Before noon, "Sold Out" signs hung in front of every shelf displaying the limited-edition merchandise.
A collective sigh rose from the crowd who hadn't managed to snag any items, while professional scalpers gathered in small groups in the amusement park's smoking area, tallying their day's earnings.
A jacket originally priced at 15,000 yen could be resold for 25,000 yen.
In stark contrast to the bustling, frenzied atmosphere at the Sega exhibition area, the McLaren team's private room felt strangely subdued.
The weather at the Suzuka Circuit on Saturday was uncharacteristically perfect—blinding sunlight baking the track dry, but also slowly roasting away the team's last hopes.
Takuya Nakayama, Mark, and the others remained in McLaren's VIP lounge. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced the pit lane, while screens on the walls displayed real-time updates of the track conditions and drivers' lap times.
Kevin, like a devout believer, clasped his hands together, his eyes fixed intently on the constantly updating leaderboard.
"Go, Ayrton! Go!"
Every time the red-and-white MP4/7A crossed the timing line, Kevin would shout as the new time flashed on the screen.
But reality was cold and cruel.
At the very top of the screen, a name was welded like a branding iron: Nigel Mansell.
1:37.360.
A time that left all his rivals feeling utterly hopeless.
When this number first appeared on the screen, the entire lounge erupted in a chorus of gasps.
"God... has this Williams been fitted with a rocket booster?" Kevin's face turned ashen.
Mark Cerny, coffee cup in hand, frowned deeply. "The FW14B's active suspension system has too much of an advantage on this twisty track."
Before he could finish speaking, another blue-and-white Williams car crossed the finish line, followed by Ricardo Patrese's name.
1:38.219.
Williams Racing locked down the front row of the grid in an indisputable display of dominance.
Kevin's mouth opened, but he couldn't bring himself to say "Good luck."
He watched helplessly as Ayrton Senna's name was squeezed into third place, with Gerhard Berger following in fourth.
The red-and-white McLarens were firmly blocked behind the blue-and-white Williams cars.
Even worse, Michael Schumacher's name appeared in fifth place, a stark reminder of the young German's rising talent.
The young German driver, piloting his Benetton car, was like a shark that had caught the scent of blood, relentlessly closing in behind the McLaren.
"It's over," Kevin slumped onto the sofa, his eyes vacant as if his soul had been ripped out. "They didn't even give Ayrton a fighting chance."
The fervent fan who had been dancing in excitement after meeting his idol just yesterday was now completely deflated.
"Don't be so pessimistic, Kevin," Mark said, patting his shoulder in an attempt to console him. "Qualifying and the race are two different things. Maybe—maybe McLaren loaded extra fuel today to prepare for the race."
Even Mark himself found his words lacking conviction.
"Save it, Mark," Kevin waved his hand weakly. "Even if McLaren did carry extra fuel, there's no denying the Williams drivers are in top form. And breaking through the blockade of the two cars on the front row at the start? That's going to be next to impossible."
Just yesterday, Kevin had been enthusiastically boasting to his colleagues that Senna's skill could compensate for the shortcomings of his car and pull off a miracle at Suzuka.
But today's qualifying results felt like a resounding slap in the face.
In the lounge, the other Americans exchanged glances, none daring to speak again.
October 25, 1992, race day of the Japanese Grand Prix.
Low clouds hung over the Suzuka Circuit, the air so humid it seemed one could wring water from it, as if a autumn rainstorm might break at any moment.
The Sega booth at Motopia Amusement Park, which had been packed the previous two days, now seemed rather deserted. Only a few people remained in front of the dozen or so Virtua Racing arcade cabinets, their attention already captivated by the roar of engines about to erupt on the track.
The merchandise area was even quieter, with only a few stubborn scalpers lingering, scanning the crowd. Most spectators had already rushed to the grandstands, searching for the best viewing spots.
"It's almost time! Mark, do you think Senna can work his way from where he's starting to first place today?" Kevin sat restlessly on the lounge sofa, shifting positions like a sprinter waiting for the starting gun.
Mark Cerny, holding a cup of coffee, glanced at the pre-race footage on the big screen. His voice was steady: "Kevin, there are endless possibilities in a race. Let's see how he starts first."
Takuya Nakayama stood behind them, hands in his pockets, his gaze calmly fixed on the screen. Yet the slight tension in his jaw betrayed the anticipation burning within him.
At exactly 2 PM, the warm-up laps ended.
Twenty-six race cars lined up on the starting grid, their V12 engines emitting a piercing roar that shook the very earth.
The red lights went out!
The cars surged forward like a floodgate released, the red-and-white McLaren particularly conspicuous in the pack.
Kevin's fists were clenched, his lips moving as if willing his idol forward through sheer force of will.
But disaster struck on the second lap.
On the big screen, Senna's MP4/7A visibly slowed after exiting Turn 1. The car drifted helplessly toward the trackside safety zone, a wisp of ominous blue smoke trailing from its engine.
Kevin's shout of joy caught in his throat, the color draining completely from his face.
"No... no way..."
The commentator's anguished cry echoed through the stadium speakers: "Ayrton Senna! Engine failure! Oh my God! The Brazilian Racing God, racing practically at home, has retired after just one lap!"
The camera panned to Ayrton Senna, who had just emerged from the cockpit. He yanked off his yellow-and-green helmet and slammed it to the ground, his face a mask of barely contained disappointment and fury.
Takuya Nakayama watched the dejected figure on the screen. He could still vividly recall the genuine gratitude in Senna's eyes from just two days earlier. He sighed softly.
This is Formula One.
Precision and cruelty intertwined. A failure of any trivial component could reduce a driver's life-risking efforts to nothing more than a fleeting bubble.
The drama on the track didn't end with the departure of the racing god.
On the thirteenth lap, Michael Schumacher—the prodigious rookie hailed as Senna's successor—also came to a halt by the roadside. His Benetton car succumbed to a gearbox problem.
The crowd erupted in an uproar.
The race had transformed into a brutal war of attrition.
By the forty-fourth lap, even Nigel Mansell—the reigning champion and "Lion of Britain" driving for Williams Racing, who had been leading by a wide margin and had already set the fastest lap of the race—met the same fate. His engine blew, forcing him out of the competition.
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