditions, he's going to be a nightmare to pass."
Daichi, standing beside him, just nodded. "He's learning faster than I expected."
Near the two-hour mark, Daichi called him in for one last quick check before the lunch break. As he rolled down pit lane, passing Hugo's crew and then Naka GP's much more ostentatious setup, the contrast between the privateers and the big-money teams was obvious.
The Civic coasted to a stop in front of the G-Force garage. The tires hissed faintly as the heat escaped. Mechanics swarmed over the car, checking torque settings and logging tire temperatures. Izamuri unclipped his belts, climbed out, and pulled his helmet off, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"That was solid work," Walter said, patting the roof of the EK9. "You made fewer mistakes this morning than you did all of yesterday."
Izamuri only gave a small, tired smile, grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler. He turned to look at the track, where the rest of the field was still circulating. The sound of 23 other B-series engines filled the air, but for him, the noise was just a backdrop to the lessons he'd been stacking lap after lap.
In the distance, Hugo's Civic blasted past the pit straight, locked in a tight scrap with a Studie Racing car. The next time Izamuri faced him, he knew it would be just as much of a duel.