Content Warning: This chapter touches on themes of psychological trauma and emotional distress.
The crimson Ferrari FXX, with a thunderous roar of its engine, shot out of the underground parking lot like an arrow loosed from a bow—its explosive acceleration evoking the image of a rocket about to launch.
Its perfectly streamlined body, its blood-stirring speed and power—no wonder so many men are obsessed with sports cars.
Faithfully embodying Ferrari's concept of fusing F1 race car design into street-legal vehicles, the FXX is a legend unto itself: only 29 exist in the world, each priced at a staggering 1.5 million euros.
Of course, there are many who could afford it. But to actually obtain one, one must first be officially recognized by Ferrari's racing division, already own at least two Ferraris for over two years, and on top of that, possess both driving skill and social standing.
Jinguu Yō—the boy bearing that name, whether in his past life or now—obviously never qualified for such a thing. The car technically belonged to the father of this body; he was merely borrowing it. But even from Ferrari's requirements, one could guess that the calm, collected middle-aged man now called "Father" likely wasn't exactly tame in his younger days.
Weekends in Tokyo were especially lively. The workweek hustle faded slightly, and the city, though still fast-paced, took on a veneer of relaxation. Couples strolled hand-in-hand, chatting and laughing. In a metropolis like this, it was rare to see children or the elderly along the sidewalks. Most passersby were young. Only in the occasional park did one glimpse the swaying figures of elders and the joyful cries of children. These old men and women, who had devoted their lives to the country, now spent their twilight years watching their grandchildren play.
Such is the makeup of a modern city: densely connected in appearance, yet far more alienated than the tight-knit villages of the countryside.
Weekend Tokyo shed a bit of its usual rush. As the red Ferrari roared by, it caught the attention of pedestrians. In any country, in any society not yet unified in complete equality, wealth remains the privilege of the few—the top of the pyramid.
Men who didn't know cars simply gazed in envy. Those who did pointed and discussed in animated tones, explaining the car's history to their dates, proudly declaring it to be one of only 29 in the entire world.
The girl wasn't especially pretty—she was the type who would vanish in a crowd. But in her eyes, too, there was a hint of longing. Once, she had dreamed of being Snow White, blushing as a handsome prince on a white horse proposed with a dazzling smile.
But now that she was grown, that childhood fantasy had long crumbled. Fairy tales were just that—tales. Reality taught her that daydreams were worth less than a lottery ticket. People grew up, grew realistic, and stopped chasing what was never meant to be theirs.
"If you like cars that much, Ooshima-san, why don't you work hard and buy one someday?"
She withdrew her gaze from the passing Ferrari and looked at the man beside her.
He wasn't her dream prince. Not a rich heir, not even particularly handsome. His job was average. His demeanor was awkward. He didn't know romance—except when talking about something he loved, and then he'd light up like a boy.
And yet, she loved this boyish man. Because she knew—he was the one truly suited for her. Honest. Kind. The farthest thing from a scumbag. As a marriage partner, he was… ideal.
Reality had taught her the harsh truth: if you weren't born a princess, don't expect a princess's life.
"Haha… that's a Ferrari FXX. No way I could ever afford that in this life, Momoe-chan."
The man laughed sheepishly and scratched his head, utterly unaware that he was spouting defeatist nonsense in front of the girl he liked.
"But… a regular family car, sure. If I work hard for a year, next year—around this time—I'll have the money to buy one. It won't be an FXX, but I'll take you out of Tokyo, Momoe-chan. We'll go on a little trip together."
As if he'd just come to some grand realization, the man suddenly began speaking of the future—making sweet promises.
The girl called "Momoe-chan" felt a warmth bloom in her heart. She leaned gently against his shoulder and replied with a quiet, "Mm."
She gave the now-distant Ferrari one last glance.
Sometimes, a dream is just something you want to keep dreaming.
※ ※ ※
Jinguu Yō had no idea about the sweetness that had just unfolded on the roadside.
He was currently slouched in the driver's seat, staring blankly ahead.
Traffic jam…
For a global metropolis—one of the largest cities in the world—Tokyo's central traffic being clogged was nothing unusual.
Other drivers caught in the jam were casting glances his way. Some were filled with envy. Others, with jealousy.
Jinguu Yō turned to meet their eyes, and each time, they'd quickly avert their gaze.
This was a country with strict hierarchies—not just by age, but by class. In a capitalist society, social status was dictated by one thing: money.
Strictly speaking, this car wasn't even road-legal. Jinguu Yō didn't have a license either. But as long as he didn't start blazing through the city at 200 kilometers per hour and running people over, most people would turn a blind eye. Be it Japan or China—some things were just the same.
At first, driving a car like this and soaking in people's stares—some admiring, others bitter—had filled him with pride. Like a petty man getting his moment, it had been almost pitiful to watch.
But now, he was used to it. Numb to it. Occasionally, even ashamed.
Because none of this belonged to him. He was a thief. A fraud.
He'd stolen someone's name, their body, their family, their memories.
Suppressing the unease gnawing at him, he slowly drove from Chiyoda Ward to Nerima.
"Other than showing off, it's completely useless."
He parked the car in the garage beside the house, patting the steering wheel as he muttered.
This kind of racecar-inspired vehicle was totally wasted in a gridlocked city. It couldn't show its speed, its power.
If cars had souls, surely this one would be complaining.
Nerima Ward sat on the outskirts of Tokyo, practically the suburbs. While densely populated, its larger land area meant the tall skyscrapers of the city center were rare. Aside from the occasional large apartment block, the area was dotted with stand-alone homes.
It didn't feel like an international city—more like a quiet little town.
After arriving in this world, Jinguu Yō had used part of his savings to buy a detached house here, hoping to avoid people who knew the original owner of this body.
The house wasn't his father's—it was truly his.
Starting over from scratch, Jinguu Yō thought this place felt the most like "home."
He had no income now. He'd left on his own. Everything he used came from the savings of this body's previous owner.
Sometimes he felt bad about it.
He was the one who had transmigrated… and yet he hadn't achieved anything. He was living off the former owner's money.
What a disgrace to the name of "transmigrators."
There was a small yard in front of the house—not huge, but enough to grow some flowers in his spare time.
Behind the house was a warehouse, which Jinguu Yō had cleaned and converted into a temporary garage.
He took the key from his pocket and opened the door.
"Woof! Woof!"
The moment the door opened, a white blur came bounding out from the entryway and leapt straight into Jinguu Yō's arms, tail wagging furiously.
"JOJO~~~ Did you guard the house like a good boy?"
The white Labrador placed its front paws on his shoulders, licking his face enthusiastically, tail swishing non-stop.
"You've grown so much already in such a short time."
He gently stroked the dog's back.
Finally satisfied, JOJO let his master step inside the house.
Jinguu Yō had bought this purebred Labrador when he purchased the house.
In the solitary days following his transmigration, the dog had been his only companion.
The name "JOJO" might have been a little odd—but it stuck.