The chequered flag waved over Fuji Speedway, signaling the end of the free practice session. Izamuri coasted the white EK9 down pit lane one last time, engine humming low as he parked neatly in front of the G-Force garage. The crew quickly surrounded the car, not in a rush now but with the quiet efficiency that came from knowing practice was over.
Simon directed Rin and Takamori to start pulling off the telemetry equipment, muttering about the signal dropouts he'd been fighting all day. Hana and Ayaka removed the worn tires, stacking them neatly against the back wall, while Haruka took a final set of notes, his pen scratching across the clipboard. Walter gave Izamuri a quick pat on the shoulder through the open window before the young driver unclipped his belts, pulled off his gloves, and stepped out, sweat still clinging to his brow.
"Good work today," Walter said, his tone clipped but not unkind. "Tomorrow, we sharpen it."
Izamuri nodded, not saying much. His eyes still carried the focus of the track, the rhythm of corners and straights etched into his thoughts.
Daichi clapped his hands once, snapping everyone's attention. "Alright, let's pack it up. The sooner we're out, the sooner we can get food and rest. Big day tomorrow."
Everyone moved to their roles with practiced chaos. Tool carts were wheeled back into the Hiace, tire stacks strapped down, and the spare parts boxes secured. Simon and Walter double-checked that all the data logs were saved, while Haruka supervised the EK9 being covered and strapped to the rented tow truck.
All except the twins.
Hojo and Tojo stood off to the side, stiff as statues, their faces red and strained like they were locked in some silent duel with their own bodies. Rin, who caught sight of them while rolling a toolbox, raised an eyebrow. "What the hell are you two doing?"
"Focus… endurance training," Hojo grunted.
"Discipline of the body," Tojo added dramatically, clutching his stomach.
Rin just shook his head. "Idiots," he muttered, and pushed the cart past them.
By the time the sun dipped behind Mount Fuji, the garage was cleared. The team filed out into the crisp evening air, ready to make their way back to the Fuji Speedway Hotel. It wasn't far, just across the spectator area near the grandstands, but each vehicle had its role.
Haruka fired up his trusty Corolla, Ayaka and Hana taking the passenger seats with him. The Hiace van rumbled to life, Rin and Takamori climbing aboard to haul the bulk of the equipment. Walter's old but immaculately kept Mercedes 190E Estate followed, with Walter himself behind the wheel and Daichi riding shotgun, Simon squished in the back seat with his notes spread out across his lap.
And then there was Nikolai.
True to his word, he coaxed his battered 1977 Lada Niva back to life, the engine coughing before settling into a steady, rattling idle. The white 4x4 looked hilariously out of place among the sleek transporters and race cars of the paddock, but Nikolai drove it with pride, his face unreadable behind the wheel. As he pulled out of the pit area, the Soviet machine groaned like an old bear waking from hibernation, but it moved all the same.
Izamuri lingered a moment longer, watching the cars depart, before sliding into the passenger seat of the Hiace. He exhaled, shoulders finally loosening after a long day of intensity on the track.
The short drive back to the hotel was quiet, only the rumble of engines filling the dusk. The massive silhouette of Fuji loomed over them, its snow-capped peak catching the last golden light of the evening. To Izamuri, it felt like the mountain itself was watching, judging every lap he'd done that day.
When they reached the hotel, the parking lot already looked like a motorsport museum in the making. Teams had parked their tow trucks, vans, and support cars in neat rows, each paddock's vehicles reflecting the identity of their squad. G-Force's eclectic lineup of machines stood out among the uniform haulers: Daichi's red Mitsubishi 3000GT gleamed under the street lamps, Simon's classic Jaguar XJS looked refined yet out of place, and the twins' beat-up gray '92 Honda Civic EG8 sedan sagged slightly on one side, duct tape visible on its rear bumper.
And then there was Nikolai's Lada Niva.
The Soviet relic sputtered to a stop next to the 3000GT and the Jaguar, its white paint dull and scuffed, but its presence undeniable. The car had traveled half the world just to sit here, sharing space with machines of vastly different pedigree. Nikolai killed the engine with a sharp twist of the key, stepping out with a satisfied grunt.
"She stays here," he said, patting the roof. "Good view of track. She deserves rest."
Walter smirked. "If that thing doesn't collapse under its own rust first."
Nikolai shot him a glare, though there was a hint of humor in his eyes.
The crew gathered their overnight bags, stretching sore muscles as they made their way into the hotel lobby. It was buzzing now with mechanics, drivers, and staff from other teams, all heading in for dinner or drinks before turning in for the night. The twins immediately veered toward the restaurant area, eyes darting at the buffet, while Haruka muttered something under his breath that sounded like a prayer for patience.
Izamuri followed the group inside, his gaze wandering back toward the track visible in the distance through the lobby's tall windows. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow the real test begins.
Most of them heading straight for their rooms to shower and rest. The scent of fuel and rubber still clung to their clothes, mixing with the faint aroma of food wafting from the dining area. As the elevator doors closed behind them, the chaotic rhythm of the day finally began to fade, replaced by the quiet hum of anticipation.
Back outside, the cars sat in the lot like silent guardians. The 3000GT, the XJS, the Corolla, the Niva, and even the dented EG8—all of them part of the odd mosaic that was G-Force. Tomorrow they would return to the circuit, but for now, they rested, much like their drivers and crew.
And yet, within the twins' suspiciously overstuffed bags of sweet potatoes, something was brewing. A storm of chaos that no one else yet suspected.
Later that night, the hotel was quiet, its long corridors bathed in the dim glow of ceiling lights that hummed faintly. The soft murmur of distant vending machines and the occasional creak of old floorboards were the only sounds that broke the stillness. It was 11 PM, and almost everyone had collapsed into bed after a long day at Fuji Speedway. The weight of tomorrow's preparations lingered in the air, but for most of the G-Force crew, sleep was the only thing on their minds.
Except for the twins.
From one of the rooms at the far end of the corridor, the door creaked open. Hojo stepped out first, in mismatched plaid pajamas that looked like they'd come from a bargain bin, his face pale from strain. Tojo followed, clad in cartoon-print bottoms and an oversized T-shirt, clutching his stomach like it was a ticking bomb. Both of them shuffled forward like fugitives sneaking out after curfew, their expressions contorted in a mixture of pain and determination.
"We've held it this long," Hojo whispered dramatically, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Another few hours and we ascend to godhood," Tojo whispered back.
They moved with exaggerated care, their slippers scuffing softly against the carpet, each step punctuated by a faint squeak of suppressed laughter, or maybe agony.
A few doors down, another handle clicked. Takamori stepped out, yawning loudly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He wore sweatpants and a hoodie, his hair sticking up from bed like a bird's nest. He had been too restless to sleep, his mind buzzing with the day's data, and he had decided to head downstairs to the museum annex of the hotel to clear his head.
But as soon as he turned the corner, his sleepy eyes widened. There they were: the twins, waddling side by side like penguins on a mission. Their odd gait and strained faces told him everything he needed to know, they were still holding it in.
"What the…" Takamori muttered under his breath.
He ducked behind a corner just in time, pressing his back against the wall as the twins shuffled past, whispering conspiratorially to each other.
"Remember, brother," Hojo hissed. "Timing is everything."
"Yes," Tojo agreed, his voice high-pitched from the effort. "We unleash only when the world least expects it."
They turned down another corridor, their figures disappearing into the glow of the exit signs. Takamori peeked around the corner, jaw dropped. "No way… these two idiots are actually still at it?" He clenched his fists. "I knew they were planning something!"
He wasted no time. Spinning on his heel, he bolted down the corridor, slippers slapping against the carpet. His destination: Daichi's room.
Reaching the door, he pounded on it with both fists. "Daichi! Open up! Emergency!"
There was a pause, followed by the sound of muffled voices. The door cracked open, revealing Daichi standing there, his expression annoyed but alert. He was still in his collared shirt from earlier, sleeves rolled up.
"What's going on? Do you have any idea what time—"
Takamori barged inside before he could finish. His eyes widened as he took in the scene. Inside the suite, Daichi wasn't alone. Walter sat on a chair by the window, cards in hand, his sharp German eyes glaring at a pile of poker chips. Simon lounged back on the bed, his British accent carrying as he complained about his bad luck, while Nikolai leaned over the small round table, cigarette unlit between his fingers as he smirked at his hand of cards.
"Are you guys… playing blackjack?" Takamori blurted out.
"Texas Hold'em was boring," Simon replied flatly, tossing his cards onto the bed.
"Blackjack is game of patience and nerve," Nikolai said, voice gravelly. "Better training for life than silly poker."
Walter adjusted his glasses and muttered, "And also easier to clean Daichi out of his money."
"Shut up," Daichi grumbled, collecting the cards. He looked up at Takamori, eyes narrowing. "Now what's this emergency you're banging on my door for?"
Takamori bent over, panting slightly from his sprint. "It's the twins," he said between breaths. "They're… they're up to something. Right now."
Simon raised a brow. "The twins? At this hour? What could they possibly be—"
"They're sneaking around the hotel," Takamori interrupted, his voice rising. "In their pajamas. And they're still holding those damn farts! I knew they had a plan, but now they're moving like it's some secret mission!"
There was a beat of silence. Walter frowned, setting his cards down. "That's… concerning."
Nikolai tilted his head back and laughed, a deep booming sound that filled the room. "Those two? Idiots cannot plan beyond breakfast buffet. You are paranoid."
But Daichi wasn't so sure. He tapped his chin, his instincts as sharp as ever. He'd seen enough in racing and in life to know when chaos was brewing, and when it came to Hojo and Tojo, chaos was a guarantee.
"They wouldn't sneak out for nothing," Daichi muttered. "And if Takamori saw them, it means they're serious about whatever this stunt is."
Simon groaned, sitting up. "Don't tell me we're actually going to follow them."
"Yes," Daichi said flatly, already standing and grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair. He slipped it on and adjusted the cuffs, his eyes hard. "If those two cause trouble in this hotel, it reflects on the team. And with everything riding on tomorrow, I'm not letting them ruin our reputation."
Walter stood as well, brushing off his slacks. "Fine. But if it turns out they're just sneaking to steal food from the vending machines, I'm going back to bed."
"Or the buffet fridge," Simon added dryly.
Takamori, still jittery, gestured toward the door. "Come on! They turned down the far corridor!"
Daichi motioned for them to move, his leadership unshakable even in the middle of the night. "Alright, let's go. Quietly. We follow them, we see what they're up to, and we stop it before it blows up in our faces."
The four of them—Daichi, Walter, Nikolai, and Simon—filed out of the room, Takamori leading the way. The corridor stretched before them, silent and dimly lit, the faint smell of carpet cleaner lingering in the air. Their footsteps were hushed, their movements purposeful.
They were a strange sight. An ex-DTM champion, a German strategist, a grizzled Russian, a former F1 engineer, and a jittery young driver, all sneaking through a hotel at nearly midnight to tail two chaotic twins in pajamas.
And yet, none of them doubted the necessity. For when it came to Hojo and Tojo, there was always a storm waiting to break.
The twins waddled awkwardly toward the elevator, their pajama bottoms flapping with each step, still clutching their stomachs as if restraining a ticking bomb. Hojo leaned against the wall of the elevator with a dramatic sigh, while Tojo mashed the button for the first floor like he was detonating a launch sequence. The doors closed with a faint chime, swallowing their absurd figures from sight.
From the far end of the corridor, Takamori poked his head around the corner, eyes narrowing. Behind him, Daichi, Walter, Simon, and Nikolai moved cautiously, all trying to remain unseen. It looked like a covert operation, but for the strangest quarry imaginable.
"They're heading downstairs," Takamori whispered.
"Obviously," Simon muttered. "Elevators usually don't go up when you press one."
Walter sighed, shaking his head. "This is ridiculous. We're following grown men in pajamas across a hotel. I was part of DTM, Simon was with Benetton, Nikolai nearly ran the Nürburgring, and Daichi… well, Daichi was Japan's pride. And now…" He gestured vaguely down the hall.
"We are babysitters," Nikolai finished, deadpan.
Daichi, however, wasn't amused. His instincts told him there was more to this than the twins just sneaking out for vending machine raids. "Come on. Emergency staircase."
They turned toward the exit door, but just as Takamori reached for the handle, it swung open from the other side.
Haruka stepped through, blinking in surprise. He was wearing casual track pants and a hoodie, hair slightly messy as if he'd just given up on sleep altogether. In his hand was a half-empty bottle of Pocari Sweat.
"What are you guys doing?" Haruka asked, glancing at the group like he'd walked in on a bizarre ritual.
The five froze, caught like kids sneaking cookies at midnight.
"You're awake?" Daichi asked slowly, eyeing Haruka.
Haruka shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. Was going to walk to the museum downstairs, maybe clear my head. What about you lot? Tomorrow's qualifying. Shouldn't you be resting?"
The accusation hung in the air like smoke.
Takamori cracked first, throwing his hands up. "Fair point. But hear me out… those two idiots,"
he jabbed a thumb toward the elevator shaft, "are sneaking out in their pajamas, still holding in their sweet potato bombs from earlier. I saw them with my own eyes."
Haruka tilted his head. "And that's a problem… why?"
"Because," Takamori hissed, "they're up to something. I knew they were planning chaos with those sweet potatoes. Now they're sneaking out right before qualifying day. You think that's a coincidence?"
Haruka's expression darkened with realization. "Oh, hell no. Not before tomorrow." He adjusted his hoodie, suddenly wide awake. "I'm coming with you."
Simon groaned. "Fantastic. Now the babysitting club is six members strong."
"Shut it," Daichi snapped, already pushing the stairwell door open. "Move, before we lose them."
The group hurried down the emergency staircase, their footsteps echoing in the narrow concrete shaft. Walter muttered about how absurd this was, Nikolai grumbled in Russian under his breath, and Simon complained about his knees, but Daichi kept his pace steady, determined. Takamori and Haruka led the way, adrenaline carrying them.
By the time they burst out onto the ground floor, the elevator had already deposited its pajama-clad passengers. Through the glass doors of the lobby, they could just make out the twins waddling into the night air, heading straight for the parking lot.
"Of course they're going to the lot," Haruka muttered. "Where else would those two go at midnight?"
The group pushed through the lobby doors and crept into the shadows outside. The cool night air hit them, filled with the faint scent of gasoline and the distant hum of Fuji Speedway's security lights.
Out in the lot, Hojo and Tojo shuffled toward their beloved 1992 Honda Civic EG8 sedan. The battered gray machine sat slouched between Daichi's gleaming 3000GT and Simon's refined Jaguar XJS, looking like an unwelcome guest at a luxury gathering. Duct tape glistened faintly under the lamps on its bumper, and the faint rust along its arches made it look like a relic from another world.
The twins clambered inside, slamming the doors shut with far more force than necessary. The EG8 coughed once, twice, then roared to life with the raspy whine of an engine that sounded like it had smoked two packs a day for years.
"There they go," Takamori whispered as the headlights flickered on.
The sedan lurched out of its spot, belching a faint puff of exhaust as it rattled toward the exit. The group watched silently as it turned onto the main road, its taillights glowing like a pair of mischievous eyes.
"They're headed for the circuit," Haruka realized, his voice low but sharp.
"Of course," Daichi growled. "This was no midnight snack run."
Walter pinched the bridge of his nose. "Idiots. Absolute idiots. What are they planning to do at Fuji Speedway in the middle of the night?"
"Whatever it is," Daichi said firmly, "we can't let them do it unsupervised."
Without another word, the six of them bolted for the Hiace van parked near the far row. Haruka and Takamori sprinted ahead, yanking the sliding door open as Walter climbed into the driver's seat with a sigh of resignation. Simon, grumbling about how this wasn't part of his contract, squeezed in behind him. Nikolai ducked into the rear with surprising agility for his age, muttering in Russian the entire time.
Daichi took the passenger seat, his expression hard as stone.
"Keep some distance," he ordered Walter. "We don't want them knowing we're following. If they're planning something stupid, we need to catch them in the act."
Walter started the Hiace, its diesel engine rumbling to life. The headlights flared, then dimmed as he eased the van out of the lot.
Ahead, the Civic EG8 rattled down the road, its exhaust popping faintly as the twins pressed the gas. It swerved slightly, like even the car itself was reluctant to be part of this escapade.
From the Hiace, the G-Force crew followed at a careful distance, the glow of the EG8's taillights their only guide in the dark. The night around Fuji Speedway was still, the looming silhouette of the mountain watching silently as the bizarre convoy made its way toward the track.
Haruka leaned forward between Daichi and Walter, his eyes narrowed. "Tomorrow is qualifying. If those two do anything to jeopardize it…"
"We'll stop them," Daichi promised.
Simon sighed deeply, already regretting every life choice that led him here. "Chasing pajama-clad twins in a Hiace at midnight. Brilliant. Just brilliant."
But no one else spoke. The only sounds were the steady rumble of the van and the faint cough of the Civic ahead. Whatever the twins were planning, the rest of the crew was now along for the ride, and they were determined to uncover it before it spiraled into full-blown disaster.