The lunch break at Fuji Speedway had an oddly tranquil air, as though the heat of the morning practice had simmered down into a fragile calm. Mechanics across the paddock leaned against toolboxes, munching on bento boxes or sipping canned coffee. The smell of grilled meats and fried noodles from nearby food stalls drifted lazily across the pit lane. For a moment, the atmosphere felt more like a festival than the battleground of motorsport it had been just an hour ago.
The G-Force crew had set up a makeshift table behind their pit, spread with convenience store sandwiches, bottled tea, and leftover onigiri from the morning rush. Izamuri sat cross-legged on the ground with his lunch tray balanced on his lap, still chewing in silence, clearly exhausted but hiding it well. Walter sat nearby, already halfway through his second sandwich while scribbling notes on a notepad. Simon leaned against the EK9's transporter, poking at his salad while his mind was elsewhere.
The loudest ones, unsurprisingly, were the twins. Hojo and Tojo sat off to the side, devouring the mountain of sweet potatoes they had packed from the hotel buffet earlier that morning. Steam still rose faintly from the foil-wrapped piles, their fingers working furiously to peel the skins while they stuffed their mouths like starved squirrels. Their antics drew the attention of Takamori, who was seated opposite them, sipping green tea while watching in disbelief.
Finally, he couldn't hold it anymore. "Oi… why the hell are you two eating only sweet potatoes? We've got rice, noodles, chicken, everything. And you're just… stuffing your faces like you're preparing for winter hibernation."
Tojo looked up mid-bite, cheeks puffed full like a balloon. "Mmph—" He tried to speak but only managed a muffled grunt before choking slightly. Hojo thumped his brother's back, swallowed his own piece, and grinned mischievously.
"You'll see," Hojo said, voice smug and cryptic. "We have… plans."
"Plans?" Takamori raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What kind of plans require eating your body weight in sweet potatoes?"
The twins exchanged a glance, their expressions somewhere between conspiratorial and childish. "Secret," Tojo finally croaked, his grin mirroring his brother's.
Takamori sighed, leaning back. "These idiots are planning something. I just know it. But whether it's sabotage or something stupid like a fart contest, I can't put my finger on it…"
Rin, sitting nearby, snorted into his drink. "With those two, it's probably both."
Despite the chuckles, a different sort of seriousness settled in on the other side of the paddock where Daichi and Hugo were sitting together. They had set up folding chairs near the pit wall, both men quietly observing the movement of the other teams. Hugo had a sandwich resting on his lap, untouched, his sharp Swedish eyes narrowed toward the Naka GP paddock six spaces down.
"You see it too, don't you?" Daichi asked, breaking the silence as he set down his bento box.
Hugo tilted his head slightly. "Ja. Their cars. The way they accelerate on the straights. It's… unnatural."
Daichi nodded, his expression grim. "Exactly. Those Civics were pulling away far too quickly earlier. At first, I thought maybe lightweight body panels or an extreme diet of parts, but the way they gained speed—it's like they had twenty, thirty extra horsepower. And yet…"
"And yet we didn't hear a thing," Hugo finished. His voice carried a note of incredulity. "No turbo spooling, no whine of a supercharger. Nothing. Just the raw note of a naturally aspirated motor. Smooth, but too fast."
Daichi crossed his arms, his brow furrowing. "An engine swap could explain it, but the rules have capped the engine size at two liters since 2018. No 2.2 swaps, no loopholes. And even then, a well-built B20 or K20 wouldn't behave like that. Their torque curve was wrong—it spiked too quickly down the straight."
Walter, overhearing as he walked over with his notepad, leaned in. "Could be traction control tricks? ECU manipulation? Some electronic aid hidden in plain sight?"
Daichi shook his head. "Maybe. But with that kind of grunt, I'd expect wheelspin or some electronic buzz if traction control was cutting in. It wasn't that. Those cars were just… launching like missiles on every straight."
Hugo finally set his sandwich down, untouched. His tone dropped low. "Which means either they've found a grey area in the regulations… or they're cheating outright."
The words lingered in the air like a bad taste. Izamuri, who had been eating quietly nearby, looked up at the mention of cheating. His face was still flushed from the morning runs, but the sharpness in his eyes was unmistakable. "If they're cheating, what happens to us? They'll be untouchable."
Daichi gave him a steady look. "If they are cheating, then our job isn't to panic—it's to prove it. Or at least beat them on skill, not just raw power."
Simon chimed in, adjusting his glasses. "If their acceleration is artificially boosted, it won't matter if they can't control it in traffic. That's where you'll win, Izamuri. By keeping your pace clean."
Still, the unease remained. Across the paddock, the Naka GP operation looked more like a fortress than a racing team. Security men lounged casually but watchful, their jackets still heavy despite the noon sun. Mechanics scurried about in matching uniforms, their movements unnervingly precise, as if rehearsed. And their two star drivers, James and Mike, stood in front of their cars chatting with photographers, grinning like rockstars while their crew tuned something behind closed hoods.
Daichi's jaw tightened. He had been around motorsport long enough to know when something didn't add up. Cars didn't just magically break physics without leaving traces—whether mechanical, electronic, or something more sinister.
He leaned forward in his chair, muttering just loud enough for Hugo to hear. "Something's not right with them. And I intend to find out what."
Meanwhile, the twins were still cramming sweet potatoes into their mouths, drawing baffled stares from Takamori. Rin muttered from the side, "Maybe they're trying to become one with the starch gods."
As the spring sun was soft overhead, its rays glinting against the freshly polished bodywork of the Championship White EK9 as lunch wound down. Daichi set down his empty bento box, brushing the stray grains of rice off his trousers. The calm hum of conversations around the paddock mixed with the occasional metallic clang of tools. He exhaled, the gears of his mind already spinning from the morning's suspicions about Naka GP's cars.
As he rose from his chair, Hugo caught his eye. The Swede had barely touched his food, too busy watching the teams around them like a hawk. His folded arms and furrowed brow made him look less like a driver preparing for practice and more like a general surveying enemy lines.
"Walk?" Daichi asked simply, nodding toward the quieter end of the paddock.
Hugo gave the faintest of smiles and stood, brushing off his pants. "Ja. Let's stretch our legs."
The two men strolled along the outer lane of the paddock, away from the chatter of their crews and the twins' bizarre sweet potato feast. Their footsteps echoed against the asphalt, the noise of the track muted in this pocket of calm. For a while they walked in silence, just two veterans of very different motorsport paths, letting the sounds of gulls and the faint hiss of tires being rolled across the pits fill the air.
Finally, it was Hugo who broke the silence. "You've been out of the spotlight for… how long? Thirteen years?"
Daichi tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Since 2007. My last competitive drive was in DTM. I left the track on a stretcher that day." His voice carried no self-pity, just fact.
"And yet," Hugo continued, his voice softening, "you speak, you act, you think like you never left. Watching you today, listening to your analysis of those… questionable Naka GP cars, it's clear the instincts never left you." He slowed, turning to meet Daichi's eyes. "Men like you don't just retire. They may step back, but the fire always burns."
Daichi gave a small, almost bitter chuckle. "Fire or not, Hugo, I've been running a convenience store for the past decade. My crew, half of them are rookies. The other half are misfits with chips on their shoulders. That's hardly the picture of a championship team."
Hugo's gaze sharpened. "That's exactly why I wanted to speak to you."
Daichi stopped in his tracks, raising a brow. "Oh?"
The Swede took a slow breath, choosing his words with the precision of a strategist. "I have been racing for years. Touring cars, GT, endurance—you name it. I've built Hugo Speed from the ground up. Sponsors, trucks, spare cars, staff. But truthfully, Daichi… I'm more of a team builder than a driver. My joy comes from shaping a group of people into something greater, not from standing on the podium myself."
He began walking again, slower this time, as though each step weighed with the seriousness of his words. "I plan to retire after this season. 2020 will be my last year as a driver. And when that day comes, I don't want my team—everything I've built—to be swallowed up by some faceless corporate entity. I've seen it happen too many times. Passionate outfits reduced to profit margins. Engineers turned into paper-pushers. Drivers into marketing tools."
Daichi walked beside him, his expression hard but contemplative. "And what does that have to do with me?"
Hugo stopped again, squarely facing him. The Swede's blue eyes were sharp, almost piercing. "I want you to take it."
Daichi blinked. "Take… what?"
"My team," Hugo said plainly. "Hugo Speed. Co-ownership, with me for now. You handle the strategies, the crew, the racing side of things. I'll keep the finances in order. All decisions about racecraft, drivers, and engineering will be in your hands." He allowed a small, almost wistful smile. "When I retire, it will be yours fully. You can keep the name, or change it to G-Force. Either way, the future would be yours to shape."
Daichi stared at him, stunned into silence. He had faced countless proposals in his racing career—contracts, sponsorships, manufacturer deals. But this was different. This was no mere partnership. This was legacy being handed to him on a silver platter.
"…Why me?" Daichi finally asked, his voice low, almost dangerous.
Hugo's expression softened. "Because you're not chasing glory anymore. You're not chasing money either. You carry something else... Experience. You've lived the highs, you've survived the lows. And when I saw the way you handled Izamuri, when I saw that fire in his eyes… I recognized it. You see something in him. The same way I do."
Daichi's jaw tightened. He thought back to Izamuri—the boy barely twenty years old, raw and unpolished, yet already handling a race car with instincts honed from nowhere but sheer talent. No karting pedigree. No junior championships. Just pure, natural ability. It reminded him of his own reckless youth, the days when he lived and breathed speed before politics and sponsors poisoned the air around him.
Hugo continued, his voice steady. "I could keep my team under my name, keep racing until I'm too old to climb into the cockpit. But then what? I don't want Hugo Speed to die with me. I want it to live, and to live free. To belong to racers, not corporations. And I trust you more than anyone else to make that happen."
The silence stretched. The distant hum of a generator buzzed from another paddock. A crow cawed overhead.
Finally, Daichi spoke. "You're giving me your life's work. Just like that?"
"Not just like that," Hugo replied firmly. "I'm giving it to someone who understands what it means. You don't have to answer me now. Take your time. Think it through. But know this, Daichi… Men like you and I, we don't come around often. And neither do drivers like Izamuri."
Daichi turned away, his eyes scanning the horizon beyond the circuit, where Mount Fuji loomed under the midday sun. His mind was a storm—memories of Suzuka, Nürburgring, the podiums, the crashes, the scars that had never fully healed. And now, here stood a man offering him a second chance, not as a driver, but as the architect of something far bigger.
"…You're serious," Daichi muttered, more to himself than Hugo.
"Always," Hugo replied, his tone absolute.
Daichi didn't give his answer then. Instead, he began walking again, hands buried in his pockets, eyes dark with thought. Hugo followed, neither pushing nor rushing him. The offer hung in the air between them like the scent of impending rain.
When they returned to their paddock, the lunch break was ending. Mechanics were already rolling tires, drivers stretching for the afternoon runs. Daichi glanced at the EK9, its white paint gleaming under the sun. He thought of Izamuri, of the chaos of G-Force, of the twins somehow trying to weaponize sweet potatoes, of the sheer unpredictability of this team that had stumbled into existence.
And for the first time in years, Daichi felt something he thought he had lost: possibility.
He said nothing. He didn't accept, nor did he decline. But the thought lingered heavily in his chest as he rejoined his crew. Hugo had planted the seed. And Daichi knew it would grow.
Not long after, as the afternoon session began, painting the asphalt in soft hues of gold and gray. The distant roar of VTEC kicking in echoed across the paddock as Izamuri's Championship White EK9 screamed down the main straight, his lines smoother now, more confident, more calculated. Every lap was a rehearsal, every corner a test for what awaited him in tomorrow's qualification.
Inside the pit, G-Force was alive with movement, though everyone's focus was split across their tasks. Hana, Ayaka, and Rin had claimed a corner of the garage where the unused Advan A050 slicks were stacked. The trio crouched on the floor, marking each tire with chalk—date, position, and compound code. Hana double-checked the rim torques while Ayaka carefully aligned the valve stems, her brows furrowed in concentration. Rin, already covered in smudges of rubber dust, hefted the heavy tires one by one with surprising efficiency.
"These two are for qualifying, right?" Rin asked, wiping his forehead.
"Yes, and don't mix them up with the race sets," Hana warned sharply. "If you do, Haruka will tear you apart."
Ayaka glanced up, smirking. "Or worse, the twins will."
They all shuddered at the thought, before resuming their meticulous work.
On the pit wall, Haruka and Walter leaned forward over the guardrail, clipboards and stopwatches in hand. Haruka's eyes never left the track, scanning each apex as Izamuri tore through 100R and disappeared into the hairpin. The mechanical symphony of the B18C engine was music to Haruka's ears, but he wasn't listening for beauty—he was listening for hesitation, for strain, for anything unusual.
"2:06, 9," Walter called, clicking his stopwatch. His German accent clipped the numbers with military precision. "Consistent with the last run."
"Hmm," Haruka hummed, scribbling on his notes. "But his corner exit at Dunlop is sloppy. He's pushing too deep into the chicane before braking. He'll cook the tires if he keeps that up."
Walter nodded, already watching for the white EK9 to appear again on the main straight. "His raw pace is there. But rhythm? Not yet. We'll need to drill him tonight."
Back inside the pit, Takamori and Simon were hunched over the small monitor connected to the live onboard feed. The little camera, hastily mounted on Izamuri's roll cage during lunch, gave them a shaky but serviceable view of his steering, gear shifts, and lines. The image stuttered occasionally, static crawling across the screen before the signal recovered.
"Damn thing cut out again," Simon muttered, tapping the side of the monitor like it owed him money. "Bloody cheap transmitter."
Takamori leaned closer, replaying the last stretch of onboard. "He's late on the throttle at 300R. See how he hesitated before committing? That's costing him time."
Simon grunted in agreement, already scribbling notes for later. "We'll deal with the tech issue later. For now, keep your eyes on his hands. That'll tell us more than the lap times."
While the pit buzzed with quiet analysis and work, Nikolai had taken his battle elsewhere. Behind the garage, where his battered white 1977 Lada Niva sat with its hood open like an old warhorse. The Soviet 4x4, coated in the scars of decades, looked hilariously out of place among the polished trailers and glistening race cars of Fuji Speedway.
Nikolai crouched over the engine bay, sleeves rolled up, grease smeared on his forearms like tribal markings. He muttered to himself in Russian as he adjusted the timing belt, the tools clinking like an orchestra of their own. From his pocket, he pulled out the same worn manual he had carried since the 1980s, its cover faded, the hammer-and-sickle branding barely legible.
"Old girl," he said quietly, patting the hood. "If you made it from Moscow to Tokyo, you can make it through this week."
He tightened the bolts with one last grunt of effort, before sitting back on the ground, wiping his hands on a rag. The sound of Izamuri's EK9 passing by in the distance made him smirk. "You're not the only one proving yourself today, kid."
And then, of course, there were the twins. Hojo and Tojo sat cross-legged behind a stack of tires, their faces red and twisted, hands gripping their knees as though holding in a storm. Their strange lunch choice of sweet potatoes stolen from the hotel buffet, was taking its toll.
"Not yet," Tojo whispered, his voice strained. "Not the time."
"I know!" Hojo hissed back. "This is strategy, brother. Strategy!"
"Do you even have a plan?" Tojo groaned.
"Of course. It's… it's in progress."
From afar, they looked almost meditative, like monks in deep thought. But in reality, the twins were engaged in the most chaotic self-imposed endurance test anyone could imagine. Takamori, who passed by with a torque wrench in hand, glanced at them briefly, shook his head, and muttered, "Idiots," before returning to his work.
Out on the track, Izamuri was lost in the rhythm of racing. Lap after lap, he pushed harder, the Civic's VTEC howling as he dove into each corner. His earlier understeers and hesitant throttle inputs were fading, replaced by sharper, cleaner lines. The sweat under his helmet was proof of his effort, the burn in his arms from wrestling the lightweight chassis through Fuji's long sweepers only spurred him on.
Every time he entered the pit lane, Walter's sharp eyes studied him, Haruka scrawled more notes, Simon and Takamori dissected the footage, and Rin, Hana, and Ayaka prepared the car like clockwork. The G-Force crew was not polished, not corporate, not the gleaming powerhouse of Naka GP or Hugo Speed, but they were alive, each member contributing in their own messy, chaotic way.
When Izamuri rejoined the track after another adjustment, the white EK9 screamed down the main straight once more, its paint glinting in the afternoon sun. Walter glanced at his stopwatch.
"2:06, 2," he muttered.
Haruka smirked faintly, his eyes never leaving the track. "Closer. Much closer."
The montage of laps continued, the Civic dancing through corners, the team working tirelessly to perfect every adjustment, and the sun slowly dipping toward the horizon. Even amidst the chaos, the twins' mysterious "plan," Nikolai's tinkering, Simon's swearing at the monitor, there was a strange sense of unity.
They were not the richest. They were not the most professional. But at Fuji Speedway that afternoon, the G-Force crew was very much alive.