The results were finally posted on the timing boards, and the pit lane's hum shifted into murmurs and chatter.
Izamuri Sakuta – 2:06.240 – Official Position: P4 (after penalty).
Hugo Vatanen – 2:06.390 – Official Position: P5 (after penalty).
Both should have been on the front row, Izamuri taking pole and Hugo beside him, but the three-place penalty dumped them back into the second row, behind two cars that had no business being ahead.
Daichi stood with his arms folded, staring at the screens for a long moment. His chest rose and fell with deep breaths, the storm of anger from earlier still simmering beneath his calm exterior. But he had learned, over decades of racing politics, when to blow up and when to hold fire. Right now, his team needed composure, not more flames.
"Enough for today," he muttered, turning toward his crew. "Pack it up. We'll fight tomorrow."
The others nodded, already moving to roll up cables, pack laptops into cases, and fold tables. The buzz of impact wrenches and the scrape of crates echoed in the pits. For a while, it was routine. Almost quiet.
Then Daichi caught it. Tthe twins.
Hojo and Tojo were loitering near the Hiace, their grins stretching ear to ear like schoolboys who had just burned down the principal's office. Their clothes were an absolute mess: oil stains on the sleeves, dust smeared across the knees, and Tojo's T-shirt was inside out and backwards, the tag sticking out from his throat like a badge of dishonor. In their hands, they each held something, a wrench, half greasy, and a bulging nylon bag.
Daichi narrowed his eyes. "What the hell have you two done now?"
The twins froze for a second, exchanging a look, then burst out giggling. The bag shifted as Hojo lifted it just enough to reveal its contents. Daichi caught a glimpse of dozens, no, hundreds, of metal screws rattling inside like stolen treasure.
Before he could ask, a thunderous crash split the air from six paddocks down. The sound of metal shelving collapsing, followed by the hollow clatter of tools spilling across concrete, rang like a gong across the pit lane. Shouts erupted immediately after, angry, panicked voices in English, Japanese, and Italian.
Heads turned. Mechanics from nearby teams paused mid-pack, peering down the lane. Some chuckled. Others shook their heads. But from the Naka GP pit, chaos was already unraveling.
Their massive tire racks had toppled like dominoes, spilling slick black Advan rubber across the floor. A tool chest lay cracked open, drawers bent, sockets and ratchets strewn everywhere. Another shelving unit, half-leaning against the wall, gave way with a groan, scattering containers of fluids and sprays. The acrid tang of spilled brake cleaner and oil wafted into the air.
The shouting grew louder. And then, from inside the black-and-gold motorhome, a scream in Italian:
"Merda! Bastardi! My laptop—!"
Bellasconi's voice.
A second later, the door slammed open, and the gray-haired team principal stumbled out, his crisp dress shirt stained with coffee. His designer slacks were dripping brown liquid, and his laptop, expensive, cutting-edge, gleaming silver, dangled from one hand, sparks spitting from its keyboard as a stream of espresso trickled from its casing. He hurled it to the ground in a fit of rage, stomping his leather shoe onto it, shouting obscenities that needed no translation.
Daichi slowly turned back to the twins.
Hojo and Tojo were each holding a crumpled Naka GP uniform shirt, the black fabric wrinkled and creased like it had been torn straight from a locker. Their eyes glittered with manic pride.
"You didn't." Daichi's voice was flat, almost dangerous.
"We did," Tojo whispered, still grinning. "Every shelf, every box, every screw we saw."
"Even the desk," Hojo added smugly. "He had, like, eight screws under it. Now? Zero."
Daichi closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You lunatics actually infiltrated their pit?"
The twins nodded in unison, puffing their chests.
"Disguised," Tojo said, lifting the stolen shirt like a trophy.
"Stealth operation," Hojo added, spinning his wrench dramatically.
The noise from Naka GP's pit grew louder. Someone tripped over a pile of tires and cursed. A mechanic hurled a broken drawer across the concrete. Bellasconi continued screaming, now barking orders in English, his accent sharp.
Daichi sighed, fighting the twitch of a smile at the corners of his mouth. He wanted to be furious. He wanted to grab the twins by the ears and drag them to the Hiace for a lecture about consequences. But deep down, after what happened with the penalty, seeing Bellasconi's kingdom crumble into slapstick disaster was… satisfying.
"Karma," Nikolai muttered behind him, watching with arms crossed, his Russian accent thick with amusement.
Walter, catching sight of the mess, nearly choked on his water bottle. "Mein Gott…" He leaned closer, eyes darting back to the twins. "You actually did this?"
The twins nodded proudly.
Simon groaned. "Idiots. If they trace this back to us—"
"They won't," Tojo cut in. "We were ghosts."
"Professional," Hojo said.
Daichi finally snapped out of his silence. He jabbed a finger at the bag. "That. In the Hiace. Now. No one touches it until I say so. Understood?"
The twins hesitated, then scampered toward the van, stuffing the bag under a tarp near the spare tires. They clutched the Naka GP shirts to their chests like kids holding onto their favorite toys.
"You can keep those," Daichi muttered. "Just in case we need more chaos down the line. But you ever try something like this without telling me first, I'll glue you to your seats for the rest of the season."
The twins saluted, grinning even wider.
By now, the Naka GP pit looked like a war zone. Mechanics scrambled to rebuild shelving with missing screws, cursing every time something wobbled or collapsed again. One man tried to prop up the tire rack using a broom handle. Bellasconi stomped around like a general on a sinking ship, his coffee-soaked clothes and fury only making the scene more ridiculous.
Hugo strolled past their pit, hands in his pockets, smirking faintly as he joined G-Force. "I don't know what happened down there," he said casually, "but I'm not asking questions."
Daichi shot him a look that said everything. Hugo raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.
"Fair enough," he said.
By the time the sun dipped lower, painting the paddock in a golden glow, G-Force had finished packing up. Tools were loaded, laptops secured, and the Civic #98 strapped tight on the trailer. The team was tired but strangely buoyed, the sting of the penalties softened by the twins' absurd sabotage.
As they prepared to head back to the hotel, Daichi gave one last order. "We focus on tomorrow. No more stunts tonight. Got it?"
The twins nodded, but their mischievous grins lingered.
Everyone knew better than to believe them.
As the paddock lights behind Fuji Speedway dimmed into the orange haze of dusk as the G-Force convoy rolled out through the service gate. The cars rumbled in a neat line, Walter's trusty Mercedes 190E Estate leading the way, followed by Haruka's Corolla, driven carefully by Takamori, and finally the Hiace with Daichi behind the wheel.
The Hiace groaned under the weight of spare tools and travel bags, its tired suspension bouncing slightly over each bump in the asphalt. Inside, the atmosphere was strangely conspiratorial. The twins were wedged in the back seat, Hojo fiddling with a wrench he had forgotten to return, while Tojo clutched one of the stolen Naka GP shirts like it was a badge of honor. Haruka sat up front in the passenger seat, quiet, his sharp eyes occasionally flicking to the rearview mirror as if making sure they weren't followed.
Daichi gripped the steering wheel with one hand, the other drumming on the gear shifter as the Hiace wound its way through the hotel exit road. The neon sign of the Fuji Speedway Hotel shrank in the mirrors, fading into the trees.
"You two," Daichi said suddenly, his voice low but commanding. "You've pulled some insane stunts before, but this…" He tapped the dashboard with his index finger. "…this is next level. You realize the kind of heat that'll come down if anyone finds out?"
Hojo chuckled, leaning back and throwing his arms over the seat. "Heat's already on Naka GP, not us. Nobody saw us."
"Yeah," Tojo added, his grin broadening. "We're like ninjas, Daichi-san. No trace, no sound."
Daichi shot them a sharp glance in the mirror. "Ninjas don't leave behind a bag full of screws big enough to sink a boat."
The bag sat under Haruka's feet in the front, its metallic contents rattling softly whenever the van swayed. Haruka nudged it with his boot, frowning. "He's right. This isn't just a prank anymore, it's evidence. If anyone links this to us, it won't be just Bellasconi screaming in Italian. The stewards will throw the book at G-Force, and maybe worse."
The twins exchanged uneasy glances but didn't respond. For once, their smiles faltered.
Daichi shifted gears and guided the Hiace onto the main road, the city lights of Gotemba glowing faintly ahead. The convoy split, Walter and Takamori continued toward the hotel parking garage to tuck the Corolla and Mercedes in for the night, while the Hiace rolled on.
"Where are we going?" Haruka asked, settling back into his seat.
"First idea was the river," Daichi muttered. "Dump the screws in the current, let them scatter downstream. Or bury them in the forests near Hakone. But the more I think about it, the more I realize… both leave too much risk."
He flicked on the indicator and took a turn south, leaving the familiar streets of Gotemba behind. The road stretched toward the horizon, neon-lit storefronts giving way to darkening stretches of farmland and low industrial blocks.
"Risk?" Tojo asked, leaning forward between the seats.
Daichi nodded. "If they're found in the river, someone could connect it. If we bury them in the forest, kids or hikers could dig them up. No, what we need is something cleaner. Sneakier. Something that makes them vanish without a trace."
Haruka arched an eyebrow. "You sound like you've done this before."
Daichi smirked faintly, eyes fixed on the road. "Let's just say racing politics teaches you to dispose of a lot of… inconvenient things."
The twins perked up again, curiosity winning over their nerves. "So what's the plan, boss?" Hojo asked eagerly.
Daichi didn't answer immediately. The Hiace hummed as it rolled through a series of intersections, the city growing busier as they pushed further south. Streetlights flickered overhead, casting the interior of the van in shifting bands of orange.
Finally, Daichi spoke. "We're heading to Numazu. Coastal city, plenty of places to make something disappear, ports, scrapyards, maybe even industrial furnaces. It's safer than dumping it in nature."
The twins' eyes widened. "Numazu? That's, like, an hour away!"
"Better an hour's drive than a lifetime of explaining why Bellasconi's pit looks like it got hit by an earthquake," Daichi said dryly.
Haruka leaned his elbow against the window, watching the traffic outside grow thicker as they rolled past convenience stores, izakayas, and late-night diners. His mind turned over the situation. He had worked with Daichi long enough to know when the man had a plan and when he was improvising. Tonight, Daichi was somewhere in between. But his instincts had carried him through decades of racing's dirtiest battles, and Haruka trusted them.
The twins, however, were restless. Hojo was bouncing his leg, drumming his fingers against the seatbelt buckle. Tojo was humming tunelessly under his breath, fiddling with the Naka GP shirt. They were proud of their sabotage, thrilled by their prank, and utterly oblivious to how close they'd come to dragging the whole team into a scandal.
Daichi caught their reflection in the rearview mirror and sighed. "You two need to understand something," he said. "Motorsport isn't just cars and speed. It's politics, money, and image. Teams like Naka GP? They live off reputation and sponsorships. You humiliate them, they'll come at us twice as hard. Bellasconi's not the kind of man who lets things slide."
The twins exchanged a look, their smiles dimming.
"Got it," Hojo muttered.
"We'll… keep it cool," Tojo added.
"Good," Daichi said firmly.
The Hiace climbed an overpass, the lights of Gotemba sprawling below them like a scattered constellation. Ahead, the road signs pointed the way, South – Numazu, Mishima, Izu Peninsula.
Haruka adjusted his glasses and exhaled. "So what exactly are we doing in Numazu?"
Daichi's lips curved into the faintest of smirks. "You'll see. Let's just say I've got a better idea than dumping screws in a river."
The twins leaned forward, their curiosity reignited. "Better idea?"
Daichi didn't elaborate. He tightened his grip on the wheel, guiding the Hiace steadily southward, the dark line of the mountains looming on one side and the promise of the sea on the other. Whatever he had planned, it was clear. the screws, the evidence of their sabotage, none of it would survive the night.
The van rolled on, headlights cutting through the deepening dark. The city of Numazu waited ahead, its coastal glow visible even from miles away.
A few long minutes later, the Hiace's tired diesel engine hummed along the coastal road as the neon lights of Numazu flickered into view. After nearly an hour of night driving, the city finally stretched before them, part fishing port, part tourist hub, a mixture of salty docks, quiet warehouses, and glowing izakayas nestled near the sea.
The twins had grown restless in the back of the van. Tojo had fallen into a humming rhythm, tapping his foot against the wheel arch, while Hojo muttered half-formed jokes under his breath, laughter spilling out like steam from a kettle. Haruka, seated in the front passenger seat, hadn't said a word since they left Gotemba, his gaze fixed on the passing signs. Daichi, however, kept his expression steady, hands gripping the wheel with that calm firmness of a man who had navigated worse roads and darker nights.
As they rolled past the glowing kanji signs for Numazu Port, the smell of the sea filled the cabin—a sharp, briny tang mixed with a faint undercurrent of fish. Streetlights glittered against the slick asphalt, and ahead, cranes loomed like skeletal giants over the docked ships.
"There it is," Daichi muttered, his voice low but decisive. He slowed the Hiace and turned into the port district, the van bouncing slightly as it crossed uneven asphalt patched by years of neglect. The glow of the famous Numazu Port Water Gate, with its towering concrete structure and massive shutters, shimmered faintly in the distance.
The fish market sat silent at this late hour, its long, squat building outlined against the night sky. The parking lot was deserted except for a few delivery trucks resting by the loading docks. Daichi pulled the Hiace to a stop at the edge of the lot.
"Alright," he said, switching off the engine. The sudden silence was filled only by the faint lapping of waves against the pier. "This is where we get rid of it."
The twins practically leapt out of the van, energized by the thrill of the covert operation. Haruka followed more reluctantly, adjusting his jacket against the chill of the sea breeze. Daichi hefted the duffel bag from the floor, the screws rattling with a metallic chorus that echoed into the night.
They skirted around the darkened fish market, the faint smell of brine and stale ice seeping from the walls. Their footsteps echoed softly against the concrete, boots and sneakers tapping as they cut across the empty lot. The deeper they went into the port, the stronger the smell of the sea, fish, oil, and salt.
When they finally emerged on the far side, the water stretched before them. Fishing boats rocked gently at their moorings, nets draped across their bows, and the faint clatter of rigging whispered in the night. The Numazu Port Water Gate loomed at the end of the pier, its mechanical bulk a silhouette against the dark horizon, designed to keep the city safe from tsunamis.
"This is it," Daichi said, setting the duffel bag down with a thud. He knelt, unzipped it, and stared at the mountain of screws glinting faintly under the harbor lights.
The twins leaned in, grinning.
"You're really gonna do it, huh?" Hojo whispered.
"Damn right," Daichi replied. He gripped the bag with both hands, swung it over the edge of the pier, and let gravity do its work. The screws rained down into the black water with a muffled splash-splash-splash, the sound strangely satisfying, like hail hitting the sea. The ripples spread outward, vanishing into the tide.
But with noise came consequence.
From somewhere near the market, a voice rang out in Japanese. "Oi! Who's there?"
Flashlights clicked on in the distance, their beams cutting across the asphalt. Two security guards, clad in dark uniforms and reflective vests, had heard the sound of the screws. They began moving toward the docks, their flashlights sweeping left and right.
"Shit," Daichi hissed. He zipped the empty bag shut and gestured sharply. "Hide. Now."
Panic struck the group like lightning. In an instant, instinct and chaos ruled.
Haruka darted to the side and spotted what looked like an empty dumpster by the wall of the fish market. Without hesitation, he climbed in. At first, he thought he had found the perfect hiding spot, it looked empty under the dim light. But as soon as his weight landed inside, the squelch told him otherwise.
The stench hit him immediately. Weeks-old fish guts, brine, and slimy offal oozed up around him, soaking into his clothes. Haruka's face twisted in horror as he realized the bin wasn't empty, it was full of discarded fish remains, rancid from days in the summer heat. He gagged silently, pressing a hand to his mouth, praying he wouldn't vomit and give away his position.
Meanwhile, Daichi had dropped flat to the ground, rolling quickly under the nearest truck parked by the pier. He thought he had chosen well, plenty of shadows, plenty of space. But as he rolled further in, his palm smacked into something slick.
An oil puddle.
Before he could react, the dark liquid smeared across his jacket and pants, the acrid smell clinging to his nose. Daichi clenched his teeth, muttering curses under his breath as he tried to press himself flat against the concrete.
The twins, on the other hand, had panicked in their usual brand of chaos. At first, they crouched behind the same truck Daichi had chosen. But as the flashlights grew closer, they exchanged a frantic look and, without a word, began climbing.
"Idiots," Daichi muttered as he caught sight of their sneakers scrambling upward.
In seconds, Hojo and Tojo had hauled themselves onto the roof of the truck, lying flat against the cold metal. The night air carried their quick, shallow breaths, but they were too excited to be scared. From their perch, they had a clear view of the approaching guards.
The two security guards walked side by side, their flashlights cutting arcs of light across the ground. One of them muttered to the other, his voice low and serious.
"You heard it, right? Like something fell in the water."
"Yeah. Came from the docks."
They approached steadily, scanning the shadows, the beams of their lights creeping closer and closer toward the truck.
Daichi tensed under the chassis, every muscle locked in place. Oil dripped near his cheek, each drop a mocking reminder of his bad luck. Above him, the twins held their breath, their bodies pressed flat against the roof. Haruka, buried in the dumpster, fought back waves of nausea as the stench of rotting fish seeped into his pores.
The guards reached the side of the truck. Their footsteps echoed softly against the concrete, boots crunching on stray gravel. The beams of their flashlights swept over the tires, the shadows shifting dangerously close to Daichi's hiding spot.
One of the guards paused, pointing toward the water. "Maybe it was just a fish jumping. Or something dropped from a boat."
The other shook his head. "Too loud for that. Let's check around here."
They began walking along the length of the truck, side by side, their flashlights aimed low, probing every shadow.
Daichi gritted his teeth. The twins' sneakers shifted ever so slightly above him, the faint scrape of rubber on metal just barely audible. Haruka squeezed his eyes shut in the dumpster, muttering a silent prayer through the stench.
The night had turned into a game of survival, one wrong move, one misplaced sound, and their covert operation would be blown wide open.
The two guards walked slowly along the truck, flashlights sweeping the ground, their footsteps echoing across the silent docks. The twins held their breath on the roof, lying flat as boards, eyes wide with nervous excitement. Daichi remained perfectly still beneath the truck, his clothes soaked in oil. Haruka was suffocating in the dumpster, practically marinating in rotten fish, guts, and brine.
Then it happened.
A shadow fluttered across the dock, accompanied by a loud "caw".
Hojo blinked. A seagull had landed right on his back, tilting its head at him as if the boy himself were a perch. The bird let out another screeching cry, flapping its wings, and pecked at his shoulder as though testing for food.
"Pssst—get off me," Hojo whispered in a panic, flapping his hands to shoo it away.
The bird hopped back, only to return a second later, landing square on him again. Its claws scratched against his thin shirt, digging in slightly as it balanced itself.
"Shoo! Shoo!" Hojo hissed louder, twisting his body ever so slightly, trying not to make noise. The gull simply squawked in defiance, as if mocking him.
From across the dock, one of the guards raised his head. "Did you hear that?"
The other frowned. "Sounded like a bird."
They resumed their slow patrol.
Hojo's face contorted with rage as he tried again to lift his torso quietly, just enough to scare the bird off. The gull flapped its wings noisily, and in that instant, his foot slipped.
The metal roof of the truck offered no grip, and Hojo's body slid forward uncontrollably.
"Crap!" Tojo whispered in alarm.
In a split second, Hojo toppled off the roof of the truck. His arms pinwheeled wildly, and with a loud thud-thud, he crashed directly into the two guards walking below.
The scene unfolded in comical slow motion.
The guards, caught completely off guard, let out startled yells before being bowled over like bowling pins. Flashlights flew from their hands, clattering against the asphalt. One guard smacked his head against the truck tire, the other fell backwards onto a coiled rope and was out cold instantly. Hojo, dazed but alive, groaned as he rolled onto his stomach.
Tojo's jaw dropped. "Brother…"
Even Daichi, watching from beneath the truck, couldn't process what he had just witnessed. One moment, two fully grown men with authority were on patrol; the next, they were sprawled unconscious thanks to Hojo's slapstick disaster.
Silence.
Then Tojo snorted.
Then he outright burst into laughter.
"Keep it down!" Daichi snapped, crawling out from under the truck, oil dripping from his clothes. "Do you want the whole damn port to hear us?"
Haruka peeked out from the dumpster, covered in rancid fish guts, hair matted with slime, and gagged. "Urghh… you idiots!"
But even he couldn't deny, this was both terrifying and absurdly funny.
The guards lay limp on the ground, but Daichi knew they couldn't leave it like this. If anyone found them unconscious, suspicions would rise. He needed to make it look like an accident.
"Haruka!" Daichi barked. "Help me."
Grumbling, Haruka climbed out of the dumpster, smelling so vile that both twins gagged the moment he got near. The stench of rotting fish wafted across the dock, enough to make even Daichi step back.
"God, you stink worse than death," Daichi muttered, pinching his nose. "Fine, use that to our advantage."
They searched the immediate area, and Haruka quickly found what they needed. A half-squashed dead fish discarded near the dockside. Its body was bloated and partially decomposed, flesh sloughing off the bones.
Daichi grimaced but took it. "Perfect. This will do."
Together, they repositioned the guards. Daichi dragged one by the shoulders, carefully laying him across the dock as if he had slipped. Haruka dropped the dead fish right under the man's boot, mashing it slightly to smear juices across the asphalt. The other guard they propped awkwardly against a pile of rope, a smear of fish slime across his uniform for good measure.
"Looks like they slipped," Tojo said, nodding at their handiwork.
"Yeah," Daichi replied, standing back. "At least if they wake up, they'll blame the fish, not us."
Hojo, still recovering from his fall, gave a sheepish thumbs up. "See? Accident."
Daichi scowled. "Accident my ass. You're lucky we're not all in jail right now."
"Yeah, yeah," Hojo muttered, brushing himself off.
They wasted no more time. Daichi gestured sharply toward the Hiace. "Move. Now."
The group bolted across the dock, sneakers slapping against the ground, keeping low to avoid being seen. They slipped past the silent warehouses, cut through the fish market lot, and sprinted back to where the Hiace was parked.
Daichi tossed the empty duffel bag into the back, slammed the door, and jumped into the driver's seat. Haruka climbed in after him, stinking so badly the twins had to cover their noses with their sleeves.
"Dear god, Haruka!" Tojo gagged. "You smell like Satan's garbage can!"
"Shut up!" Haruka barked. "It wasn't my idea to hide in a dumpster!"
Daichi turned the key. The Hiace coughed, sputtered, and roared to life. He slammed it into gear, pulling away from the lot as fast as he dared without attracting attention.
The van rumbled through Numazu's streets, past glowing neon izakayas and shuttered stores. The sea breeze couldn't mask the putrid odor inside the cabin. Haruka reeked so powerfully it felt like a physical presence, saturating every corner of the van.
Two minutes into the drive, Daichi's stomach gave out.
"Urghh—" he groaned, swerving slightly as he reached for a plastic bag in the console. "I can't—"
And then he threw up.
The twins howled in laughter, barely able to breathe.
"Haruka!" Daichi gagged between heaves. "You smell like death itself!"
Haruka turned red with fury, gagging himself from his own stench. "Don't blame me! You're the one who said 'hide'! Who the hell picks a fish market for a mission?!"
Daichi groaned, wiping his mouth. "I didn't tell you to jump in the damn fish dumpster!"
The van swerved again as all four of them began bickering, laughter and curses mixing with the sound of rushing wind. In desperation, Tojo slid open the side door, sticking his head out like a dog, gasping for fresh air. Hojo followed suit, both twins' hair whipping in the breeze.
But even with every window down and both sliding doors open, the stench was unbearable. It clung to Haruka's skin, soaked into his clothes, and lingered in the van like a curse.
The ride back toward Gotemba was pure hell. Daichi gritted his teeth, blasting the air vents, while Haruka sulked, arms crossed, enduring the endless barrage of insults from the twins.
An hour later, they pulled into the outskirts of Gotemba. Daichi's expression was pale and haggard from the ordeal.
"We're not going back like this," he muttered, pulling the Hiace into a side street. "We need to clean this disaster first."
The van rumbled into the lot of a small, family-owned car wash on the edge of the city. A neon sign flickered faintly, "Shimizu Auto Clean."
The owner, a middle-aged man with a towel draped over his shoulder, came out to greet them. His smile faltered immediately as the smell hit him.
"Jesus Christ, what died in there?!" he exclaimed, pinching his nose.
"Haruka," Tojo replied instantly, grinning ear to ear.
"Not me!" Haruka barked. "The dumpster!"
The owner waved them toward the wash bay, shaking his head in disbelief. "You need a deep clean. And he—" he pointed straight at Haruka "—needs to be hosed down."
Before Haruka could protest, the twins had already grabbed him by the arms and dragged him to the wash bay. The owner fetched a pressure washer, grinning like he hadn't had this much fun in years.
"No! Wait! Hold on!" Haruka shouted, struggling against the twins.
But it was too late.
The blast of icy water hit him square in the chest, knocking the breath out of him. He gasped and sputtered, arms flailing as the high-pressure spray scoured the fish guts from his hair, clothes, and skin.
"Use the soap!" Daichi called, smirking from the sidelines. "The car soap!"
The owner chuckled, switching bottles and filling the washer with foamy detergent meant for vehicles.
"Wait wait, that's car soap—" Haruka's protests were drowned out by another blast of foam. The citrus-scented suds coated him from head to toe, bubbles dripping off his hair and jacket.
The twins roared with laughter, rolling on the pavement as Haruka was effectively "detailed" like a filthy sedan.
"Don't forget the rims!" Hojo howled, tears streaming down his face.
By the end of it, Haruka stood dripping wet, smelling faintly of lemon and motor oil, shivering but at least free of the rancid fish stench. The Hiace, meanwhile, underwent a full deep clean, every seat scrubbed, carpets shampooed, and the interior blasted with disinfectant.
Daichi leaned against the wall, arms crossed, finally looking satisfied. "Now we can head back without dying in the van."
Haruka, soaked and furious, shot him a death glare. "Next time," he growled, "you hide in the dumpster."
The twins, still laughing uncontrollably, high-fived each other.