The G-Force pit was still buzzing from the confrontation, though no one spoke about it directly. Instead, the crew channeled their collective frustration into the work at hand—getting the Championship White EK9 back to fighting form.
Walter knelt beside the car, his experienced eyes scanning the damage along the rear-right quarter panel where James' car had grazed it. "Paint transfer, minor scrape. Doesn't affect aero. But that mirror's a total loss."
Simon was already at the parts crate, digging out a spare. "We've got two left mirrors in stock. I'll prep this one now. It's not painted, though—it's still in black primer."
"Doesn't matter," Daichi said, crouching near the rear wheel to inspect the suspension components. "We'll paint it later if we have time. Right now, function over form."
Nikolai, leaning over the open driver's side door, began a systematic check of the steering column and control arms. His thick hands worked with surprising precision as he tested for play. "Tie rod's fine. Lower control arm, fine. But front-right camber's a hair off—must've been the side load from the hit."
"Adjust it," Haruka said simply, already rolling over the camber gauge and tools. He looked calm on the outside, but his jaw was tight, the memory of James' smug face clearly lingering.
Rin and Takamori were on tire duty, pulling the current set off to check for flat spots from the earlier braking. "Tires are fine," Takamori called out after a visual inspection. "Let's keep these for tomorrow. No point burning a fresh set for no gain."
Hana and Ayaka, both wearing gloves, moved to help Simon install the new side mirror. Ayaka held the mirror in place while Simon secured the mounting bolts, her brow furrowed as she made sure the alignment was perfect. Hana fed the wiring harness through the panel so they could reconnect the power adjuster.
Meanwhile, the twins, Hojo and Tojo, had been "supervised" into cleaning the EK9's windows and wiping down the bodywork. At first they complained, but Haruka had made it clear they weren't touching any tools after what happened last time they "helped."
Walter leaned over to Daichi. "Suspension okay for tomorrow?"
Daichi nodded. "Once we fix the camber, it'll be back in spec. The chassis took no structural damage, which is a relief." He glanced over at Izamuri, who was sitting on a folding chair a few meters away, still in his racing undershirt, watching the repairs in silence. His earlier rage had cooled, but the fire was still there, simmering under the surface.
By late morning, the adjustments were done. Nikolai torqued the final bolts, Simon tested the new mirror's functionality, and Rin confirmed the steering wheel was centered. The EK9 sat ready again—still bearing the scar of the paint scrape, but mechanically perfect.
Walter checked his watch. "Alright, we've got maybe forty-five minutes before the afternoon session. You want him to go back out?"
Daichi looked at the car, then at Izamuri. He shook his head. "No. Not today. He's already running on emotion. Better to reset, get him fresh tomorrow. Last thing we need is another incident with those two clowns."
Haruka agreed immediately. "We'll call it after lunch. Spend the afternoon going over data and strategy. Track time's important, but so is keeping the car and driver in one piece."
When lunch rolled around at 12, the crew gathered in the hospitality area at the back of the pit. Simple bento boxes, rice, grilled fish, and pickled vegetables. Izamuri joined them, though he didn't say much. Hugo stopped by briefly, setting his own lunch on the table and offering a nod of understanding to Izamuri, no words needed between racers who'd both been there before.
After eating, the crew began packing up early. Rin and Takamori loaded the tool carts back into the Hiace. Simon and Walter rolled the tire racks into their storage space. Hana and Ayaka double-checked that all spares were accounted for, ticking items off the inventory sheet.
Daichi walked the length of the pit one final time, inspecting their gear and giving the nod to shut down. The hum of the other teams still running their afternoon sessions carried through the pit lane, but G-Force's garage was already half-closed. They'd chosen to sacrifice a few hours of practice to preserve their readiness for tomorrow.
Izamuri stood near the back of the garage, watching as the EK9 was rolled back into the center bay and set on its wheel chocks. The smell of warm tires and faint gasoline hung in the air. Despite the shortened day, he knew the decision was right. The fight earlier had taken more out of him than he realized, and pushing now would only risk mistakes.
By 1 p.m., the garage was locked down. The crew piled into their respective vehicles—Walter's E190 Estate, Haruka's Corolla, and the Hiace—ready to head back to the hotel. The plan for the rest of the day: debrief, data review, and rest.
But as they drove away from the circuit, the image of the Naka GP pit and those smug faces lingered in everyone's mind. The fight had been physical earlier, but tomorrow, it would be all about the stopwatch. And in that arena, G-Force planned to win.
By late afternoon, the sun was dipping toward the ridgeline, throwing warm gold over Fuji Speedway. The track was quiet now, the last echoes of engines replaced by the occasional squawk of birds and the distant hum of maintenance carts.
In the hotel's upper floors, Izamuri's suite had become the unofficial G-Force war room. The large living space was designed for comfort—a wide couch set, a low table, and floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto a private balcony. From there, you could see the main straight in its entirety, pit buildings glowing in the late sunlight.
Everyone had drifted in one by one after unpacking and grabbing showers. Izamuri sat cross-legged on the floor by the table, a notebook open in front of him. Haruka leaned against the wall with his arms folded, while Walter had commandeered the armchair nearest the window, using the armrest as a makeshift desk for his laptop. Daichi stood by the balcony door, scanning the circuit below, occasionally glancing at the screen when Walter pointed something out.
Simon had arrived last, carrying a neatly organized binder of setup notes and the day's telemetry printouts. He set it down on the table with the precision of a man who'd spent decades in F1 pit walls, then took the open seat beside Izamuri. Nikolai, Takamori, Rin, and even the twins were squeezed onto the couch, though Hojo and Tojo looked far too relaxed for the seriousness of the meeting.
Walter cleared his throat and tapped the track map open on his laptop. "Alright, tomorrow's free practice. This is our first proper chance to run full race simulations without the circus that's been going on today." He gave Izamuri a pointed look, not unkind but firm.
Izamuri nodded. "I get it. Keep it clean."
"Exactly," Walter said, zooming in on Turn 1. "We've got a 25-lap race on Saturday. The A050 mediums will last the entire distance easily if you manage them. These aren't sprint-to-death tires. You'll want to push, but not punish them in the first ten laps."
Simon leaned forward. "And no pit stops unless something's wrong—loose lug nut, puncture, fluid leak. This isn't Super GT where you can make up time on a fresh set. Here, any time in the pits is basically a race lost."
Daichi finally stepped away from the balcony, his voice calm but commanding. "Your biggest weapon here isn't outright speed—it's consistency. If you can hold a tight rhythm, you'll force mistakes from guys like Hawthorn and Hunt. They get frustrated when they can't pass easily. That's when they do something stupid, and we take advantage."
Haruka walked over to the map and pointed at the 100R section. "Watch your entry here. It's easy to get greedy and carry too much speed, but that chews the outside shoulder of your right-front tire. In a long run, that's death."
Nikolai chuckled. "And don't let the car dance too much under braking at Dunlop. You're quick enough in the twisty bits—don't need to play hero every lap."
The twins, for once, stayed quiet, though Hojo scribbled something in a notepad. Tojo leaned over to peek, then whispered something that earned him an elbow in the ribs.
Walter clicked over to another telemetry graph. "Now, your braking into Panasonic—last run you were losing almost three tenths there alone. You're turning in just a fraction early, and it's costing exit speed down the straight. Tomorrow, we'll run a few laps just focusing on that corner."
Simon added, "If you fix Panasonic and tighten your hairpin approach, you're looking at low 2:06s without burning the tires. That's Hugo pace. Do that over 25 laps, you'll be in the fight for the win."
Izamuri looked between them, tapping his pen against the notebook. "And what if one of those Naka GP idiots tries to block or push me off again?"
Daichi's eyes hardened. "You report it. And you don't lose your head. Remember—they've got the officials watching them after today. One move and they're under the microscope. Let them hang themselves."
Haruka smirked faintly. "And if they try it in front of me, they'll regret it."
The group chuckled quietly, though the mood remained focused.
Rin, who had been leaning back against the couch armrest, spoke up. "What about fuel load? Are we running full tank in practice tomorrow?"
"Yes," Walter said. "Full race weight, so you can feel how the car shifts over the run. We don't want you surprised on Saturday when it's heavier."
Takamori chimed in. "And we'll shadow you in the pit lane timing board, so if something feels off, anything at all. You pull in immediately."
Izamuri nodded again, jotting it all down. His earlier frustration had transformed into focus, the kind that made him lean in, elbows on the table, eyes sharp. "Alright. Manage tires, consistent laps, fix Panasonic, don't get dragged into fights. Got it."
Simon flipped through his binder and pulled out a small laminated card. "These are your brake reference points for tomorrow. Memorize them tonight. They'll keep your lap times stable even as tires degrade."
As the discussion wound down, the crew relaxed slightly. The twins drifted to the balcony, pointing at the track and making ridiculous race commentary impressions. Haruka and Daichi leaned over Walter's laptop, double-checking sector times.
Izamuri stayed at the table, staring at the circuit beyond the glass. Tomorrow was more than just a practice—it was his chance to reset the narrative after today's chaos. And with the entire team aligned, he knew they'd be ready.
By the time the meeting broke up, the sky outside had shifted to deep orange. The circuit's floodlights flickered to life, casting long shadows across the main straight. Below, pit crews from other teams worked into the evening, their figures small but determined.
Later that evening, the hotel settled into its post-dinner calm, though the G-Force crew was far from following a single routine.
In his suite, Izamuri was winding down earlier than usual. He'd set his alarm for 5:00 a.m., determined to start Friday fresh. His racing undersuit and socks for the morning were already laid neatly on the chair by the desk, helmet bag resting beside them. He sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling briefly through his phone—not to check social media, but to go over the brake reference images Simon had given him. After a hot shower, he dimmed the lights, letting the soft hum of the air conditioner fill the quiet. By 9:15 p.m., he was under the covers, eyes closed, letting the exhaustion of the day wash over him.
The same could not be said for Hojo and Tojo. Downstairs in the buffet area, the twins had made it their personal mission to see just how much food the hotel's kitchen could supply in one night. Their table was a chaotic battlefield—half-eaten plates of gyoza, empty bowls of ramen, and dessert plates stacked precariously high. Hojo was currently attempting to balance an extra bowl of curry on top of the stack, while Tojo was in the middle of negotiating with the chef to "just leave the tempura tray here." Other guests gave them a wide berth, unsure whether to be amused or alarmed.
Meanwhile, Haruka, Rin, Takamori, Hana, and Ayaka were sweating it out in the gym. Haruka was on the treadmill, maintaining a steady pace with the kind of focus he usually reserved for working under the hood. Rin had claimed one of the stationary bikes but was clearly regretting it, his head drooping forward as the digital display ticked upward in agonizingly slow increments. Takamori was at the weight rack, alternating between bicep curls and spotting Hana, who was bench pressing with surprising form. Ayaka had claimed the rowing machine, her rhythm sharp and precise, a sheen of sweat across her forehead.
"Rin, you look like you're dying," Haruka commented between breaths, glancing over.
"I am dying," Rin groaned, spinning the pedals more out of stubbornness than energy.
"You've been on that thing for ten minutes," Takamori deadpanned.
"Exactly," Rin shot back, voice straining. "Ten minutes too long."
Ayaka smirked without breaking her rhythm. "Better keep going, Rin. If you quit now, the twins will smell weakness."
That earned a laugh from Hana, which briefly broke her bench press focus. "Yeah, and then they'll challenge you to an eating contest just to prove their dominance."
Rin shuddered. "No thanks. I'd rather suffer here than in the buffet war zone."
Upstairs, in a quieter corner of the hotel, Daichi's room had been transformed into an impromptu poker den. The curtains were drawn, the air smelled faintly of coffee and engine grease, and the small round table in the center was covered in cards and stacks of poker chips.
Simon sat perfectly upright, his face the definition of unreadable. Walter leaned back in his chair, shuffling his chips idly while whistling a faint tune. Nikolai sat with his arms crossed, studying the cards on the table like they were blueprints for a race car. Daichi, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, was clearly the one most invested in the game.
"You're bluffing," Nikolai said flatly, narrowing his eyes at Walter.
Walter raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm bluffing, or you want to think I'm bluffing?"
"Both," Nikolai replied without missing a beat.
Simon slid a chip into the pot with the precision of a man placing a component into an F1 engine. "Call."
Daichi glanced between them, then pushed a modest stack forward. "Raise. And before anyone asks—no, I'm not bluffing."
Walter chuckled. "That's exactly what someone bluffing would say."
The next few minutes were quiet except for the soft shuffle of cards and the occasional clink of chips. The game had become more than a way to pass time—it was a subtle competition, each man reading the others like they were analyzing race telemetry.
Nikolai finally laid his cards down with a sigh. "Full house."
Walter grinned, flipping his hand. "Straight flush."
Daichi groaned while Simon simply shook his head. "You're lucky tonight," Simon said, though there was the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.
Walter gathered the chips, clearly enjoying the win. "Luck? No. This is strategy, gentlemen."
"Uh-huh," Daichi said, already shuffling the deck for the next hand. "We'll see if your 'strategy' holds for another round."
Back downstairs, the gym crew was wrapping up their session. Haruka toweled off, looking relaxed but still carrying the quiet leadership presence he always had. Ayaka and Hana chatted as they wiped down their machines, while Takamori convinced Rin to try one last set of push-ups before calling it a night.
At the buffet, the twins were finally slowing down—not because they'd had enough, but because the kitchen staff had started giving them polite but pointed glances. Hojo was negotiating for one last dessert plate while Tojo argued about which pudding flavor was superior.
By 10:30 p.m., the hotel had quieted considerably. The twins trudged back to their room, still bickering over pudding. The gym group split up in the hallway with quick goodnights. And in Daichi's poker den, the game wound down with Simon taking the final pot of the night, leaving Walter grumbling good-naturedly.
In his suite, Izamuri was already half-asleep, the sounds of distant laughter from the hallway barely registering. Tomorrow was the real test, and while the rest of the crew relaxed in their own ways, he was already mentally on the starting grid.