The scent of grilled fish and steaming rice still lingered in the G-Force pit as the team wrapped up their quick lunch. The pit was alive with chatter, Rin and Hana stacked bento boxes neatly into trash bags while Ayaka and Haruka double-checked the tire pressures for the afternoon qualifying session. Even the twins, usually incapable of staying still, sat quietly with their chopsticks in hand, their minds oddly focused for once.
But for Walter, Simon, Daichi, and Izamuri, there was no time to savor the rare calm. A JAF official arrived at their pit, clipboard in hand, and announced a mandatory, last-second meeting for all drivers and team representatives in the main briefing room.
Walter muttered something under his breath in German, brushing off crumbs from his jacket. "Always at the last minute," he sighed, standing. Daichi gave a nod, already serious. Izamuri shoved the last half of his onigiri into his mouth, wiping his fingers clean before rising, and Simon was already on his feet, gathering his notebook.
The four of them crossed the paddock, passing the bustling pits and rows of support vehicles, their footsteps echoing against the asphalt. The briefing room sat at the far end of the main building, past the steward's office and media center.
When they entered, the air was thick. Every team representative had already taken their seats, filling the rectangular room to capacity. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed faintly, casting a pale glow across a sea of serious expressions. Representatives from Hugo Speed sat together on the left side, Hugo himself leaning back comfortably, arms folded. On the opposite side, James Hawthorn and Mike Hunt lounged with their Naka GP entourage, their smug grins already irritating half the room.
Daichi scanned the rows until he found four seats near the back corner. "Here," he whispered, motioning for the others to sit. Izamuri dropped into his chair, tugging at his collar, while Simon slid in beside Walter, unusually quiet.
Then, the door creaked open again.
A man stepped inside, and suddenly the atmosphere shifted.
He was European. Italian, by the cut of his suit and the sharpness in his gaze. His gray hair was combed neatly back, his tailored charcoal jacket resting effortlessly on his shoulders. He moved with the poise of someone who was used to commanding a room, even without words. The air of casual authority followed him like a shadow.
Walter frowned. "Who the hell is that?" he whispered to Daichi.
Daichi shook his head. "Never seen him before. Not Thursday, not Friday, not even this morning."
But Simon… Simon's face drained of color the moment their eyes met. His posture stiffened, his knuckles turning white as they gripped his notebook. For a split second, the British engineer looked like he'd seen a ghost. He quickly lowered his gaze, focusing hard on the table as if hoping no one would notice his reaction.
The man didn't sit. He stood against the wall near the back, folding his arms, surveying the room with a faint, knowing smile.
Izamuri leaned over to Simon. "You okay?"
Simon didn't answer. He shook his head slightly, forcing his lips into a tight line. Not here. Not now.
At the front of the room, the organizer from JAF cleared his throat. The murmur of voices died down. "Thank you all for attending this sudden briefing. We apologize for the short notice, but there are several important announcements regarding the structure of the championship."
He clicked a remote, and the projector screen lit up with the race calendar.
"As you all know," the organizer continued, "the 2020 season was originally structured for seven rounds across Japan. However, due to recent agreements with regional sponsors and circuit management, we are pleased to announce an additional round. The championship will now feature eight races."
A collective murmur rippled across the room.
The organizer gestured to the screen. The schedule now read:
- Fuji International Speedway – Current RoundSportsland
- Sugo – Round 2Tsukuba Circuit – Round 3
- Autopolis International Circuit – Round 4
- Tokachi International Speedway – Round 5 (NEW)
- Okayama International Circuit – Round 6
- Twin-Ring Motegi – Round 7
- Suzuka International Circuit – Final Round
The map of Japan highlighted the new addition, Tokachi, far north in Hokkaido. "Tokachi International Speedway will be the fifth round of the season," the organizer explained. "It will take place immediately after Autopolis. We recognize this will be a logistical challenge for many teams, but this expansion is expected to raise the championship's profile nationwide. Additional transport allowances will be arranged."
Daichi leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. "Tokachi, huh…" he muttered. Memories of testing there years ago flickered in his mind, long straights, sweeping corners, unpredictable northern weather.
Walter rubbed his chin, calculating. "That changes everything for tire management. Cold up there, different asphalt, and rain likely. Not good for budgets."
Izamuri, still new to the scene, tilted his head. "What's Tokachi like?"
Daichi finally spoke, his voice low and strained. "Fast. Flat. And unforgiving if you make mistakes." He didn't look up from his notebook, his eyes distant, as if replaying old memories he'd rather forget.
At the front, the JAF staff continued. "All teams will receive updated regulations regarding logistics to Tokachi. Please remember, scrutineering standards remain the same, and penalties for illegal modifications will be enforced strictly. We have received concerns about unusual engine behavior from certain teams. Let this serve as a reminder: violations will not be tolerated."
Daichi caught Hugo's eye across the room. Both men gave the faintest of nods. They knew exactly who those words were aimed at. Naka GP.
The two Hollywood stars sat slouched in their chairs, whispering to each other, smirking as though none of it applied to them. Their PR staff scribbled notes dutifully, but the drivers themselves looked more amused than attentive.
Meanwhile, the gray-haired European man against the wall finally moved. He adjusted his jacket and stepped forward, stopping just short of the front rows. The organizers didn't object, they seemed to know who he was, even if most of the teams didn't.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His mere presence commanded attention.
Simon's grip on his notebook tightened again, his jaw locked. Walter noticed this time. He leaned closer and whispered, "You know him, don't you?"
Simon didn't answer. His silence said enough.
The meeting pressed on, discussions of travel, allowances, weather contingencies, but for Simon, every word was background noise. His thoughts were locked on the figure in the tailored suit, the man who had slipped into this championship like a shadow from the past.
And as the briefing drew to a close, that man's eyes flicked once more toward Simon, holding him in place, as if to remind him, I haven't forgotten either.
The meeting wound down with the usual shuffle of papers, chairs scraping back against the polished floor, and the low murmur of conversations rising again. The JAF officials dismissed everyone with reminders about the scrutineering protocols and the updated calendar. Teams filed out in clumps, some chatting casually, others marching off with focused determination.
Walter, Daichi, Simon, and Izamuri lingered a little longer than most, their pace unhurried as they returned toward their own pit. But before they could step outside the briefing room, the sharp sound of expensive leather shoes on tile echoed behind them.
"Signore Brown," a voice with a heavy Italian accent called.
Simon froze mid-step. Slowly, he turned, and there he was, the gray-haired man from earlier, now walking toward them with an easy confidence. His tailored jacket barely shifted as he closed the distance, his piercing gaze cutting across the group.
Daichi looked at Simon, then back at the man. "Friend of yours?"
Simon's lips pressed into a thin line. "Not exactly."
The man arrived in front of them, stopping just close enough to assert dominance without invading their personal space. He extended a hand toward Daichi first. "Giancarlo Antonio Bellasconi. Team principal of Naka GP."
Daichi shook his hand cautiously, studying the man's face. "Daichi Fujiwara. Team principal of G-Force."
Bellasconi's eyes narrowed for a moment, recognition flickering across them. "Fujiwara… ah, sì, sì. I have heard that name before. Nürburgring. Two-thousand-seven." He tilted his head ever so slightly, as though recalling a ghost. "The crash, no? You were the one they called the Suzuka Dragon."
Daichi's brows furrowed. Few people mentioned that race anymore. He didn't reply, just gave the faintest nod, unwilling to give Bellasconi the satisfaction of drawing more from him.
Then, Bellasconi's gaze shifted, like a predator settling on its real prey. His smile widened as his eyes locked on Simon.
"Simon George Brown," he said softly, as though savoring the syllables. "It has been a long time, vecchio amico."
Simon's shoulders tensed, but he said nothing. His jaw clenched, his hands tightened around the notebook he still carried.
Bellasconi chuckled lightly, a hollow, mocking sound. He stepped closer, extending a hand as though to greet him properly, but Simon didn't take it. Undeterred, Bellasconi reached out and gave him a patronizing pat on the shoulder. "It is… good to see you again. Perhaps we will catch up during this season, eh?"
Simon's eyes flared with contained fury, but he stayed silent. He refused to give Bellasconi the satisfaction of a reaction here, in front of everyone.
With that, Bellasconi straightened, nodded once at Daichi and Walter, and turned on his heel. His stride was unhurried, deliberate. In seconds, he was out of the room, disappearing down the corridor and back toward the paddock.
Izamuri blinked, his confusion evident. "What was that about? He seemed… I don't know. Off."
Daichi exhaled slowly. "No. Not off. Dangerous."
They left the briefing room in silence, their walk back to the G-Force pit feeling heavier than before. None of them spoke until they were behind the safety of their garage shutters, the EK9 sitting on its stands like an island of calm amid a storm.
Simon didn't sit down right away. He tossed his notebook onto the workbench with a thud and finally let out the breath he'd been holding since Bellasconi entered the meeting room.
Walter folded his arms. "Alright. Enough. Who is that man, really?"
Daichi added, "He called himself the team principal of Naka GP, but clearly, there's more to it."
Simon rubbed his temples, then sank into a folding chair. For a moment, he looked ten years older than he already was. The others gathered around, Daichi leaning against the tool chest, Walter pacing, Izamuri perched on the edge of the workbench, waiting.
Finally, Simon spoke. His voice was low but carried enough weight to silence the pit.
"Giancarlo Antonio Bellasconi," he began, "is one of the dirtiest, most corrupt bastards Formula 1, has ever produced. And that's saying something."
Izamuri frowned. "Formula 1? He doesn't look like a driver."
"He wasn't," Simon said sharply. "He was an engineer. Started small, late 80s. Worked at Fondmetal, then Larrousse. Always desperate to climb, to push himself into bigger roles. He was clever, no denying that, but his methods? Ruthless. He'd cheat, bribe, manipulate, anything to get results."
Walter muttered in German, shaking his head.
Simon continued, his tone bitter. "By the mid-90s, he weaseled his way into Forti as chief engineer. When that collapsed, he jumped ship again, landing as a strategist at Stewart GP. And when Stewart turned into Jaguar, he was already positioning himself for power. He had friends in the right places, and he knew how to play politics. Eventually, he wriggled into a team principal role at Force India in the early 2000s."
Daichi's expression darkened. "Force India… that's where I've heard the name before."
Simon nodded grimly. "Yes. And that's where it all unraveled. Officially, the FIA banned him in 2012 for… impropriety. But the truth is worse. Much worse."
Izamuri leaned forward, listening intently. "What happened?"
Simon's eyes narrowed, his jaw tight. "He tried to stage a crash. Monaco, 2012. A 'Crashgate V2.' He ordered one of his drivers to deliberately wreck to trigger a safety car for strategic advantage. But the driver refused. Reported him directly to the FIA with solid evidence. Radio transmissions, documents. And when the FIA investigated, they discovered even more. Bribery attempts. Specifically, Bellasconi trying to buy blueprints from a Mercedes engineer. He wanted confidential data, car specifications, anything that could give him an edge."
Walter's eyes widened. "Scheiße… that would've destroyed the sport if it worked."
"Exactly," Simon said. "The FIA banned him for life from Formula 1. Officially, he vanished. But here he is, back, with money, influence, and an entire operation behind him. And not just any operation. He's fronting Naka GP."
Daichi's voice was low, thoughtful. "Backed by NEIT. Akagi Nakamura's fingerprints are all over this."
Simon nodded bitterly. "Bellasconi has always been a parasite. He attaches himself to power, drains what he can, then moves on when things sour. That's what he's doing here. Only now he has the perfect storm, a corporate sponsor with bottomless pockets, two Hollywood clowns for publicity, and enough money to bend the rules until they break."
Izamuri clenched his fists. "And they're in the same championship as us."
"Yes," Simon said grimly. "Which means expect trouble. Because with Bellasconi in charge, they won't just play dirty, they'll redefine what dirty means."
The pit was silent for a moment, everyone processing the weight of Simon's revelation. The air felt colder, heavier.
Finally, Daichi broke the silence. "Then we prepare. Whatever Bellasconi's planning, we'll be ready. If he wants to drag this championship through the mud, fine. But he's not taking us with him."
Simon gave a grim nod, but deep down, he knew, Bellasconi was more than just another rival team principal. He was a ghost from the past, and ghosts had a way of dragging old demons into the present. And from the way Bellasconi had looked at him in that briefing room, Simon had no doubt, this was personal.
As the lunch hour faded quickly into the calm hum of preparation. Mechanics from every team swarmed around their cars, the sound of impact guns echoing across the pits, the smell of rubber and gasoline hanging heavy in the cool afternoon air. By 1:40 PM, the second half of qualifying resumed, the track reopening for the drivers who had yet to post their times, or those hoping to improve upon mediocre morning runs.
The G-Force crew stayed deliberately idle. Izamuri sat on a folding chair, still in his race suit, sipping water and checking his gloves. Hugo, just two pits down, leaned casually against his Civic, chatting with his engineer Fumihiro. Neither of them showed any rush. Their plan was clear: wait until the late afternoon when the sun dipped, track temperatures cooled, and rubber laid down from earlier laps would give the best grip.
Walter watched the monitors from the pit wall, arms folded tightly, his face carved into a skeptical frown. "The track's still too hot now," he muttered. "It'll chew the tires if we go out this early."
Simon, crouched near the timing monitors, nodded. "We wait. That was the plan. Let the field exhaust themselves, then strike."
Daichi glanced at Izamuri. "Stay calm, kid. You'll get your chance."
Izamuri nodded, though his nerves betrayed him in the way he tapped his foot against the concrete floor.
Out on track, the grid slowly came alive again. Cars emerged one by one from the pit lane, roaring toward the straight before diving into Turn 1. The timing screens lit up with sector times, lap deltas flashing across the monitors. Most of the runners were mid-pack hopefuls, those who hadn't cracked into the morning's top five and were desperate for an improvement.
The morning's benchmarks loomed large:
1. Shunpei Maeda (#16 – Maeda Moto) – 2:06.602
2. Ryusei Arai (#180 – Arai Speed) – 2:06.740
3. Kazuma Nishikawa (#445 – Arai Speed) – 2:06.813
4. Riku Kawamoto (#29 – Kitsune R) – 2:06.988
5. Kaito Yamazaki (#56 – Studie Racing) – 2:07.221
Each of those drivers had already parked their cars for the day, satisfied with their strong laps. The rest were playing catch-up.
A black and gold Civic darted out from pit lane, James Hawthorn's Naka GP machine, car #9. Close behind, the second black-and-gold EK9 of Mike Hunt, #7, followed. Both cars gleamed under the Fuji sun, their gold accents shimmering as if to demand attention.
Walter immediately perked up at the sight. "Here we go… the movie stars again."
Simon grunted. "Let's see if they've actually learned how to take a corner today."
The first timed laps were nothing extraordinary. James clocked in a 2:07.9, Mike a 2:08.1. Better than their sloppy 2:08s yesterday and this morning, but still not on the level of the morning's top five. Their lines through the Coca-Cola corner and 100R were messy, the braking zones too early, apexes missed by a tire's width. They were competent, but not sharp.
But then… the straights.
Daichi leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the main monitor. "Wait. Look at their acceleration."
Walter's brows furrowed. "Scheiße… that's not normal."
Down Fuji's endless main straight, both Naka GP Civics surged forward with an unnatural burst. It wasn't the gradual build of a naturally aspirated B18C or even a torquey B20. This was sudden, like a second wind mid-rev range. By the time they barreled into Turn 1, their speed traps showed a margin nearly 8 - 10 km/h higher than the rest of the field.
"They're flying," Rin muttered, holding a clipboard but forgetting to write.
Simon shook his head. "No… that doesn't make sense. No turbo whine, no supercharger scream, but they've got something. A hidden trick."
The second laps dropped their times significantly. James clocked a 2:06.482, sliding him above Maeda into provisional P1. Mike followed with a 2:06.590, good enough for P2.
The timing screens confirmed it:
1. James Hawthorn (#9 – Naka GP) – 2:06.482
2. Mike Hunt (#7 – Naka GP) – 2:06.590
3. Shunpei Maeda (#16 – Maeda Moto) – 2:06.602
4. Ryusei Arai (#180 – Arai Speed) – 2:06.740
5. Kazuma Nishikawa (#445 – Arai Speed) – 2:06.813
The G-Force pit fell into uneasy silence. Hana frowned at the screen. "But… how? They were garbage yesterday. Even this morning."
"They cleaned up their corners a bit," Takamori admitted, "but that straight-line speed… it's unnatural."
Nikolai, arms crossed, spoke with suspicion dripping from every word. "Engines capped at two liters since 2018. That much speed is not coming from just a strong motor. No way."
Daichi nodded grimly. "If they swapped in something exotic, like a K20 tuned to the edge of what the regulations allowed for K series engines, maybe. But even then, the jump doesn't line up."
"Unless…" Simon muttered under his breath, not finishing the thought. He rubbed his chin, eyes locked on the screen.
Walter exhaled slowly. "If they're cheating, it's subtle. Nothing obvious to the ear. No boost whistles, no exhaust backfires like forced induction. Just raw shove."
Izamuri looked from face to face, trying to process the tension. "So… what are you saying? That their engines aren't legal?"
Daichi shook his head. "Not sure yet. But something is off. They're midfield in corners, but on the straights, they look like DTM cars. It doesn't add up."
Meanwhile, the Naka GP pit was alive with celebration. Their PR team snapped photos, security guards stood smugly by the barriers, and both James and Mike strutted from their cars as though they'd already won the weekend. Cameras flashed, gold-and-black banners waved, and Bellasconi himself appeared at the garage entrance, arms crossed, that sly Italian smile plastered across his face.
From six pits away, Simon glared. "That bastard's up to something. Always has been."
Daichi placed a hand on Izamuri's shoulder. "Don't let it rattle you. They've shown their cards too early. They're fast on the straight, but if you stick to them in the corners, they'll make mistakes. You just need to stay sharp."
Izamuri nodded, though his grip on his gloves tightened. The idea of racing against cars with "mystery speed" unsettled him, but the thought of proving himself against them only fueled his determination.
The rest of the afternoon ticked on with more teams logging laps. Some privateers improved slightly, but none came close to matching the times of the top five, let alone the surprising leap from the Naka GP duo.
By 3:30 PM, the track grew quieter again. Cars pulled back in, mechanics prepped for the final push, and the paddock buzzed with speculation.
Hugo strolled over from his pit, helmet in hand, his Swedish calmness as steady as ever. "Well," he said, glancing at the screens, "seems the Hollywood pair found some pace. Question is, where did it come from?"
"Exactly what we're wondering," Daichi muttered.
Hugo smirked faintly. "Doesn't matter. We'll find out on track. They can't hide forever."
The clock ticked toward 4:00 PM. In just fifteen minutes, the final plan would unfold. Izamuri and Hugo would head out together, their strategy is simple… Slipstream one another, extract every ounce of pace from their setups, and strike when the track cooled and cleared.