Hibasaki Industrial Docks
The industrial docks were a graveyard of rust and shadows. The air was thick with salt, decay, and the potent cocktail of high-octane fuel. The low, guttural idle of a heavily modified engine echoed off corrugated steel walls.
Pier seven was a massive concrete expanse, littered with old shipping containers to create a treacherous, narrow circuit—the "tuning bowl." A crowd of maybe fifty people had gathered, their faces lit by phone screens and cigarettes.
Reika was already there, leaning against her S2000. She nodded as Kaito arrived in the Crown, followed by Shoji who had trailered the Golf R over in his beat-up Nissan NV200 van.
"You came," she said.
"I said I would,"Kaito replied, already wearing his fire-retardant undershirt.
Shoji jumped out, stressed. "Remember, the brakes are the priority. Trail-brake to rotate it, but don't overdo it. And watch the coolant temps."
Kaito nodded,his eyes scanning the competition.
The R35 GT-R was a menacing flat grey beast with an exposed intercooler, sitting on Volk Racing TE37 wheels. Its twin-turbo VR38DETT rumbled with easily 800 horsepower. The driver, a bulky man with a shaved head, ignored them.
The Liberty Walk A90 Supra was a flamboyant purple spectacle, its riveted widebody kit and huge wing screaming for attention. The young driver was constantly on his phone. His BMW-sourced B58 inline-six would be fast but a handful here.
Then, Kaito saw it. Parked slightly apart, under a flickering light: a Porsche 911 GT3 RS in an almost luminous acid green. It was pristine, save for the track-spec Michelin Pilot Sport Cup 2 R tires. Every aerodynamic element—the huge rear wing, the front dive planes—was functional, brutal efficiency.
Leaning against it was a young man, tall and athletic, in a custom-fitted Alpinestars race suit. His posture was one of bored arrogance. Celeste's protege.
"His name is Alexei Volkov," Reika said quietly. "Russian-born, Swiss-raised. Karting champion, single-seater prodigy. Celeste plucked him from Formula 3. This is his 'orientation'. His first taste of 'real' racing."
"He doesn't belong here,"Kaito murmured. This machine was built for the Nürburgring, not a demolition derby here.
"That's the point,"Reika said. "She's showing you both what you're up against, and what you could have. He's her new shiny toy."
Tanaka, a man in a cheap suit, stepped into the center of the circuit. "Listen up! Last car still moving wins the pot. Contact is expected. Any questions? No? To your cars!"
The crowd buzzed. Kaito slid into the Golf R, fastened the harness, and turned the key. The 2.0L TSI engine whirred to life, civilized and quiet beside the roaring GT-R, the screaming Supra, the wailing S2000, and the metallic snarl of the Porsche's 4.0-liter flat-six.
Reika caught his eye and gave a sharp nod. He returned it.
Tanaka raised the flag and brought it down.
Chaos erupted.
The GT-R shot off like a cannonball. The Supra fishtailed wildly. Reika slipped her clutch perfectly and tucked in behind. Alexei, in the Porsche, was last off the line—smooth, clinical, and impossibly fast. He was past the Supra and on Reika's bumper instantly.
Kaito, in the heavier Golf, was last. He was watching. Learning.
The first corner was a tight left around containers. The GT-R overshot. Reika dove inside. They exited side-by-side.
Then, the Porsche struck.
With chilling precision, Alexei braked later, aiming for the space between Reika's bumper and the container wall. A sharp CRUNCH of carbon fiber—the Porsche's splitter kissed the S2000's rear quarter. It wasn't a hard hit, but it was enough. The Honda was knocked off line, its tail snapping out. Reika fought the slide, correcting it, but she'd lost momentum. The Porsche sliced past.
Kaito watched in his mirror, jaw tight. A dirty, calculated move.
He settled into a rhythm. The brakes were already fading. The car understeered heavily. But its 4WD pulled him out of corners where others slid.
The race became a war of attrition. The Supra driver clipped a tire barrier, tearing off a fender and spinning out. He was gone.
The GT-R and Porsche battled for the lead—raw power versus refined technique. The GT-R driver was aggressive, using his car's bulk to block. Alexei was like a ghost, finding gaps, his car's sublime chassis allowing passes that seemed impossible.
Reika was stuck in a lonely third.
Kaito was slowly reeling them in. He was conserving brakes, managing temperatures, picking perfect lines. He used the Golf's torque, the turbo spooling with a satisfying pssh.
On the seventh lap, the GT-R's brute force backfired. Locking up into a hairpin, he flat-spotted his tires, slid wide, and clipped a concrete barrier with a loud BANG. A broken rear axle, a ruptured radiator. He was out.
Now it was Alexei in the lead, Reika second, Kaito a close third.
Alexei, with a clear track, began to push, stretching his lead. But Kaito noticed: the Porsche was too clean. Alexei was avoiding contact, preserving his million-dollar machine. In this bowl, that was a weakness.
Reika saw it too. On the tenth lap, she feinted outside, forcing Alexei to defend, then dove back inside. It was a brave, classic pass.
But Alexei, spooked, jerked his steering wheel left.
The contact was minimal, but catastrophic. The Porsche's rear caught the S2000's front-left wheel. The Honda's suspension gave way with a sound like a gunshot. The car veered violently sideways and slammed into a stack of tires, the front wheel bent at a sickening angle.
Kaito's heart stopped. He saw Reika's helmeted head snap forward.
He slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop near her car. He was about to unbuckle when he saw her arm move, waving weakly. She was okay. Winded.
Relief flooded him, followed by a cold, focused rage. He looked ahead. Alexei had continued on. The acid-green Porsche was alone in the lead, a symbol of cold, disconnected privilege.
The red mist descended. This wasn't about money or Celeste's offer anymore. It was about respect. The code. The family he'd built in the shadows.
He slammed the Golf into first gear and went after the Porsche.
For two laps, it was a hunt. Kaito drove the Golf beyond its limits. He threw it into corners, used its weight to slide, trail-braked until the ABS shuddered. He was closing the gap, using the Porsche's pristine lines against it.
He could see Alexei in the mirror, his bored expression replaced with annoyance, then concern.
On the final lap, they entered the long back straight. The Porsche, with superior power, began to pull away. It was over.
But then, Kaito saw his chance. Debris littered the straight—scattered plastic, a piece of the Supra's bumper. Alexei swerved to avoid it, his line compromised.
Kaito kept his foot planted, aiming directly for the debris. The Golf bucked and rattled but held. The Porsche was just two lengths ahead, approaching the final 180-degree hairpin.
Alexei, flustered, braked too early. Kaito braked a full car length later, sending the Golf into a controlled four-wheel drift.
They entered the corner side-by-side, the Porsche inside, the Golf outside. The crowd was screaming.
Kaito held the drift, the Golf's rear hanging out over the pier's edge. Alexei, trapped inside, had nowhere to go.
Exiting the corner, the Golf's 4WD hooked up first. Its nose pulled ahead. They accelerated down the short straight to the finish, the Golf's turbo screaming, the Porsche's flat-six wailing.
It was a photo finish.
But Kaito wasn't looking at the line. Just before it, he lifted off the throttle for a fraction of a second.
The acid-green Porsche shot across the finish line, a mere hood's length ahead.
Alexei Volkov had won.
The Porsche slowed. Alexei raised a triumphant fist, a smug smile beneath his visor. He pulled over, expecting adulation.
Kaito killed the Golf's engine. The sudden silence was deafening. He pulled off his helmet, got out, and walked past the celebrating Alexei without a glance.
He went straight to where Shoji and others were helping Reika out of her S2000. She was limping, her face pale with pain and fury.
"Are you okay?"Kaito asked, his voice rough.
"I'll live,"Reika grunted, glaring at the Porsche.
Shoji winced at the Golf's scrapes and the smell of burnt brake fluid. "You drove the wheels off it, man." He looked at Kaito. "But… you had him. On the last corner. You lifted."
Kaito looked over at Alexei, who was now being confronted by Tanaka. The crowd wasn't cheering. They were muttering. They had seen it too.
"I didn't need to win," Kaito said quietly, his gaze fixed on Celeste's protege, who was realizing his "victory" felt hollow. "I just needed him to know that this 'family car' and this 'local' could have taken everything from him. His win is worthless. And he knows it."
He turned his back. The adrenaline faded, leaving him empty. The storm inside hadn't dissipated; the pressure had only built. He had faced one of Celeste's demons and exposed its hollow core, but the choice still loomed. As he looked at Reika's broken car and Shoji's weary face, he knew the cost of this world was written in more than bent metal. It was written in the fear in his sister's eyes and the silence in his home.
The crossroads were still ahead. He was running out of road, and the choices were beginning to chase him down.
[End Of Chapter 13]