The track day carried on in full swing, and the G-Force pit had front-row seats to the spectacle. The Fuji main straight thundered with everything from stripped-out EG6s screaming at the top of their lungs to NC1 NSXs howling with turbocharged might. It was more than just noise. It was a symphony of Honda engineering spanning decades, every note a different era, a different obsession, a different kind of devotion to speed.
Izamuri leaned forward in his folding chair, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on a bone-stock EG6 that had no business being on the same track as the heavily tuned monsters. Yet, there it was, buzzing away, its driver grinning ear to ear. He couldn't help but smirk. "Guy's braver than most of the pros," he muttered.
"Or dumber," Rin replied, munching on an onigiri.
Haruka corrected him without looking away from the track. "No, that's the soul of Honda. Doesn't matter if you're stock or fully built, you bring what you've got, and you push it. Respect."
The twins, sitting cross-legged near the pit wall, weren't paying attention to lap times or lines. They were rating exhaust notes, holding up invisible scoreboards with their hands and muttering judgments under their breath.
"Seven outta ten—too raspy."
"Five, muffler delete, sounds like a tin can."
"Ten. Straight ten. That one's a banshee."
They broke into laughter as a heavily boosted Integra roared past, flames licking from its exhaust tip.
By 9:15 AM, the spectacle escalated further. Trucks and vans began rolling into the paddock near the food stalls. Aftermarket brands were setting up stands, an impromptu mini-expo within Fuji Speedway.
The first was Spoon Sports, their trademark blue and yellow banners flapping in the breeze. They laid out intake manifolds, brake kits, and catalogues, while a pristine Spoon-built Civic Type R EK9 gleamed under the morning sun, drawing a small crowd.
Next came Mugen, bold red and black tents unfurling, their tables lined with shift knobs, aero kits, and stacks of brochures. The center attraction was a rare widebody Mugen NSX NA2, painted deep gloss black with crimson accents, a car that looked more like a JGTC entry than something for the road.
"Careful, don't let Daichi see that," Simon muttered with a smirk. "He'll get ideas."
Daichi was already staring, though his arms remained crossed. He didn't speak, but the faint curl of his lip said everything.
Other brands followed suit. Cusco, with their suspension and roll cage setups. HKS, showing off turbo kits and titanium exhaust systems, even though most cars in the EK9 series were NA. Endless, pushing their racing brake pads and calipers. Smaller booths popped up too, local wheel companies, seat manufacturers, even niche tuning houses with wild aero kits.
Fans and spectators swarmed the stalls, buying stickers, taking photos, and chatting with mechanics. It felt like a festival layered over the raw chaos of the track day.
The G-Force crew lingered near their pit, watching the ebb and flow of people. Ayaka and Hana sneaked away to browse the Mugen stand, returning with shopping bags filled with hats and shirts. The twins tried and failed to barter for a free Spoon sticker by offering their old beaten up Honda Civic EG8. They were politely, but firmly, shooed away.
By 10:00 AM, the track day wound down. The NSXs began trickling back into the paddock, their tires steaming, brakes glowing faintly as they parked. A few Civics were towed in, victims of over-enthusiasm. Broken axles, popped engines, even a blown clutch. The Honda Enthusiast Community applauded each other regardless, their passion outweighing their failures.
The G-Force team, however, had shifted gears mentally. Their chatter was quieter now, their eyes sharper. The atmosphere of festival faded for them, replaced by the gravity of the real battle ahead.
Daichi finally stood. "Izamuri. With me."
Izamuri rose without protest. He knew where they were going. Together, they walked toward the stewards' meeting room.
Inside, the room was already packed. Team principals, managers, and drivers filled the rows of chairs, the air heavy with anticipation and the faint smell of coffee. Hugo sat near the middle, giving a nod of acknowledgment as Izamuri and Daichi slipped into two empty seats nearby. Across the room, James Hawthorn lounged in his chair like it was a movie set, sunglasses perched on his nose despite being indoors. Mike Hunt scrolled on his phone, chewing gum loudly. Their arrogance filled the room like a stench.
Simon and Walter were also present, seated a few rows back, quietly observing.
At the front stood the organizers and JAF officials, stacks of papers and clipboards in hand. One of them adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and tapped the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending this last-minute drivers' and managers' briefing. As you know, we are approaching the first round of the 2020 Civic EK9 One-Make Championship. Before the race begins, we must clarify procedures to avoid any confusion on the grid."
The room quieted.
The official continued. "First, the starting procedure. This will be a standing start. The sequence is as follows:
- Grid lap: At 10:50, cars will leave pit lane and complete one formation lap.
- Stop on grid: Once formation is complete, cars will stop on their assigned grid slots. Engines remain running, but this will allow crews to make final checks.
- Grid walk: 15 minutes for sponsors, media, and officials to walk the grid. Use this time to cool engines if necessary.
- Warm-up lap: At 11:05, drivers will complete a warm-up lap, return to their slots.
- Race start: At 11:10 sharp, the lights will signal the beginning of the race."
He paused to shuffle papers. "The race distance will be 32 laps, not 25 as originally misprinted. That's been corrected in the regulations."
A murmur rippled through the room.
"Expected race duration is 50 to 60 minutes, ending before the 12:00 lunch break. Should there be any incidents requiring safety car or red flags, officials will make adjustments accordingly. Pit stops are not required unless in case of emergency such as punctures, mechanical failures, loose wheels. As always, drivers are responsible for obeying flags, marshals, and maintaining sportsmanlike conduct."
He looked up, his eyes scanning the room. "Any questions?"
Hugo raised a hand politely. "Yes. Regarding cooling during the grid walk, are we permitted to use external fans?"
"Yes, within reason. Portable fans and blowers are permitted, but no additional cooling systems or ice boxes directly attached to radiators."
Mike Hunt snorted loudly. "Who cares about cooling? Just rev it out, boys."
A few drivers rolled their eyes. Daichi's jaw tightened, but he didn't rise to the bait.
The official continued. "Now, track limits. Exceeding track limits will be penalized if you gain an advantage. Consistent abuse will result in warnings or time penalties. No weaving under braking. No unsportsmanlike blocking. This is a professional series, not bumper cars."
Daichi leaned toward Izamuri. "Listen closely. Half these guys are amateurs with money. Don't get dragged into their mistakes."
Izamuri nodded silently, his focus unshaken.
The briefing stretched another ten minutes, covering safety car procedure, flag signals, and restart rules. By the end, most drivers seemed restless, eager to hit the track.
At 10:45 sharp, the meeting adjourned. Chairs scraped, voices rose, and people filed out into the hallway. Izamuri stretched his arms, shaking off stiffness. Daichi rose beside him, his expression unreadable.
As they walked out, they caught sight of Bellasconi at the far corner, standing silently with arms crossed. His gray hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and his gaze lingered on them longer than necessary. For a brief second, his lips curled in what might have been a smile, or a threat.
Daichi met his stare without blinking, but said nothing.
Izamuri, however, felt a weight settle in his stomach. The race hadn't even started, yet the politics were already in motion.
The walk back to the pits was quiet. The festival atmosphere of the morning seemed like a distant memory now. The stands still buzzed with fans buying parts and merchandise, but for G-Force, the mood had shifted entirely.
The sound of Honda engines echoing from the track day still rang faintly in the distance, but for them, it no longer mattered. What mattered was the race that would begin in less than an hour.
As they walked down the paddock lane, their boots scuffing against the asphalt, Daichi caught sight of something that froze him mid-step. Six paddocks away, past Hugo Speed's neatly organized pit and beyond the cluster of privateers, the Naka GP pit stood like a fortress.
And parked right in front of it, gleaming under the midday sun, was a black Mercedes-Benz S600. Long, imposing, its body polished to mirror finish, the car looked like it belonged more to a boardroom executive or a crime lord than at a racetrack. The chrome grille glimmered menacingly, the three-pointed star standing proud like a warning sign.
Leaning against the door, one hand resting casually on the roof, was a man Daichi knew far too well.
Akagi Nakamura.
He was dressed in a crisp charcoal suit, his tie knotted to perfection, sunglasses concealing his eyes, but not the aura that rolled off him in waves. Cold, sharp, and dangerous. His presence was a stormcloud on what should have been a bright day.
Izamuri stopped as well, his gaze narrowing. "That's him, isn't it?"
Daichi's jaw tightened. "Yes. That's Akagi. Stay calm."
"But—"
"No." Daichi's tone was sharp, leaving no room for argument. "Ignore him. He's here to watch, nothing more. You don't give him the satisfaction of reacting."
Izamuri clenched his fists. Every muscle in his body screamed to march over there, to confront the man who had caused them so much grief already. But Daichi's hand on his shoulder anchored him.
"Your focus is the car. The race. Nothing else matters," Daichi said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Understand?"
Izamuri took a long breath, then nodded. "Understood."
Daichi gave him a firm pat. "Good. Now go to your car. Suit up. The grid lap starts in less than 5 minutes."
Izamuri turned reluctantly and walked toward their pit, though his eyes flicked once more to the black S600 before finally pulling away.
But not everyone had Daichi's composure.
Nikolai had spotted it too. From where he stood just outside the G-Force pit, wiping grease from his hands after a final adjustment to the suspension, he froze the moment the Mercedes came into view. His face drained of color, his eyes darkening into something dangerous.
"Akagi," he growled under his breath. His thick Russian accent made the name sound like a curse.
Walter noticed his sudden stillness and followed his line of sight. "Oh scheiße," he muttered.
Nikolai's hand instinctively reached for the nearest tool on the workbench, a heavy steel wrench, still slick with oil. He gripped it so tight his knuckles turned white. His entire body coiled like a spring, his breathing ragged.
"I'll end it here," he snarled, taking a step forward. "One throw. Right through his skull."
Walter immediately stepped in front of him, hands raised. "Nikolai, nein! Don't be stupid. That's not the way."
But Nikolai wasn't listening. His eyes burned with years of hatred, the weight of betrayal, prison, and humiliation all converging into this single moment. He pulled his arm back, the wrench gleaming in the light as he prepared to hurl it.
And then Daichi's hand clamped around his wrist like iron.
"That's enough."
Nikolai whipped his head around, eyes wild. "He destroyed my life, Daichi. My career, my name, my freedom! You don't understand what that bastard—"
"I understand more than you think." Daichi's voice was calm, but there was steel in it, the kind that cut deeper than any blade. "But if you throw that wrench, you don't just ruin your life, you ruin all of ours. You ruin Izamuri's race. You ruin everything we've built."
Nikolai's chest heaved. He trembled like a man fighting with himself, torn between rage and reason. For a moment, Daichi thought he might not back down.
But slowly, with a guttural growl of frustration, Nikolai lowered the wrench. His hand shook as he set it back down on the workbench with a loud "clang".
Daichi gave him a small nod of approval. "Good. Channel that anger into something useful. Into making this car unbreakable."
Nikolai swallowed hard and turned away, dragging both hands down his face. He muttered curses in Russian under his breath, pacing like a caged animal, but at least the immediate danger was over.
Back at the pit, Izamuri climbed into the cockpit of the championship white EK9. The car gleamed under the fluorescent lights of the garage, every panel spotless, every screw tightened, every wire checked. It was ready.
Rin knelt by the driver's side, tightening the belts over Izamuri's shoulders. "You good?"
"Yeah," Izamuri muttered, though his jaw was still clenched.
"Forget Akagi," Rin said firmly, as if reading his mind. "The track's your battlefield. That's where you fight. Not here."
Izamuri gave a single nod.
Haruka crouched by the front bumper, double-checking the splitter. "All aero bolts are solid. No vibrations. You'll have max stability in 100R."
"Fuel load's optimal," Ayaka reported from behind. "Full tank, but balanced distribution. You'll be good for all 32 laps."
Walter stood with his clipboard, checking over telemetry from their morning systems test. "Oil pressure stable. Water temp within safe limits. Engine's healthy."
Daichi entered the pit last, brushing his hands together as if dusting off the tension from Nikolai's near-explosion. He looked around at the team. Everyone was focused, everyone was working. That was what mattered.
"Alright," Daichi said, his voice calm but carrying the authority of command. "Listen up. The grid lap is in fifteen minutes. Izamuri, stay focused. Hugo will likely be out at the same time. Use him to gauge conditions, but don't get dragged into games with anyone else."
"Got it," Izamuri said, his eyes sharp beneath his helmet visor.
"The rest of you, final checks, then clear the pit. This is it."
At the same time, six paddocks away, the atmosphere couldn't have been more different.
The Naka GP pit buzzed with energy, but it was a different kind of energy. Cold, calculated, dangerous. Mechanics moved with military precision under the watchful eyes of private security, their jackets bulging suspiciously at the waist. The two EK9s gleamed in their black-and-gold livery, the paint so polished they reflected the faces of everyone nearby.
Inside, James Hawthorn was already suited up, pacing back and forth like a caged lion, his jaw set in arrogant confidence. Mike Hunt sat slouched in a folding chair, playing on his phone, his helmet tossed carelessly beside him. Neither looked nervous. Neither looked like they cared about the race as much as the spectacle.
And standing just outside, leaning casually against his S600, was Akagi Nakamura.
He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. His mere presence sent ripples across the paddock. Teams glanced nervously in his direction, whispering behind their hands. He was a shadow that loomed too large to ignore.
Bellasconi emerged from the motorhome, adjusting his cufflinks, and walked over to Akagi. They exchanged a brief handshake, low words exchanged in Italian and Japanese, before turning their gazes back toward the track. Predators watching the field.
Back in G-Force's pit, Takamori noticed Nikolai still fuming, his shoulders tense. He nudged Walter. "We can't let him blow up out there. If he sees Akagi during the grid walk—"
"He won't," Walter interrupted firmly. "Daichi will keep him in check. That man's willpower is iron."
Daichi, overhearing them, simply adjusted his headset and looked back at Izamuri. "You've got this," he said.
Izamuri gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. He didn't speak, but inside, the fire burned hotter than ever.
At 10:48 AM, officials walked down the pit lane, signaling teams to prepare. The roar of engines began to fill the air as cars fired up one by one, their exhaust notes echoing like war drums.
G-Force's EK9 roared to life, its B18 engine snarling through the exhaust, the sound sharp and purposeful. The vibration reverberated through the garage floor, through their bones.
Daichi stepped to Izamuri's side, leaned in close so only he could hear.
"Eyes forward. Nothing else matters. Forget Akagi, forget Naka GP. Just you, the car, and the track."
Izamuri exhaled slowly, nodding once.
At 10:50, the pit marshal raised his green flag. The grid lap was about to begin.
The pit marshal at the head of the lane raised the green flag, and one by one, the cars began to roll forward. The sound of twenty-four Honda engines, each built, tuned, and prepared differently, rose into a chaotic chorus. The air smelled of fuel vapor and hot oil, the sound bouncing off the grandstands like a war drum announcing the start of battle.
Inside the G-Force pit, Izamuri gripped the wheel, eyes straight ahead. Daichi gave him a sharp nod through the side window.
"Go show them who you are."
Izamuri's gloved hand tapped the shifter into first, and with a smooth clutch release, the championship white EK9 #98 rolled out of the pit box. The car barked through its exhaust as it joined the line of competitors crawling toward the circuit. Hugo's blue-and-yellow #11 wasn't far behind, slipping into place with a thunderous burble.
The formation lap wasn't fast, but even at controlled speed, the atmosphere buzzed with electricity. Each car weaved lazily back and forth across the wide Fuji straight, scrubbing heat into their fresh Advan A050 mediums.
James Hawthorn in the black-and-gold #9 Naka GP Civic led the line with his teammate Mike Hunt's #7 tucked arrogantly alongside, both cars glistening under the mid-morning sun like predators marking their territory. Their body language screamed confidence, noses tilted upward, knowing full well they'd start from the front row thanks to the penalties handed down yesterday.
Behind them sat Ryusei Arai's #180, painted in the bold red-and-white livery of Arai Speed. His driving during practice had been tidy, consistent, a quiet dark horse. And behind Arai, sitting low and purposeful in his seat, was Izamuri Sakuta.
His Civic was calm, controlled. The idle hummed steadily, the car weaving as he followed the line, tires biting into the tarmac.
Further back, Hugo kept a steady pace, the Swede's blue EK9 darting left and right with careful aggression, his yellow accents catching the light as if warning the Naka GP duo that he was coming.
The rest of the grid trailed behind, engines buzzing, colors flashing like a kaleidoscope of Honda enthusiasm, greens, reds, silvers, even a few wild liveries from privateers who treated paint schemes like declarations of war.
The slow lap brought them through every corner, Coca-Cola, the endless arc of 100R, the tight Hairpin, the sweeping 300R that tested aero balance, Dunlop's chicane, Netz, Panasonic. Izamuri took note of every bump, every patch of rubber left by the track-day cars earlier. He felt the grip, the rhythm. The Civic felt alive beneath him, begging to be unleashed.
As the cars exited Panasonic and rolled onto the main straight again, the marshals at pit entry signaled each driver into their assigned grid slot. The roar of engines softened as one by one, the Civics braked and inched forward, aligning with painted boxes on the asphalt.
James slid into P1, his car angled ever so slightly as though already aiming to block. Mike joined him on the front row in P2, smugly revving his engine for the crowd. Ryusei Arai pulled into P3 cleanly, his lines textbook precise.
And then came Izamuri.
He guided the EK9 smoothly into the P4 grid slot, the white paint contrasting sharply against the black asphalt. The nose of his Civic sat directly behind Arai's bumper, and just to his left, Hugo slotted into P5, his car's rumbling idle echoing against Izamuri's.
The first three rows of the grid were a picture of tension:
Row 1: The controversial, smug movie-star imports in their black-and-gold machines.
Row 2: The rising star of Arai Speed, and the unknown rookie, Izamuri Sakuta.
Row 3: The billionaire Swede with decades of racing heritage behind his family name, and Kazuma Nishikawa, another steady Arai driver.
It was the clash of money, heritage, and raw talent—all nose to nose, engines spitting heat waves into the morning air.
As Izamuri cut the ignition, the Civic shuddered to silence. Daichi and Walter were on him immediately, swinging the doors open to vent hot air, letting the cockpit breathe. Takamori and Rin crouched at each corner with gauges and a torque wrench, re-checking tire pressures and wheel nuts like hawks.
"Front right's dropped one PSI," Rin reported, twisting the valve cap back on.
"Adjust it after the warm-up," Takamori replied, leaning in with the torque wrench. Click. One nut, then the next, working clockwise. "Solid. No play."
Walter scribbled onto his clipboard, calling out temps as the tire probes beeped. "All four within tolerance. Balance is good."
Daichi crouched by the open driver's side, looking in at Izamuri. "15 minutes," he reminded. "Breathe. Stay cool."
Izamuri nodded, helmet resting on his lap. He stretched his fingers, flexed his shoulders. His heart hammered in his chest, but his eyes were locked forward. Ahead of him sat the black-and-gold Naka GP duo, their arrogance radiating like an aura. He wouldn't forget what happened yesterday. Not for a second.
The marshals raised the flags signaling the start of the grid walk. Already, streams of fans were pouring onto the main straight from the spectator stands and the paddock side. The atmosphere shifted instantly, no longer just the mechanical ballet of engineers and drivers, but the buzz of humanity, voices chattering in excitement.
The Honda Enthusiast Community members were among the first. Many of them had spent the morning on track, showing off their Civics, Integras, and NSXs. Now, still wearing their club jackets and carrying cameras, they flooded toward the grid.
Dozens of them surrounded the front rows, phones snapping photos of the gleaming machines. Some knelt by the cars to get close-ups of wheels, suspension setups, sponsor stickers. Others leaned over barriers to wave at the drivers, shouting encouragement.
Izamuri noticed how many of them stopped in their tracks when they saw Daichi standing there at his side.
"Wait… is that—?"
"Holy crap, it's Daichi Fujiwara!"
"The Suzuka Dragon? Here?"
"I thought he retired ages ago!"
Daichi shifted uncomfortably as whispers rippled through the crowd. Some younger fans had no idea who he was, but older ones, the ones who had grown up watching him dominate JGTC and Formula Nippon, recognized him instantly. Their eyes widened in disbelief, some even pushing closer to shake his hand.
"Fujiwara-san, is it true? You're back in racing?"
"Daichi, please, one photo!"
A few shoved notebooks forward, pens in hand, hoping for autographs. Daichi forced a thin smile, waving politely, but his focus never left Izamuri's car.
"Not now," he said quietly. "Later."
Beside him, Nikolai loomed silently, arms crossed, his expression thunderous. The Russian engineer ignored the fans completely, his eyes locked down the grid toward the Naka GP pit. He hadn't said a word since spotting Akagi earlier. His body was rigid, like a coiled spring, every muscle tense as if ready to strike.
Izamuri's crew kept their work going despite the growing crowd. Rin and Takamori shielded the wheels with their bodies to avoid distractions while adjusting final PSI. Walter explained technical details to a curious fan who asked why their car rode slightly higher than others. Haruka hung back near the pit wall, headset on, monitoring comms in case officials made last-minute announcements.
The energy was shifting. Cameras flashed. Reporters weaved between fans, aiming their mics at drivers and engineers. The Naka GP pit, predictably, was a circus, James Hawthorn stood outside his black-and-gold Civic with his helmet under his arm, flashing a Hollywood grin as photographers surrounded him. Mike leaned casually against his car, sunglasses on, pretending to be cool for the cameras.
Their PR team was in overdrive, waving banners, handing out merchandise to fans, feeding the illusion of stardom. It wasn't racing, it was theater.
Meanwhile, Hugo Vatanen stayed quiet in his blue-and-yellow Civic at P5. His team, disciplined and focused, ignored the noise, polishing tire sidewalls and checking telemetry cables. Hugo himself leaned casually against his car, chatting softly with his engineer Fumihiro. Every so often, he glanced forward toward Izamuri's white EK9, giving a small nod of respect.
As the grid walk thickened, the smell of sunscreen, camera batteries, and fried food from the concession stands mixed with the stench of race fuel. The chatter rose, a tide of excitement as fans compared predictions.
"Those Naka GP cars are beasts. Look at their launches yesterday."
"But that G-Force rookie, Sakuta, he's fast!"
"Vatanen's got the experience. He's got the racecraft."
"Don't forget Arai Speed, Arai and Nishikawa are consistent. They'll be up there."
It was speculation, hope, bias, every kind of energy colliding as the tension built.
And through it all, Izamuri sat calmly in his cockpit, visor lowered now, tuning everything out. The fans, the noise, even the looming shadow of Akagi down the grid, it all faded. In his world, there was only the car, the road ahead, and the red lights that would soon dictate his destiny.
A few minutes later, the grid walk was winding down. Marshals began waving their flags gently, motioning the crowd to finish their photos and step back toward the pit lane barriers. The chatter of hundreds of voices merged into one swelling murmur as fans took their last looks at the machines and their drivers. Mechanics rechecked equipment with urgency, preparing to clear the grid for the warm-up lap.
Daichi leaned casually against the G-Force pit trolley, clipboard in hand, eyes always sweeping. He had the demeanor of a man who'd done this countless times before, but the subtle tightness in his jaw betrayed how much this all meant. Izamuri sat still inside the #98 Civic, visor down, hands resting on the wheel, trying to steady his breathing.
And then, like an uninvited shadow, he appeared.
A tall figure moved through the thinning crowd with deliberate pace. His dark suit seemed far too polished for the oil-stained chaos of a grid. His salt-and-pepper hair gleamed under the morning sun, his gait unhurried, as though the world parted for him. Some fans noticed, whispering uncertainly, he wasn't a driver, wasn't crew, but he carried himself like a man of importance.
Akagi Nakamura.
Daichi's eyes snapped toward him instantly, his face hardening. Nikolai, standing beside the pit wall, stiffened as though struck by an electric current.
Akagi stopped right in front of the G-Force box, staring first at Daichi. His lips curled into the faintest smile.
"Well," Akagi said, his voice smooth and unhurried, "if it isn't Daichi Fujiwara. The Suzuka Dragon himself. I must say, I never expected to see you herding privateers again."
Daichi straightened, gripping his clipboard tightly. His words came out like cold steel. "You don't belong here."
Akagi's eyes twinkled, ignoring the hostility. He stepped closer, lowering his tone just enough to sound personal. "On the contrary, I belong everywhere racing lives. You of all people should understand that. Legends like us… we never disappear. We leave marks that never fade."
Nikolai's breathing quickened, his fists curling so tightly his knuckles whitened. He couldn't take his eyes off Akagi.
And then Akagi turned his gaze, his smirk widening as he finally addressed the Russian.
"Nikolai Dmitri… My, my. Still alive, after all these years. I almost didn't recognize you without your overalls. You know, when I last heard your name, it was in connection with the man you murdered. Alexei, wasn't it?"
Nikolai flinched as though the words were physical daggers. His jaw tightened, his chest heaving.
"You—" he spat, but his throat locked. His entire body trembled with rage.
Akagi tilted his head, feigning pity. "Such a shame. He was your teammate and he trusted you. And yet…"
Before he could finish, Nikolai stepped forward. His hand twitched as though ready to strike, but instead of a punch, he did something colder.
Akagi extended his right hand with mock sincerity. "But bygones should be bygones, don't you think? I missed you, my old friend."
Nikolai's eyes blazed. He stared at that hand for a long moment, his entire frame trembling from the weight of memories and fury. And then, with a sharp motion, he slapped it away. The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot.
Akagi's smile faltered only slightly, replaced with an unsettling calm.
Daichi immediately stepped between them. His voice was raised now, the authority of a commander impossible to ignore.
"Enough. Get out of here, Nakamura. You're not welcome. Not in this pit, not on this grid."
For the first time, Akagi looked straight at Izamuri. The young driver hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, but his visor lifted halfway as his curiosity and unease pulled him to meet the man's gaze.
Akagi's eyes softened, not in kindness, but in deliberate calculation. And then, his voice cut through the noise of the grid with cruel precision.
"Izamuri… I know where your real parents are."
Izamuri froze. His breath caught in his throat.
Akagi continued, his smirk curling again. "In Indone—"
The rest of his words were swallowed instantly by the thunder of engines. All down the grid, cars began to fire back to life as marshals signaled the end of the walk. Exhausts popped, fans cheered, and the entire straight shook with noise. Akagi's voice was gone, buried under the mechanical roar.
But it didn't matter. The damage was already done.
Izamuri's mind spun wildly. "My… real parents?"
His heart hammered, and his grip on the wheel tightened. His entire body felt hollow for a split second, the noise around him fading into nothing but static. He had never questioned his past deeply, never thought there was more to his story than what he'd been told. How could Akagi know something he himself didn't?
Questions crashed through him like waves. Who are they? Where are they? Why would this man know? Did he was he involved somehow?
Through his haze, he barely noticed Daichi shouting over the noise, motioning Akagi back. "You've said enough! Out!"
Akagi only chuckled, his figure stepping back into the dispersing crowd. His smirk lingered on Izamuri for just a second too long before he disappeared among the departing fans and marshals.
Nikolai's chest was heaving, his eyes burning holes into the empty spot where Akagi had stood. Daichi's fists clenched around his clipboard so hard the edges bent.
But it was Izamuri who sat frozen, visor lowered again to hide the sudden turmoil in his eyes.
The engines roared, the marshals waved flags, and the grid transformed from circus to battlefield. The warm-up lap loomed.
And yet, in Izamuri's heart, nothing felt the same anymore.
Because one truth had cracked open, as sharp and dangerous as any rival on track:
Akagi Nakamura knew something about his past.
And now Izamuri couldn't stop wondering if his entire life had been a lie.