The sky had already turned a dusky violet when Haruka's Corolla E101 TRD2000 rolled up to the Fuji Speedway Hotel parking lot. The gentle rumble of its tuned engine echoed faintly off the surrounding trees, blending with the distant hum of the other team cars pulling in. The air was crisp, carrying that faint smell of burnt rubber and asphalt that lingered after a day at the circuit. The convoy came to a slow halt . Walter's 190E parked neatly near the hotel entrance, the Hiace pulled in beside a lamppost, and behind them the flatbed towing truck with the EK9 still strapped down and covered.
Haruka shifted the Corolla into park and let the engine idle for a few seconds before switching it off. The low hum faded into silence. For a brief moment, all three of them. Haruka, Daichi, and Simon, just sat there, letting the stillness settle.
The glow from the hotel lobby spilled through the windshield, painting their faces in soft amber light. Daichi leaned back, his eyes still thoughtful from earlier. Simon, quiet as ever, had been staring out the side window the whole time, watching the reflections of the cars and people walking past. Haruka finally broke the silence with a sigh, his hand resting on the steering wheel.
"You wanted to know about Izamuri, right?" he said, turning his head slightly toward Daichi. "How I met him."
Daichi nodded, his tone calm but expectant. "Yeah. You mentioned once that you knew him before all this… before the racing."
Haruka looked out the windshield, a faint nostalgic smile forming on his face. "Yeah. I did. We met a long time ago… middle school, actually. Back when I was still this loud, overly optimistic kid who wouldn't shut up about cars."
Simon raised an eyebrow, amused. "Still fits the description, honestly."
Haruka laughed lightly. "Yeah, fair enough." He leaned back in his seat, eyes distant now, his voice softening. "But back then, I was worse. I mean, I was obsessed. Posters of Skylines, RX-7s, Silvias all over my room. I could name every car that passed by just from the sound of the exhaust. My teachers used to scold me for drawing engines on my notebooks instead of listening."
Daichi smirked faintly. "Sounds familiar."
"Yeah, I bet." Haruka chuckled, then his smile faded into something quieter. "And then… there was Izamuri."
The way he said the name carried a different tone, something tinged with warmth, and maybe a little sadness.
"He wasn't like the others," Haruka continued. "Most kids my age back then were loud, reckless, always talking about showing off, trying to impress each other. But Izamuri… he was quiet. Always watching, always thinking. He had this kind of… focus about him. Like his mind was always elsewhere, but not in a bad way. Just… deeper."
Daichi leaned forward slightly. "What about his background? You said before that he wasn't exactly like everyone else."
"Yeah," Haruka said softly. "You could tell just by looking at him. He was Japanese, but not entirely. His skin was a bit darker than the rest of us, not by much, but enough that kids sometimes whispered about it. You know how cruel middle schoolers can be. But he never reacted. Never got angry. Just… ignored it. That's what I admired most about him. The calmness."
He paused, eyes flicking toward the dim reflection of the hotel in the windshield. "I didn't know much about him back then. Still don't, honestly. All I knew was that his stepfather worked odd jobs. Izamuri never really talked about his family. I only found out years later that his stepmother had passed away when he was still a kid."
Simon looked over, curious. "What about his stepfather?"
Haruka took a slow breath, his tone dropping into something heavier. "He wasn't a bad man. Just… broken. After his wife died, something in him cracked. He started gambling, not out of greed, but because he didn't know how to deal with loss. At first, it was small stuff. Local betting, mahjong, a few sports tickets. But over the years, it got worse. By the time Izamuri was in college, it was already spiraling out of control."
Daichi's brows furrowed slightly. "That's rough."
"Yeah," Haruka murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. "And the worst part? He actually tried to protect Izamuri from it. He kept all his gambling debts separate from their home life. He even made sure Izamuri's college fund was untouched. You could tell he still cared. But sometimes life doesn't care about intentions."
He let out a long sigh, looking down at his hands. "A few weeks ago, before all this, Izamuri dropped out of his mechanical engineering program. Turns out his stepfather's debt collectors came after them after he died. The old man didn't leave much behind except a mountain of unpaid loans and a list of angry creditors. Izamuri had no choice but to use his entire college savings to pay it off."
Simon's usually unreadable expression softened slightly. "So that's why he left college."
"Yeah." Haruka nodded slowly. "It wasn't because he wanted to. It was because he had to. He told me once that he didn't want anyone else to get dragged into his mess, that if he had to start from zero again, he would."
Daichi leaned back in his seat, processing everything. "So… he's been through all that, and yet he still carries himself like that? Calm, composed, focused?"
"That's Izamuri," Haruka said with a faint smile. "He doesn't complain. Doesn't ask for pity. He just… does what needs to be done. Always has." He turned to Daichi, his tone more serious now. "You saw how he drives, right? That intensity, that raw instinct? That's not something you learn. That's something born out of pressure. He's not fast because he wants to be famous. He's fast because he needs to be. Because it's the only thing he can control in a life that keeps taking things away from him."
Daichi didn't respond for a moment. He just looked out the windshield, deep in thought. The faint sounds of the hotel lobby, voices, rolling suitcases, the distant hum of an elevator, seeped into the quiet space of the car. The orange hue of the setting sun had now faded completely, replaced by the soft white glow of the streetlights outside.
Simon finally broke the silence, his voice low but reflective. "It explains a lot… about how he is. Why he drives like that."
Haruka nodded, staring out into the parking lot where the rest of the team cars were lined up neatly under the lamps. "He's not just driving a car. He's running from ghosts."
That sentence lingered in the air for a moment. Heavy, poignant, and painfully true.
Daichi sighed quietly, eyes narrowing in contemplation. "He reminds me of someone I knew a long time ago. Someone who drove like that, as if every corner was a question he needed to answer." He looked at Haruka again. "And yet… there's something different about Izamuri. It's like his talent came out of nowhere."
Haruka shrugged. "Maybe it did. Or maybe it's something that was always there, waiting for a reason to exist."
He looked down at the keys in his hand, flipping them absently. The sound of the small metal pieces clicking against each other filled the silence for a moment. "That's all I know about him," he said finally. "Everything else? Only Izamuri himself can answer."
The conversation faded into quiet reflection. The three men sat there for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. Daichi thinking of what he'd just heard, Simon replaying the image of Izamuri behind the wheel, and Haruka silently wondering if there was more to his friend's past than even he realized.
Finally, Haruka straightened up and broke the silence. "Alright," he said, his usual calm authority returning. "That's enough story time. We've got to check out now."
Daichi blinked, surprised. "Now? It's barely six."
"Exactly," Haruka said as he unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door. The cool evening air swept in, carrying the faint scent of pine and distant exhaust fumes. "We've still got to pack up our rooms, settle the hotel bill, and make sure everyone's ready before we leave. You know how the twins are — if we don't get moving now, they'll be trying to smuggle the minibar."
Simon smirked faintly. "Wouldn't surprise me."
Haruka stepped out, stretching his arms before leaning back in to glance at the two men. "Go on, you two. Head up and pack. I'll join you once I check with Walter and make sure the others are ready."
Daichi opened his door, grabbing his jacket from the seat. "Fine by me. Just don't let those two maniacs start a food fight in the hallway again."
"No promises," Haruka said with a half-smile.
Simon followed behind, his calm demeanor unshaken as always. "Come on, Daichi. Let's get it over with before Haruka decides to make us clean up after them too."
The hotel lobby was alive with the faint clatter of rolling suitcases and murmured voices as the G-Force crew gathered near the exit. The warm glow from the chandeliers reflected off the tiled floor, casting long shadows that stretched toward the automatic glass doors. One by one, they handed in their keys, signed the checkout forms, and thanked the front desk staff for their patience over the last few days.
Haruka was the last to sign the paperwork, still half-focused on a checklist in his hand. "Alright," he said, looking over his shoulder. "Everyone packed up? No one left anything behind?"
The twins raised their hands in unison, each holding a plastic bag filled with leftover snacks and drinks from the minibar. "We took everything!" Tojo declared proudly.
Haruka sighed. "That's exactly what I was afraid of."
Walter rubbed his temples. "I am not cleaning your crumbs out of the van again, ja?"
"Don't worry, Walter," Hojo replied with a grin. "We'll keep it clean this time!"
"Liar," Nikolai muttered, adjusting his cap as he walked past them.
Outside, the early evening air was cool, carrying that sharp mountain freshness that always lingered around Fuji Speedway. The last light of the setting sun painted the sky in a deep amber hue, streaked with hints of violet and blue. Their convoy of cars was lined neatly in the parking lot, ready for departure, each vehicle loaded with gear, luggage, and traces of the weekend's chaos.
Haruka's Corolla E101 TRD2000 led the lineup, parked right in front of the hotel's exit ramp. Behind it gleamed Daichi's crimson Mitsubishi 3000GT, its polished surface catching the last rays of sunlight like molten metal. Walter's silver Mercedes-Benz 190E sat next to it, perfectly clean and symmetrical as always, while further back, the ever-reliable Lada Niva idled with a faint diesel clatter, Nikolai's silhouette visible through the window.
Simon's dark green Jaguar XJS followed, its classic lines giving off an aura of timeless elegance, though Simon's stoic face behind the wheel killed any impression of luxury. Behind him, the twins' battered Civic EG8 sedan looked hilariously out of place among the rest, its faded red paint, mismatched panels, and dented fenders standing as a badge of pride rather than shame. Rin and Takamori were already securing the last of the toolboxes inside the Toyota Hiace, the workhorse of the team, before sliding the van doors shut. And at the very end of the line was the flatbed truck, its hydraulic lift carefully holding the team's pride. The EK9 Championship White race car, now calm and motionless after a weekend of roaring fury.
Haruka got into the Corolla, sliding into the driver's seat while Izamuri, Hana, and Ayaka settled in. Izamuri was quiet as usual, staring out the window, deep in his thoughts as the faint hum of engines came to life around them. Hana was fiddling with her phone's playlist, while Ayaka leaned forward, stretching her arms over the dashboard.
"Everyone ready?" Haruka asked over the radio, his voice coming through the open frequency that linked the whole convoy.
Daichi's voice came next, calm and composed. "Yeah. Let's get moving before traffic builds up."
Walter chimed in after him, his distinct German accent cutting through the static. "All vehicles aligned and ready. Try not to make this look like a mafia parade, ja?"
That earned a round of laughter through the radio.
Haruka smirked and clicked his mic. "Alright, people. Let's roll out."
The Corolla rolled forward first, headlights cutting through the twilight. The convoy followed in perfect formation, like a mechanical caravan gliding down the gentle slope leading out of the hotel. The hum of engines filled the mountain air, echoing faintly against the hills surrounding Fuji Speedway.
As they exited the hotel grounds and merged onto the main road, the city lights of Gotemba shimmered in the distance. The convoy snaked through the streets, eight vehicles in total, headlights glowing like a river of light winding down the mountain road.
Inside Haruka's car, Hana leaned back against the seat, watching the convoy in the rear-view mirror. "You know," she said with a small grin, "from back here, it actually looks pretty cool. Like we're in some kind of movie scene."
Ayaka nodded, arms crossed as she gazed out the window. "Yeah, except instead of secret agents or racers, we've got a bunch of sleep-deprived mechanics and one crazy set of twins."
"Correction," Haruka said, keeping his eyes on the road. "Two crazy sets of twins, if you count Rin and Takamori's idea of teamwork."
"Hey!" Rin's voice came over the radio. "We heard that!"
Hana burst out laughing. "Oh, they're on the frequency too? Perfect."
"Focus on driving," Daichi's calm but firm voice followed. "We'll hit the highway soon. Keep it steady."
The convoy continued, headlights carving through the fading light as the sun dipped below the horizon. Soon, the mountain road gave way to the wide, smooth lanes of the Tōmei Expressway, the main artery leading toward Tokyo.
The world outside gradually shifted from rural quiet to the familiar blur of civilization. Neon signs flickered in the distance, toll booths passed in a rhythmic pattern, and the faint hum of the highway became a steady soundtrack to their journey.
Inside Daichi's 3000GT, the deep rumble of the twin-turbo V6 filled the cabin. He drove in his usual calm, precise manner, no wasted movements, no unnecessary revs. Simon's XJS followed him closely, keeping a perfect formation as if both were performing an unspoken ballet of mechanical precision.
Behind them, the Hiace trundled along with Takamori at the wheel, Rin in the passenger seat with his eyes glued to the GPS. meanwhile in the EG8 Civic, Hojo opens cans of soda they "borrowed" from the hotel minibar.
"You think we'll make it before 8?" Tojo asked between sips into the radio.
Takamori checked the clock. "If traffic's clear, yeah. Why?"
Hojo smirked. "Just wondering if we can stop for ramen on the way."
"Ramen?" Rin turned around, unimpressed. "You literally stole half the hotel's buffet this morning. You can't still be hungry."
"Oh, I'm not hungry," Tojo said with a mischievous grin. "I'm bored."
"Then eat the map," Rin muttered.
The radio crackled again with Walter's voice. "Who keeps opening cans? I swear, if one of those spills on the radio—"
"Not us!" the twins replied simultaneously, their tone far too cheerful to be innocent.
Haruka chuckled in the lead car. "At least they're consistent."
As they descended from the mountains, the faint glow of Tokyo began to appear on the horizon, an endless expanse of light stretching far beyond sight. The skyline shimmered like a constellation born of steel and glass. The crew, weary yet content, drove on in silence for a while, the hum of engines and the soft static of the radios filling the night.
Daichi, in his 3000GT, occasionally glanced at the mirror, watching the convoy trail behind him like a well-organized family. Despite the chaos, the laughter, and the occasional headache from the twins, something about this group made him feel a quiet sense of belonging. They weren't just a team. They were becoming something more.
As they reached a long straight section of highway, Haruka's voice came through the radio again. "We'll take the next service area for a quick stop. Refuel and regroup. Should be about fifteen minutes from here."
"Copy that," Simon responded.
"Roger," Walter added.
"Ten-four, Boss!" the twins shouted over the radio, followed by loud laughter and the faint sound of a soda can popping open again.
Nikolai sighed heavily in his Niva. "If I crash because of laughter, I'm haunting you both."
"Noted!" Hojo replied, his voice echoing with amusement.
The convoy rolled on, headlights slicing through the darkness as the city lights grew nearer. The roads widened, traffic thickened slightly, and the hum of distant trains could be heard over the steady rhythm of engines.
In the Corolla, Izamuri leaned his head back against the seat, eyes half-closed, the events of the weekend replaying in his mind. The tension, the races, the laughter. He felt exhausted, yet fulfilled in a way he couldn't quite describe.
Hana glanced at him from the passenger seat. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he said softly, eyes still fixed on the distant lights of Tokyo. "Just… thinking."
Haruka smiled faintly from the driver's seat. "Good. You've earned a break. Enjoy the view while you can, tomorrow, we go back to work."
Ayaka rolled her eyes. "You're really not giving us one day off, are you?"
Haruka laughed. "You know me too well."
As the road curved along the expressway and the first signs for Tokyo's outskirts appeared, the G-Force convoy pressed on, eight cars moving together under the night sky, bound not just by competition but by a growing sense of unity forged through chaos, hardship, and the thrill of speed.
The hum of their engines filled the night, blending into the rhythm of the highway, a promise of new challenges ahead, and perhaps, the beginning of something far greater than any of them could yet imagine.
And as the convoy carried on toward the city, somewhere along a diverging route, another car, a striking blue BMW M2 F87 peeled away from the main road and took a quieter path toward the mountains of Hakone.
The car glided through the winding roads with the precision of a blade cutting through silk. Its exhaust burbled softly through the forest-lined asphalt, each corner taken with effortless grace. Inside, Hugo Vatanen sat calm behind the wheel, one hand resting lightly on the gear lever, the other on the steering wheel. The glow of the dashboard reflected against his composed face, illuminating the thoughtful expression in his sharp blue eyes.
The night air was cool, thin, and fragrant with pine and mist as he ascended the slopes leading toward the Taikanzan Observatory. The higher he climbed, the quieter it became, the roar of traffic vanished entirely, replaced only by the rustle of wind and the distant hum of cicadas.
After twenty minutes of serene driving, Hugo reached the top of the ridge. The observatory was empty at this hour. No tourists, no noise, only silence and the vastness of nature laid out before him. He pulled the M2 into a gravel parking area just off the main overlook, the headlights casting a soft blue hue over the guardrails and nearby trees. As the car came to a stop, the world seemed to still.
He shut off the engine, and the soft ticking of cooling metal filled the air. Stepping out, Hugo closed the door with a muted thunk and leaned against it for a moment, breathing in the crisp mountain air. The faint scent of rain lingered, the remnants of an afternoon shower that had washed over Hakone hours earlier.
The sky was clear now, the moon hanging above Lake Ashi like a silver coin reflected on the water's surface. The distant lights of small boats glimmered across the lake, and beyond them, faint and ghostly under the starlight, stood the outline of Mount Fuji itself. Majestic, silent, eternal.
Hugo walked toward the low curb near the edge of the viewing platform and sat down. The gravel crunched beneath his shoes, and his breath condensed in the chilly air. Behind him, his BMW sat motionless, its metallic blue paint shimmering faintly under the moonlight, a perfect picture of calm and solitude.
He looked at it for a while, quietly admiring the car's simple beauty. The M2 wasn't the fastest thing he'd ever driven, nor the most exotic, but it was honest, pure, balanced, and alive in his hands. Much like his team had once been.
His gaze drifted from the car to the night sky, and for a moment, he let his thoughts wander freely.
Hugo Vatanen. Billionaire, entrepreneur, racer, team owner. Yet beneath all the titles, he was just a man chasing something intangible. Something that could never be bought or built in boardrooms. Passion.
He exhaled softly.
The offer he gave Daichi replayed in his head.
He meant every word.
He didn't choose Daichi Fujiwara out of nostalgia or admiration, though both played a part. He chose him because he saw something that mirrored himself. That same quiet intensity. The same fire behind the calm expression. That unyielding will to race, not for trophies or headlines, but for the sheer truth of it, for the purity of man and machine in perfect balance.
Daichi was a relic of a time when racing wasn't dictated by corporate interests or political agendas. When racers lived for the next corner, the next lap, the next heartbeat behind the wheel. That kind of passion couldn't be bought, and in an era where money decided everything, it was rare. Priceless.
If Daichi refused his offer… Hugo didn't know what he would do.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together as his thoughts grew heavier.
Hugo Speed wasn't just a racing team to him. It was his legacy. His heart.
He built it with his own hands, long before the corporations, long before the fame, long before his company became one of the largest technology conglomerates in Scandinavia. Back then, it was just him, a few friends, and a dream. A small garage in Stockholm where they worked late into the night tuning old Group A touring cars and racing on weekends. That garage became Hugo Speed. That dream turned into reality when they entered the Swedish Touring Car Championship and won their very first race.
From there, they grew. They moved into Super Formula, BTCC, and later, the Asian Le Mans Series. For years, they thrived, not as the biggest, but as the most respected privateer team in every paddock they entered.
But success had a cost.
When Hugo's business empire expanded, so did his responsibilities. The board wanted his attention, investors wanted results, and the world wanted Hugo Vatanen, the CEO. Not Hugo, the racer.
One by one, the races became fewer. The cars were sold, the engineers retired, and the once-bustling pit garages grew quiet. Hugo could still fund the team, of course, he had more than enough wealth to do so. But without his time, his energy, his presence… it wasn't the same.
Now, the once-mighty Hugo Speed. A team that used to stand on podiums across continents, was barely clinging to existence, competing in a single one-make series just to keep its name alive.
He could've sold it. He could've let a corporation absorb it into their portfolio of racing assets.
But that would've been the same as killing it.
Letting suits run his team was no different than stripping away its soul.
That's why he sought out Daichi.
If anyone could lead Hugo Speed into a new age, not as a business, but as a racing team again. It was him.
Daichi might be older, and his name might have faded from headlines over the past decade, but that man still had that unmistakable aura. The calm of someone who'd stared death in the eyes at 300 kilometers per hour and smiled.
He'd seen the way Daichi commanded his crew, how he guided young drivers like Izamuri, how his instincts were still razor sharp despite the years away. The "Suzuka Dragon" wasn't just a nickname. It was a legacy, and Hugo could see that legacy still burning inside him, waiting to ignite once more.
He took a deep breath and looked up again at the stars.
"Daichi…" he murmured under his breath, his voice barely a whisper against the mountain wind. "You're the only one who can keep the fire alive."
The wind picked up slightly, carrying the faint scent of pine and lake water. The trees rustled softly, and somewhere in the distance, the faint cry of an owl echoed. The world was utterly still otherwise, as if listening.
He smiled faintly.
The night sky stretched endlessly above him, glittering with countless stars. For a moment, Hugo allowed himself to drift away, not as a businessman or team owner, but as the boy who once dreamed of building the fastest car in Sweden, the man who drove through storms just to make it to race day, the racer who loved the thrill more than the victory.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, worn photo, a younger version of himself standing beside an old touring car with his first pit crew, all smiles, all hope.
He ran his thumb over the creased edges. "We've come far, haven't we…" he said softly, his accent thickening as nostalgia hit.
Then, his eyes hardened with resolve. "But it's not over yet."
He stood up, stretching his back as the cold night wind brushed against his face. Behind him, Lake Ashi shimmered under the moonlight, the reflection of Fuji watching over it like a silent guardian.
He took one last look at his M2, its blue paint glinting faintly in the moonlight, before opening the door and sliding inside. The seat embraced him like an old friend. He started the engine, and the car came alive with a deep, restrained growl.
The dashboard lights flickered to life, casting a cool glow across the cabin.
As he shifted into gear, he took one last glance toward the horizon, where Fuji loomed faintly in the distance, majestic and unmoving.
"One day," he muttered quietly, "I'll get my answer."
And with that, Hugo Vatanen drove off into the night.