The workshop door rattled open just past 2:00 PM, sunlight spilling across the concrete floor as Nikolai stepped inside, gym bag slung over one shoulder. Izamuri followed a half-step behind, hair still damp from the shower, wearing a clean hoodie and the kind of tired expression that came from a good workout properly finished.
"We're back," Nikolai announced to no one in particular.
Rin glanced up from the alignment rack, nodded once, then returned to his measurements. Takamori didn't look up at all, still hunched over his laptop near the workbench, fingers flying across the keyboard. The twins were conspicuously absent. probably banished again.
The EK9 sat in the center of the floor, wheels mounted now, suspension settled, looking almost race-ready. Simon crouched near the rear, inspecting the exhaust hangers with the kind of intensity usually reserved for bomb disposal. Walter stood beside him, holding a flashlight and calling out clearance measurements.
Daichi leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching everything with quiet focus.
Izamuri's eyes went straight to the car. "It looks… done."
"Almost," Simon replied without looking up. "Two more hours. Maybe three."
"Three if the twins come back," Walter added.
Nikolai set his gym bag down near the door and walked closer, circling the EK9 slowly. His eyes moved over every detail, ride height, wheel alignment, the fresh Advan stickers on the tires. He stopped near the front, crouched slightly, peered at the suspension geometry.
"Looks good," he said simply.
"Better than good," Rin replied from across the workshop. "It's perfect."
Izamuri approached more cautiously, like he was afraid touching it might undo three weeks of work. His hand hovered near the door handle, then pulled back. "When does it leave?"
"Tomorrow," Daichi said. "Noon."
Izamuri blinked. "Tomorrow? I thought Saturday."
"Finished early," Daichi explained. "Hugo's base can take it a day ahead. Gives us buffer."
Nikolai grunted approvingly. "Smart."
Upstairs, a door opened. Footsteps descended the metal staircase, Haruka, phone in hand, expression focused on the screen as he typed something. He didn't look up until he reached the bottom step.
"Alright," Haruka said, pocketing his phone. "Logistics update. Hugo confirmed the—"
His phone buzzed.
He pulled it back out, frowning slightly. "Hold on."
Everyone paused. Not because Haruka told them to, but because something in his tone had shifted. Confusion, maybe. Or surprise.
Haruka tapped the screen, eyes scanning whatever message had just arrived. His frown deepened.
"What is it?" Walter asked.
Haruka didn't answer immediately. He read the message twice, then a third time, as if hoping the words would change.
"It's an email," Haruka said slowly. "From… a truck workshop in Saitama."
Rin straightened. "A truck workshop?"
"Yeah." Haruka scrolled down, still reading. "They're saying our Hino Profia conversion is delayed. Parts issue. Won't be ready until late May."
Silence.
Then Takamori's voice cut through it, calm and measured. "The Profia."
Haruka looked up. "You remember it?"
"Of course I remember it," Takamori said, finally closing his laptop. "Nikolai and I bought it a month ago."
Izamuri's head turned sharply. "Wait, what?"
Nikolai sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Oh. That."
"That?" Izamuri repeated. "What's 'that'?"
Takamori stood, stretching his back. "During your debut prep. Right before Fuji. Nikolai and I went truck shopping."
"Truck shopping," Izamuri echoed, as if the words didn't make sense together.
"We needed a hauler," Nikolai explained. "Something big enough to carry the EK9, tools, spares. Takamori found a listing for a Hino Profia. Good price. Low miles."
"Define 'good price,'" Walter said suspiciously.
"¥2.8 million," Takamori replied.
Walter's eyebrows shot up. "You spent—"
"It was a good deal," Nikolai interrupted firmly. "For what it was."
Haruka rubbed his temples. "And where is this truck now?"
"Saitama," Takamori said. "The workshop we bought it from. They were supposed to convert it—add a hydraulic lift gate, reinforce the bed, install tie-downs, the works."
"And they're saying it's delayed," Haruka finished.
"Apparently," Nikolai muttered.
Daichi pushed off the wall, stepping closer. "How delayed?"
Haruka checked the email again. "Late May. Maybe early June."
"After SUGO," Rin said.
"After Tsukuba too," Simon added. "Possibly after Autopolis."
A long pause settled over the workshop.
Izamuri looked between them, still trying to piece this together. "So… we bought a truck a month ago that we've never actually seen?"
"Technically, I saw it," Takamori said. "Nikolai and I both did. When we bought it."
"And then sent it straight to the workshop," Nikolai added.
"To be converted," Takamori clarified.
"Into a hauler we apparently don't need anymore," Walter said dryly, "because Hugo's providing transport."
That landed heavily.
Haruka exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. "Okay. So. To summarize. We own a Hino Profia. That we've never used. That's currently sitting in a workshop in Saitama. Being converted into a hauler. That won't be ready for two more months. And we don't actually need it."
"Correct," Takamori said.
"Fantastic," Haruka muttered.
Daichi crossed his arms. "What's the truck worth? If we sold it."
Takamori considered. "As-is, unconverted? Probably what we paid. Maybe slightly less."
"And if we traded it?" Walter asked.
That made everyone pause.
Nikolai tilted his head. "Traded for what?"
"Something smaller," Walter said, thinking aloud. "A flatbed. Single-cab. Hydraulic bed for loading cars or small equipment."
Rin's eyes lit up. "That actually makes sense."
"We don't need a full hauler if Hugo's handling transport," Simon agreed. "But a flatbed? For local jobs, parts runs, emergency recovery?"
"Useful," Daichi said simply.
Haruka pulled his phone back out, already typing. "I'll call the workshop. See what they've got."
"And if they don't have anything?" Izamuri asked.
"Then we sell it outright," Haruka replied. "Cut our losses. Use the cash for something else."
Nikolai grunted. "I liked the Profia."
"You liked the idea of the Profia," Takamori corrected. "You never actually drove it."
"Still."
Haruka stepped away, phone pressed to his ear. The workshop fell back into its rhythm, tools moving, voices low, the EK9 sitting patiently in the center of it all.
Izamuri leaned closer to Nikolai. "You really bought a truck and forgot about it?"
Nikolai shrugged. "I didn't forget. It just… became less urgent."
"Less urgent," Izamuri repeated.
"We had a race to prep for," Nikolai said. "Priorities."
"Apparently."
Across the workshop, Haruka's voice rose slightly. "Yeah, I understand. No, that's fine. What do you have in stock?" A pause. "Flatbed? What size?" Another pause. "Hydraulic bed. Yeah. How much for a straight trade?"
Everyone pretended not to listen while absolutely listening.
"Uh-huh. And if we add cash?" Haruka said. "How much cash?"
Walter winced preemptively.
"Alright," Haruka said. "Send me the specs. I'll call you back in an hour."
He ended the call and turned back to the group.
"Well?" Daichi asked.
Haruka pocketed his phone. "They've got a Mitsubishi Canter. 2015. Flatbed. Hydraulic tilt bed. Single cab."
"And?" Walter pressed.
"Straight trade, plus ¥400,000."
Rin whistled low. "That's not terrible."
"It's not great either," Simon muttered.
"But it's practical," Daichi said. "And we can park it here."
That was the real issue. The Hino Profia was massive, over seven meters long, too wide for most side streets, impossible to park anywhere near the workshop. A smaller flatbed, though? That fit.
Haruka looked around the room. "Thoughts?"
"Do it," Nikolai said immediately.
Takamori nodded. "Agreed. We don't need the Profia anymore."
"Flatbed's more useful day-to-day," Rin added.
Walter shrugged. "I'm not paying for it, so sure."
Daichi met Haruka's eyes. "Your call."
Haruka looked at the EK9 one more time, then back at his phone.
"Alright," he said quietly. "I'll make the call."
By the time the sun started dipping toward the horizon, casting long orange streaks through the workshop windows, Haruka called it.
"Alright," he said, loud enough to cut through the ambient noise of tools and quiet conversation. "That's enough for today."
Simon looked up from where he'd been double-checking torque specs on the rear suspension. "We're close. Another thirty minutes and—"
"Tomorrow," Haruka interrupted gently. "We've got time."
Walter set down his flashlight. "You sure?"
"Positive," Haruka said. "Everyone's been here since sunrise. Go home. Rest. We finish fresh tomorrow morning."
No one argued.
There was something in Haruka's tone, not exhaustion, exactly, but a kind of firm finality that made it clear the decision wasn't up for debate. One by one, tools were cleaned and returned to their places. The air compressor was shut off. Lights in the back sections of the workshop clicked dark.
Daichi was the first to leave, offering a brief nod before heading to his 3000GT. Walter and Simon followed shortly after, still discussing something about brake bias as they walked to Walter's 190E. Rin and Takamori left together, their voices fading as they disappeared down the street.
Nikolai lingered near the door, gym bag over his shoulder again. He looked at Izamuri. "You coming?"
"I'm riding with Haruka," Izamuri replied.
Nikolai nodded once, then glanced at Haruka. "Good work today."
"You too," Haruka said.
The Russian stepped outside, and the workshop fell into silence.
Just Haruka and Izamuri now.
Haruka locked the front shutter, checked the side door, then grabbed his keys from the desk upstairs. When he came back down, Izamuri was standing near the EK9, hands in his pockets, staring at it like he was memorizing every detail.
"Come on," Haruka said. "Let's go."
They walked to the small lot beside the workshop where Haruka's white Corolla E101 TRD2000 sat parked in its usual spot. The car looked understated, clean, simple, no flashy aero or aggressive stance, but Izamuri had ridden in it enough times now to know it was anything but ordinary under the hood.
Haruka unlocked the doors, and they both climbed in.
The interior smelled faintly of old coffee and the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. Haruka started the engine, and it came to life with a smooth, restrained growl, nothing loud, but you could feel the potential sitting just beneath idle.
They pulled out onto the street, merging into the early evening traffic. The sky was turning purple now, streetlights beginning to flicker on one by one. Tokyo moved around them in its usual rhythm, bikes weaving between cars, pedestrians crossing at lights, the hum of the city never quite silent.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Haruka drove with one hand on the wheel, relaxed, eyes scanning the road ahead. Izamuri sat quietly in the passenger seat, watching the buildings slide past the window.
Then Haruka reached into the center console and pulled out an envelope.
"Here," he said, holding it out without taking his eyes off the road.
Izamuri took it, confused. "What's this?"
"Your paycheck."
Izamuri blinked, turning the envelope over in his hands. It wasn't sealed, just folded closed. He opened it carefully and saw the cash inside, crisp bills, neatly stacked.
"Second one," Haruka added. "You've been with us just over a month now."
Izamuri stared at the money for a moment, then at Haruka. "I didn't even think about this."
"That's why I'm giving it to you," Haruka said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You've earned it. Fuji wasn't easy, and you've been training harder than anyone asked you to."
Izamuri folded the envelope carefully and slipped it into his jacket pocket. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me. You worked for it."
They stopped at a red light. The Corolla idled smoothly, the soft tick of the turn signal the only sound for a moment. Haruka drummed his fingers once against the steering wheel, then spoke again.
"There's something else."
Izamuri looked over. "Yeah?"
"Round 3. Tsukuba."
"What about it?"
Haruka's expression shifted, not quite a grimace, not quite amusement. "It's not a sprint anymore."
Izamuri frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The organizers changed the format," Haruka said. "Last minute decision. They want to spice things up."
The light turned green. Haruka eased the car forward, merging smoothly into the flow of traffic.
"Tsukuba's going to be an endurance race," Haruka said. "Six hours."
Izumuri's head snapped toward him. "Six hours?"
"Yep."
"That's… that's not a sprint race."
"No," Haruka agreed. "It's not."
Izamuri sat back in his seat, processing. Six hours. At Tsukuba. One of the shortest circuits in Japan, just over two kilometers. That meant lap after lap after lap, hundreds of them, with no room for error. Tsukuba was tight, technical, unforgiving. One mistake could cost you half a minute in the pits. Six hours of that?
"How many drivers per car?" Izamuri asked.
"Minimum two," Haruka replied. "Maximum three."
Izamuri's mind immediately went to the obvious question. "So… me and who?"
Haruka glanced at him briefly, then back at the road. "That's what I need to figure out."
"You haven't asked anyone yet?"
"Not officially," Haruka admitted. "I only found out this morning. Email from the series organizers. They sent it late last night, but I didn't see it until after you left for the gym."
Izamuri leaned his head back against the seat. "Who are you thinking?"
Haruka was quiet for a moment, turning onto a quieter side street lined with small houses and narrow driveways. The traffic thinned. The city noise faded slightly.
"Daichi," Haruka said finally.
Izamuri straightened. "Daichi?"
"Yeah."
"You think he'll do it?"
"I don't know," Haruka said honestly. "I haven't asked him yet. I'll talk to him tomorrow."
Izamuri tried to picture it. himself and Daichi, sharing a car, trading stints, running a six-hour endurance race together. The idea felt surreal. Daichi was a legend. A former JGTC driver. A man who'd raced in DTM, who'd stood on podiums Izamuri had only seen in photographs.
"Would he even want to?" Izamuri asked quietly.
Haruka smiled faintly. "That's the question, isn't it?"
They turned onto Haruka's street now, the familiar rows of compact houses coming into view. The Corolla's headlights swept across parked cars, potted plants on doorsteps, bicycles leaning against walls.
"If he says no?" Izamuri asked.
"Then we find someone else," Haruka replied. "Rin, maybe. Or Takamori. Someone who knows the car, knows the pace."
Izamuri nodded slowly. "And if he says yes?"
Haruka pulled into his driveway and shifted into park. The engine settled into a quiet idle. He turned to look at Izamuri directly, his expression serious but not heavy.
"Then you'll learn more in six hours than most drivers learn in a season."
The words hung in the air between them.
Izamuri didn't respond immediately. He just stared at the dashboard, at the faint glow of the instrument cluster, thinking about what it would mean. Six hours. Endurance. Strategy. Tire management. Driver changes. Everything he hadn't even thought about yet.
"No pressure," Haruka added, a hint of dry humor creeping into his voice.
Izamuri let out a short laugh despite himself. "Yeah. No pressure."
Haruka killed the engine, and the Corolla went silent.
They sat there for a moment longer, neither of them moving, the quiet settling around them like a blanket.
Then Haruka opened his door. "Come on. Let's get inside before you overthink yourself into a coma."
Izamuri followed, stepping out into the cool evening air. The house lights were on inside, warm and welcoming. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked once, then went quiet.
As they walked toward the front door, Izamuri's hand brushed against the envelope in his pocket.
His second paycheck.
And the possibility of racing alongside a legend.
One month ago, he'd been a broke college dropout with nothing as a hobby and a mountain of debt.
Now?
Now he wasn't sure what he was.
But he was starting to think it might be something real.
Meanwhile at the NEIT Headquarters, Chiyoda Ward, Central Tokyo.
The executive floor of NEIT Holdings occupied the entire thirty-second level of a sleek glass tower in Marunouchi, where the city's financial district glittered like a circuit board at night. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of Tokyo—the Imperial Palace to the west, Tokyo Station's illuminated dome to the south, endless rivers of light stretching in every direction.
But inside Akagi Nakamura's corner office, the view didn't matter.
The room was all sharp angles and cold surfaces. Polished black marble floors. A desk made of steel and dark wood that looked more like a weapon than furniture. Recessed lighting cast precise shadows. Everything was deliberate. Controlled. Sterile.
Akagi sat behind the desk, hands folded, fingers interlaced. His suit was charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, the kind that cost more than most people earned in a month. A thin silver watch glinted at his wrist. Swiss, mechanical, worth more than a car.
He didn't look angry.
He never looked angry.
That was what made him dangerous.
Two men stood before the desk, hands clasped behind their backs, shoulders squared. Both young, mid-twenties at most. Both wearing identical black suits, white shirts, no ties. The uniform of NEIT's operational staff, the people who handled things that didn't appear in quarterly reports.
The one on the left was taller, lean, with sharp features and short-cropped hair. His name was Hayato Kiriyama. The other was stockier, broader in the shoulders, with a flat, unreadable expression. Daiki Mori.
New recruits.
Not Akagi's first choice. Not even his third.
But his usual men, the ones who understood how to be invisible, how to follow orders without asking questions, were indisposed. Yamada had called in sick three days ago with what he claimed was food poisoning. Tanaka had been in a minor traffic accident and was still dealing with insurance. Convenient timing. Suspiciously convenient.
Akagi suspected neither of them wanted to be involved in what came next.
But these two? These two were eager. Hungry. Desperate to prove themselves.
Perfect.
Akagi let the silence stretch for another few seconds, watching them. Testing them. Seeing if they'd fidget, if they'd break eye contact, if they'd show weakness.
They didn't.
Good.
"Gentlemen," Akagi said finally, his voice smooth, measured, the kind of tone that could sign a contract or end a career with the same inflection. "Thank you for coming on short notice."
"Of course, sir," Hayato replied immediately.
Daiki simply nodded.
Akagi leaned back slightly in his chair, the leather creaking softly. "You've both been with the company for… how long now?"
"Four months, sir," Hayato said.
"Three and a half," Daiki added.
"And you've performed adequately in your roles so far," Akagi continued. "No complaints. No mistakes. Punctual. Professional."
Both men straightened slightly at the praise.
"Which is why," Akagi said, "I'm offering you an opportunity."
The word hung in the air like bait.
Hayato's eyes flickered with interest. Daiki remained impassive, but his posture shifted, just barely, a tightening of the shoulders that said he was listening.
"I need you to handle a surveillance assignment," Akagi said. "Simple. Discreet. Observational only."
"Understood," Hayato said.
Akagi opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a thin manila folder. He slid it across the polished surface toward them. Hayato picked it up, opened it, and both men leaned in to read.
Inside were photographs.
The first was a grainy shot of a workshop, Haruka's workshop, taken from across the street. The shutter was half-open, revealing the interior. Tools. Cars. People moving in the background.
The second photograph was clearer. A young man standing beside a white Honda Civic hatchback. Dark hair. Darker skin. Lean build. Focused expression.
Izamuri Sakuta.
"This is your target," Akagi said. "Not for contact. Not for confrontation. Observation."
Hayato studied the photo carefully. "What are we looking for?"
"Patterns," Akagi replied. "Movements. Schedules. Where he goes. Who he meets. What he does when he's not at the workshop."
Daiki spoke for the first time, his voice low and flat. "How close do you want us?"
"Close enough to track," Akagi said. "Far enough not to be noticed."
"Duration?" Hayato asked.
"Ongoing," Akagi replied. "Starting tonight."
Both men looked up at that.
"Tonight?" Hayato repeated.
Akagi's expression didn't change. "Is that a problem?"
"No, sir," Hayato said quickly. "Not at all."
"Good." Akagi tapped a finger once against the desk. "The workshop is in Suginami Ward. Address is in the file. You'll position yourselves nearby. Rotate shifts if necessary. I want eyes on that location at all times."
Daiki flipped to the next page in the folder, a printed map with the workshop marked in red.
"Your primary objective," Akagi continued, "is to monitor the white Civic EK9."
Both men looked at the photograph again.
"Championship white," Akagi clarified. "Modified. Race-prepped. You'll know it when you see it."
"And if we see it leaving the workshop?" Hayato asked.
Akagi's eyes locked onto his.
"Follow it."
The command was simple. Final.
"Where it goes. How long it stays. Who interacts with it. Document everything."
Hayato nodded. "Understood."
"Do not engage," Akagi added, his tone sharpening slightly. "Do not approach the driver. Do not make yourselves known. If you are noticed, you disengage immediately and report back."
"Yes, sir," both men said in unison.
Akagi leaned forward now, resting his forearms on the desk. "This is not a complicated assignment. But it is an important one. The next race is in ten days. I need to know what they're doing. Where they're going. Who they're working with."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"Do this well," Akagi said quietly, "and there will be more opportunities. Better assignments. Better pay."
Hayato's eyes lit up at that. Daiki remained stone-faced, but his hands tightened slightly behind his back.
"Fail," Akagi continued, his voice dropping to something colder, "and you'll find yourselves back in entry-level positions. Or worse."
The threat didn't need elaboration.
"Understood, sir," Hayato said.
"Understood," Daiki echoed.
Akagi closed the folder and slid it back toward them. "Take this. Memorize the details. Destroy it when you're done."
Hayato picked it up, tucked it under his arm.
"You'll report directly to me," Akagi said. "Daily updates. Text only. No calls unless it's an emergency."
"Yes, sir."
Akagi stood, signaling the end of the meeting. Both men straightened immediately.
"One more thing," Akagi said, his tone casual now, almost conversational. "The people you'll be watching? They're not criminals. They're not dangerous. They're just… inconvenient."
He smiled faintly.
"But inconveniences," Akagi continued, "have a way of becoming problems if left unchecked."
Neither man responded.
"Dismissed," Akagi said.
Hayato and Daiki bowed in unison, sharp, precise, military, and turned toward the door. Their footsteps were silent on the marble floor. The door opened with a soft hiss and closed behind them with a muted click.
Akagi returned to his chair, settling into it with the ease of someone who'd spent a lifetime in rooms like this. He turned toward the window, staring out at the glittering expanse of Tokyo.
Somewhere out there, Izamuri Sakuta was probably asleep. Or eating dinner. Or laughing with his team. Unaware.
Akagi's fingers drummed once against the armrest.
SUGO was just a week away.
And by then, he would know everything.
Outside the building, Hayato and Daiki stepped into the cool night air, the city noise washing over them in a wave. They walked in silence until they reached the parking structure, where a black Toyota Crown sat waiting.
Hayato opened the folder again, scanning the details under the dim overhead light.
"Suginami Ward," he said. "You know the area?"
"Yeah," Daiki replied. "Residential. Narrow streets. Easy to blend in."
Hayato closed the folder. "Then let's go back to our apartment first and start next thing in the morning."
They climbed into the car, doors shutting in unison.
The engine started.
And somewhere across Tokyo, in a small house in a quiet neighborhood, Izamuri Sakuta had no idea he was being hunted.