The pit lane at Fuji hummed with a different kind of tension as the clock ticked closer to 4:10 PM. Shadows stretched across the tarmac, the afternoon sun finally easing its grip on the asphalt. The once-baking surface cooled to the perfect temperature, and everyone in the G-Force pit knew this was the moment they had been waiting for.
Inside the championship white EK9, Izamuri sat strapped in, helmet on, his gloved hands resting on the suede steering wheel. His foot tapped impatiently against the floor mat as the faint rumble of other cars faded in the distance. He leaned his head back, taking a deep breath, feeling the snug fit of the HANS device lock him into place. His heart rate was steady, but anticipation simmered beneath the surface.
In front of the pit box, Daichi leaned against the pit wall, eyes scanning the Naka GP paddock six garages down. James and Mike's Civics sat quiet, mechanics polishing body panels and talking among themselves, but there was a certain smugness about the way they carried themselves, as if their provisional P1 and P2 were untouchable.
Daichi turned sharply, pointing at Hojo and Tojo, the twins, who were half-distracted by a packet of snacks they smuggled in. "You two. Eyes on Naka GP. If their mechanics so much as sneeze, I want to know. Don't let them pull any tricks while Hugo and Izamuri are out."
The twins snapped to attention, their earlier laziness vanishing under Daichi's piercing tone. "Hai!" they chorused, saluting with a clumsy seriousness that made Rin mutter under his breath, "This'll be chaos…"
Still, Daichi knew they were perfect for the job. They had a knack for sniffing out trouble, usually because they were the ones causing it.
At 4:15 PM sharp, the marshal at pit exit waved the green flag. Only two other privateers had taken to the track for this final run, Taiga Okabe in the #69 Civic and Keisuke Ando in the #95 car. Both had modest times earlier in the day and were gambling on the cooler track to gain a few tenths.
But the real show was about to begin.
Hugo Vatanen, in his blue EK9 with yellow accents, rolled past the pit lane limiter first, the Advan A050s on his car screeching softly against the tarmac as they warmed. Behind him, Izamuri eased his Civic forward, clutch in, revs steady, before releasing the brake and letting the car glide out of the box. The engine's raspy growl echoed against the pit lane walls, crisp and eager.
Walter stood with his headset on, microphone raised to his mouth. "Alright, Izamuri. Hugo will lead for the first lap. Stick close. Focus on rhythm, warm the tires properly. Once he gives you space, we'll swap roles. Understood?"
"Understood," Izamuri replied, his voice calm but tinged with excitement.
The two cars merged onto the track, immediately swallowed by Fuji's vast straight. Hugo accelerated smoothly, keeping his pace controlled for the out-lap, weaving gently from side to side to scrub his tires. Izamuri followed suit, mirroring the Swede's, movements exactly, the championship white Civic dancing in Hugo's slipstream like a shadow.
Back at the pit wall, Simon adjusted his glasses, eyes fixed on the timing screen. "They've got forty minutes. Enough for at least eight to ten proper flyers if everything goes right."
Daichi nodded. "No need to rush. Let them find their rhythm."
As the two Civics approached Turn 1, Hugo braked sharply, downshifting with precise blips, the nose of his car biting into the apex. Izamuri mimicked, though his entry was a fraction wide, the front tires scrubbing slightly before the car rotated. He tightened his grip, forcing himself to relax. It was only the warm-up lap.
They flowed through Coca-Cola, into 100R, then the long hairpin. The rhythm built, the cars like dancers tracing the lines of the circuit. Hugo's movements were smooth, economical, the mark of a man who had raced for years. Izamuri's were more raw, more aggressive, but no less determined.
By the time they hit the Dunlop chicane, both cars' tires were already biting harder, the grip coming alive. And as they exited Netz corner and powered into Panasonic, Hugo finally gave it full throttle, pulling Izamuri onto the straight for their first hot lap.
The G-Force pit crew leaned forward in anticipation. Hana and Ayaka clutched clipboards, jotting notes furiously, while Takamori tapped the live telemetry feed, adjusting his headset.
"Alright, lap one… let's see what they've got," Walter muttered.
The two Civics barreled past the main straight grandstands, engines howling, a perfect duo of speed and precision. The slipstream effect pulled Izamuri faster, closer, his car tucked neatly behind Hugo's bumper as they blasted into Turn 1.
In the Naka GP garage, Bellasconi stood with his arms folded, watching the monitors with an amused smirk. His two drivers lounged nearby, James sipping a drink while Mike leaned lazily against the pit wall, sunglasses still on despite the fading sun. Their body language screamed arrogance. To them, their provisional times were enough.
But Daichi's sharp eyes never left them, even as Hugo and Izamuri began their attack on the clock.
"Remember," Simon murmured, mostly to himself, "we're not chasing their arrogance. We're chasing the stopwatch."
Through Coca-Cola, Hugo kissed the inside curb with millimetric precision, his line textbook. Izamuri followed, a touch more aggressive, his inside tires skipping slightly over the rumble strip.
100R tested them both, a long sweeper demanding bravery. Hugo's car flowed effortlessly through, but Izamuri had to fight his steering, the rear twitching slightly before he corrected.
Into the hairpin, both cars braked late, their noses dipping in unison, before powering out toward 300R. Hugo's car looked serene; Izamuri's looked alive, restless, straining at the edge of grip.
"Sector one, Izamuri's green," Takamori reported, eyes locked on the live feed. "Izamuri… two tenths off Hugo's time. Not bad."
They roared into the Dunlop chicane, tires squealing, suspension compressing under the curbs. Then came 13th corner, Netz, and finally Panasonic, where Hugo widened his exit just enough to tow Izamuri down the straight again.
As they flew past the pits, Simon's stopwatch clicked. "2:06.7 for Hugo… 2:06.9 for Izamuri."
"Good," Walter said into the mic. "Stay in rhythm. You'll shave more time next lap."
Inside the car, Izamuri exhaled sharply, refocusing. His hands were steady now, his breathing calm. Hugo's presence ahead gave him confidence, a line to follow, a target to chase.
The second lap began, both cars attacking harder now that the tires were fully alive. This was the window they had waited for. The moment where the track, the setup, and their skill would converge.
Back in the pits, Daichi turned to the twins, who were still stationed at the edge of the pit wall, binoculars raised clumsily. "Report," he ordered.
Hojo pointed toward the Naka GP garage. "Their crew is just standing around. No weird movements, no laptops out."
Tojo added, "Well… except one guy who looks like he's pretending to yawn but keeps checking his watch every ten seconds. Suspicious."
Daichi rubbed his temples. "Suspicious or not, keep your eyes open. They're snakes. They'll strike when you least expect it."
By 4:20 PM, Hugo and Izamuri were well into their rhythm, the two Civics a blur of blue and white against the fading orange sky. Lap after lap, their times crept closer to the benchmark. But the real fireworks were yet to come.
The two privateers, Okabe in the #69 and Ando in the #95. were barely halfway down Fuji's legendary straight when Hugo and Izamuri roared up behind them, a pair of missiles on full attack.
Walter's voice crackled into Izamuri's headset. "Traffic ahead. Eyes sharp. Pass clean."
Hugo darted left, Izamuri right, their Civics splitting the slower cars like a synchronized maneuver. Okabe and Ando stayed on their lines, no weaving, no blocking, they knew better than to get in the way of a serious qualifying run. The difference in pace was almost embarrassing. By the time Hugo and Izamuri reached the braking zone, both privateers had already faded into their mirrors, tiny specks swallowed by the distance.
Now the track was theirs.
Izamuri tightened his grip on the wheel, his eyes locked on Hugo's tail. He felt the pull of the slipstream as the blue Civic punched a hole through the cool afternoon air. The suction reeled him closer and closer until his front bumper nearly kissed Hugo's rear. His tachometer screamed at the redline, but he held, waited, the air pressure tugging his car forward like an invisible rope.
"Use it," Walter urged. "Don't waste the tow. Slingshot him."
Izamuri bided his time, inching closer, the pit wall blurring past. With the braking markers rushing forward, he snapped left, cutting out of the slipstream in a burst of speed. The sudden release of drag hurled him forward, the white Civic leaping ahead with explosive force. By the 150-meter board, he was already clear.
"Beautiful!" Takamori barked from the timing station, fist pumping.
Into Turn 1, Izamuri threw his car down the inside, braking at the limit, ABS buzzing through his foot. Hugo slotted neatly behind him, no resistance given, his role now reversed, to chase, to pressure, to guide.
From the pit wall, Daichi's stern face cracked into the faintest of smirks. "That's how you do it."
The lap that followed was all Izamuri. His rhythm sharpened, his inputs cleaner, the nervous aggression of the morning replaced with a tempered, razor-edge focus. Coca-Cola corner, he brushed the inside curb with surgical accuracy. 100R, he carried speed just shy of reckless, the rear twitching but never breaking loose. At the hairpin, he braked late but rotated the car smoothly, no wasted movement.
Hugo followed like a hunter, his yellow-accented Civic glued in the slipstream, reading every line, every brake light, every twitch of Izamuri's car. He didn't challenge, didn't push past, he simply mirrored, learning, measuring, ensuring the pressure remained.
Sector one flashed green on the timing screen. Then sector two. The pit crew leaned in, breath held, eyes wide.
Through the Dunlop chicane, Izamuri slammed over the sausage curbs, his suspension groaning but holding. Into Netz, he flicked the car left-right with aggression, the EK9 twitching but never faltering. And out of Panasonic, he planted the throttle early, the VTEC screaming as the Civic shot down the straight.
Simon's stopwatch clicked the moment Izamuri crossed the line. The number on the screen froze.
2:06.240.
The pit exploded. Ayaka gasped, Rin slapped Hana's shoulder, Walter actually laughed aloud. Even Daichi allowed himself a firm nod.
Not quite his practice benchmark of 2:05.9, but more than enough. Enough to shove James Hawthorn and Mike Hunt down the order. Enough to prove their cars weren't untouchable.
The Naka GP garage six pits down didn't erupt in cheers. Instead, Bellasconi's sharp glare cut across the paddock like a knife. James tossed his drink aside in irritation, and Mike muttered something crude under his breath. Their smug calm was cracking.
Daichi saw it. He didn't smile. Not yet.
"Alright, Izamuri, cool the car. Job's done. Bring her in nice and easy." Walter's voice steadied in Izamuri's ear.
But the session wasn't over. Hugo was still on track, and it was his turn to attack.
The Swede tucked into Izamuri's draft as they crossed start-finish again. This time, Izamuri moved slightly aside before the 200-meter board, giving Hugo the lane, giving him the chance.
The blue Civic surged past, engine shrieking, exhaust spitting fire as it pulled into clean air. Hugo lined up Turn 1 with ruthless precision, late-braking and trail-braking deep into the apex. His car rotated like a compass needle, snapping straight on exit, tires clawing at the tarmac.
Back at the G-Force pit, Walter frowned, his eyes narrowing. "We don't have his channel. Can't get splits."
"Then I'll get them," Daichi said. He didn't hesitate. Pulling off his headset, he strode briskly across the pit lane toward the Hugo Speed garage. His footsteps were quick, purposeful, the sound of rubber soles against tarmac muffled by the growl of engines roaring down Fuji's straight.
Inside the Hugo Speed pit, Fumihiro. Their quiet but sharp-eyed race engineer, stood at the monitors, arms folded, watching Hugo's live data scroll across the screen. His brows lifted slightly as Daichi stepped in without knocking.
"Fumihiro," Daichi said in clipped Japanese, his tone urgent but respectful. "I need his splits. We're working together on this run."
Fumihiro glanced sideways, not surprised. "I expected you'd come. Hugo doesn't ask for help lightly."
The two men bent over the screen together, Daichi studying the live telemetry. Hugo's first sector time flashed green, faster than Izamuri's by a tenth. His second sector followed, another improvement. The blue Civic was flying.
Meanwhile, out on track, Hugo blasted through Dunlop with fearless precision, the car clipping every curb with military discipline. Through Netz, his line was clean and flowing, less aggressive than Izamuri's but no less effective. And as he thundered into Panasonic, the Swede opened the throttle without hesitation, his Civic shooting like a bullet onto the main straight.
The timing beacon flickered. The lap wasn't done yet, but everything pointed to a statement lap.
Back on the pit wall, Simon leaned toward Walter. "If Hugo nails this, both of them will lock Naka GP out of the front row."
Walter adjusted his headset, lips curling in something close to satisfaction. "Good. Let's see how Bellasconi likes being the one with excuses."
The blue Civic surged down the main straight, engine straining, its silhouette framed against the orange-tinged sky. The crowd might have been absent, no spectators for qualifying, but the atmosphere in the pits was electric all the same. Mechanics, engineers, and drivers lined their garages, watching silently as Hugo's car tore past at full tilt.
The stopwatch ticked.
The pit lane held its breath.
And Hugo's lap time was about to stamp itself on the screens, and not long after the blue Civic blasted across the timing line, its VTEC howl tapering into silence as Hugo lifted off and coasted toward Turn 1. Every pair of eyes in both pits locked on the screens as the numbers flickered to life.
2:06.390.
A sigh of mixed relief and frustration rippled through the Hugo Speed crew. Not quite as sharp as Izamuri's lap, but it still placed him second overall, just a whisker behind G-Force's white #98 Civic. More importantly, it was enough to shove both Naka GP cars down to row two, no matter how much "help" they had on the straights.
Hugo slowed his pace, signaling the run was over. Izamuri, still a few car lengths behind, mirrored him. The two cars rolled side by side on the cool-down lap, exhausts crackling, their body language clear, they were finished, and satisfied.
Back in the Hugo Speed pit, Fumihiro nodded, expression neutral but eyes gleaming. "That's P1 and P2, for now. A good lock."
Daichi said nothing. He had already pulled off Hugo's headset, turned on his heel, and walked briskly out of the garage. By the time Hugo and Izamuri reached pit entry, Daichi was back at the G-Force box, arms crossed, scanning the monitors.
As the two Civics pulled into their pit stalls, Hugo sliding into his blue-marked box, Izamuri into the white one just meters away, the crews swarmed over the cars with cooling fans and laptops. For a moment, there was nothing but the hiss of engines ticking cool, the muted clatter of tools. A calm, earned moment.
It didn't last.
Two JAF officials, clipboards in hand, strode down the lane. Their black jackets bore the federation crest, their faces stiff, unreadable. They stopped first at Hugo Speed, then at G-Force, handing identical slips of paper to both team managers.
Fumihiro read his first, jaw tightening. Daichi snatched his before Walter or Simon could, his eyes darting over the typed words.
"Infraction: Bump drafting during qualifying. Penalty: Three-place grid drop."
The pit lane seemed to freeze. For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Hugo ripped his helmet off, blond hair plastered with sweat, and barked, "Bump drafting!? Are you bloody mad? We didn't even touch!" He slapped the roof of his car, voice echoing through the lane. "Slipstreaming isn't illegal! What kind of farce is this?"
The officials didn't flinch. "Article 4, Section 3, Sportsmanlike Conduct. You gained an advantage by working together. This is an individual series."
"That's not bump drafting!" Hugo shot back, teeth gritted. "There wasn't contact! None!" His accent sharpened, anger fraying his words. But after a moment, Fumihiro put a hand on his shoulder, murmured something in Swedish. Hugo breathed hard, nostrils flaring, then let the paper crumple in his hand. "Fine," he spat. "Three places. So be it."
Daichi was not so calm.
"You've got to be kidding me," he growled, stepping forward, waving his slip like a flag. His voice climbed, sharp and scalding. "Bump drafting? What do you think you saw out there—two kids shoving wagons down a hill?!"
The lead official opened his mouth, but Daichi didn't let him speak. His face was flushed, veins standing in his neck, his voice carrying through the entire pit lane.
"When you were a little boy," Daichi thundered, pointing at the man, "did you dream of standing here at Fuji Speedway, the most famous circuit in Japan, and enforcing Paragraph Twelve, Subsection Three, Point Four-B of the JAF handbook on what constitutes—" he jabbed the paper, nearly tearing it, "'unsporting aerodynamic assistance'?"
Some of the mechanics stifled nervous laughter. Others froze, wide-eyed.
"There is nothing in that book," Daichi pressed on, his voice dropping into a biting growl, "that says a driver can't run in another man's draft. Nothing about clean air, nothing about slipstream. Unless—" He shoved the paper into the official's chest. "You're going to start timing how far apart we are? Measuring centimeters of clean air like it's luggage space on an economy class?"
Walter muttered under his breath in German, shaking his head. "Verdammt, he's really doing it…"
"Slipstreaming is racing!" Daichi roared now, both fists clenched. "It's strategy, it's craft, it's been done since the first pair of cars ever shared a road! But you—" He stabbed a finger at the officials, voice dripping with scorn. "You're so desperate to look busy you'll invent phantom rules. You'll strip three grid places from two honest laps because someone whispered in your ear!"
His voice echoed against the garages, bouncing off the concrete and steel. Pit crews up and down the lane had stopped what they were doing, eyes flicking between Daichi and the stunned officials.
The lead steward tried to gather his composure. "Sir, please—"
"Don't 'sir' me!" Daichi barked. His voice cut sharper now, venom with every word. "Say it. Say the name. Who leaned on you? Who told you to drop this paper in our pits?" He jabbed toward the end of the lane, where the black-and-gold of Naka GP gleamed under the afternoon sun. "Because we all know, don't we? We all know exactly whose fingerprints are on this."
Simon caught the movement before anyone else. At the far end, just outside the black motorhome, Giancarlo Antonio Bellasconi stood with his arms folded. The Italian's gray hair glinted under the canopy light, and on his lips curled a smile, not wide, not boastful, but smug. Deliberate. A smile meant to be seen.
Simon's stomach turned. He muttered low to Walter, "Bastard's enjoying this."
The officials shuffled uneasily, refusing to answer Daichi's pointed accusation. Their silence only fanned his fury.
"Pathetic," Daichi spat, the word like venom. "You want to play politics? Fine. But don't stand here in this pit lane, in front of men who've bled for this sport, and pretend it's about rules. It's about power. And you've just shown us all who you belong to."
The crowd of mechanics, engineers, and drivers that had gathered murmured, some shaking heads, others whispering. Even a few from rival teams looked uneasy, their eyes darting toward Naka GP's glowing motorhome.
Finally, Walter and Simon each grabbed an arm, pulling Daichi back before he said something that would cost more than a penalty slip. His chest still heaved, his glare locked on the officials who refused to meet his eyes.
Hugo had already climbed out of his car, face stormy but restrained. He crossed the invisible boundary between their pits and clapped a hand on Daichi's shoulder, pulling him slightly away. "Let it go. They won't change it. But tomorrow… we'll make them regret trying."
Daichi didn't answer. He was still glaring down the lane, at Bellasconi's smirk, his fists still clenched, the penalty slip crushed and crumpled in his palm.