The road twisted like a spine through the forest.
Fog coiled along the edges of the asphalt, rising in ghostly tendrils under the pale moonlight.Every curve, every bump, every shadow whispered secrets to those who dared chase speed.
And at the edge of it all — a slanted clearing cut into the mountainside — stood Sazanami Lot.
Not a formal circuit.Not even a known meet-up spot.
Just an invitation-only graveyard for pride and ego.
Riku pulled in slowly, engine low, the Prelude's silver hood catching fragments of moonlight.There were already six other cars parked in the lot.No decals.No showboating.
Just machines.
Fast ones.
Lean ones.
Ready ones.
He stepped out, the air colder here.Thinner.Like the mountain was holding its breath.
No one rushed him.
No one greeted him.
Eyes turned, glanced — some curious, some cold — then turned back.
They'd heard.Whispers of the "phantom."But legends meant nothing here.
This was Koizumi's territory.
"You came."
Koizumi's voice broke the silence as he emerged from a dark corner of the lot, arms crossed over a scuffed leather jacket.
"Good. I don't like drivers who hesitate too long. They freeze up on the corners."
He walked slowly, the way someone walks when they don't need to prove anything anymore.
"You know the route?"
Riku nodded.He had driven parts of Sazanami on deliveries — but never the whole pass.Never at speed.
"Then here's the deal."
Koizumi pointed to a small digital board propped up on the hood of a black AE86.A time trial clock.
"Fastest time tonight gets respect."He looked at Riku."You want to race someone? Earn it."
A heavy silence fell.
One of the other drivers — a sharp-faced guy leaning against a red RX-7 — laughed under his breath.
"This guy? In a Prelude?"
Another one — girl, serious eyes, arms folded — didn't say anything, but her expression was clear.
"We'll see."
Koizumi didn't flinch.
He tapped the stopwatch.
"You're last on the list, Aoyama.They all want to go first."
Riku said nothing.Just looked down at the asphalt.It was cracked.Old.Tired.
Like it had seen too many egos bleed out on it.
The runs began.
One by one, the drivers took off down the winding path.Engines roared.Tires bit.Brakes howled.
Each return was met with silence and stopwatch beeps.
No celebration.No shouting.
Just numbers.
The RX-7 clocked in at 4:43.The S13 at 4:39.The Civic — small but nimble — at 4:36.
The girl in the white 180SX? 4:33.
Riku watched each run quietly.Learning.
Feeling.
Breathing.
Then Koizumi nodded.
"You're up."
Riku stepped forward.
The crowd barely moved.A few snickers.Some folded arms.
He didn't look at them.
He looked at the road.
The mountain stretched in front of him — dark, narrow, and waiting.
He sat in the Prelude.Started the engine.Let it idle.
Felt the rhythm.
The breathing.
The weight.
Koizumi leaned down by the window.
"No one's watching your time," he said calmly."Not really."
He paused.
"But everyone will remember your lines."
Then he stepped back.
Hand raised.
"Start when ready."
Riku took a breath.
Not deep.Not dramatic.
Just… calm.
He tapped the clutch.
Tapped the throttle.
The Prelude sang back, not loudly — but clearly.
And then—
He launched.
Not hard.Not wild.
Just… smooth.
The silver coupe melted into the night fog, tail lights swallowed by mist.
And the mountain exhaled.