The calm Saturday morning sun peeked through the blinds, casting thin golden lines across Izamuri's face. He blinked, momentarily disoriented, then sat up slowly. The soft creak of the mattress, the scent of engine oil faintly lingering in the air from his borrowed overalls hanging by the door. it all reminded him he wasn't home. But then again, he didn't have a home anymore. This was it for now. But for the first time in weeks, there was no weight crushing his chest the moment he woke up. No phone notifications, no eviction notices. just the soft hum of life outside Haruka's house.
"Iza, you up? We gotta get the twins!" Haruka's voice echoed from downstairs.
"Yeah, yeah! I'm going down!" Izamuri called back.
He stood, stretched, and let out a tired yawn before glancing out the window. The sky was a perfect canvas of blue, only lightly brushed with morning clouds. Something about the air felt different. Lighter. Maybe it was the promise of the day ahead.
A few minutes later, while he's walking down the stairs, the smell of fried eggs and soy sauce filled the hallway as Haruka shouted from the kitchen, "Oi! Iza! You better be ready to get smoked today!"
Izamuri chuckled to himself and called back, "You wish!"
Izamuri made his way to the kitchen, where Haruka was flipping eggs with the kind of flair only someone who's burned them a dozen times could pull off. "You better eat fast," Haruka said, handing over a plate. "We're heading to Hanno today. Kart track's about an hour and a half out, maybe longer if traffic hates us."
As they finished their meal, Haruka tossed a glance toward the wall clock. "We gotta stop by the workshop before heading out. The twins are tagging along, remember?"
"Right. Kaira and Kaira. I still don't get how they haven't murdered each other," Izamuri said, grabbing his jacket.
"They don't have time. Too busy arguing about sway bar stiffness and which ramen shop deserves five stars."
After breakfast and a quick shower, they stepped into the crisp morning air and headed for the Corolla TRD2000. Haruka's prized machine was already idling in front of the garage, its 3S-GE humming gently, eager to hit the road. Izamuri climbed into the passenger seat as Haruka slid into the driver's side with a grin.
"You ready for a beating?" Haruka teased as he drove off.
"You're way too excited for someone who's about to get humbled by a rookie," he said, suppressing a grin.
Haruka grinned back. "You talk big for someone who's never touched a kart."
They drove northeast through the waking city, heading for the workshop. The streets were still sleepy, the traffic light, and the soft glow of the rising sun reflected off the mirrored glass of buildings and wet pavement. Izamuri leaned back in his seat, watching the familiar streets pass by.
About twenty minutes later, they rolled into the front lot of Haruka's workshop. The large steel shutters were still down, but two figures were already outside, sitting on an old tire stack. Kaira Tojo and Hojo, the ever-chaotic twins. And next to Tojo is a cooler box that they've prepared.
"You guys are late," Tojo shouted as he stood up.
"We said 7:30, not 7:37!" Hojo added dramatically.
"It's seven minutes. Deal with it," Haruka muttered, unlocking the passenger doors.
"Did you oversleep?" Tojo asked to Izamuri, stuffing a bag into the seat pocket.
"No," Izamuri muttered. "Haruka made breakfast."
"YOU cooked?" Tojo leaned forward in mock disbelief towards Haruka. "Did you check the expiration date on your eggs?"
"Shut up and buckle in," Haruka said, grinning. "We've got a long drive to Hanno."
A few minutes later, the Corolla was loaded with helmets, gloves, and a cooler box full of bottled tea. Tojo and Hojo squeezed into the back seat, somehow managing to both fight for legroom and switch argument topic to Minecraft redstone contraptions building technique almost immediately. Haruka revved the Corolla once for fun before pulling away from the curb and onto the main road.
While driving, Haruka asked a very important question to Hojo "Why you guy's didn't go with your own car?"
"Oh yeah… Remind me again why we're not taking our car, my brother, Tojo?" Hojo asked, fidgeting to find legroom.
"Because it's a '92 Civic with a leaking head gasket," Tojo replied.
"Touché," Hojo said
A few minutes later, the car hummed along the smooth asphalt of National Route 16, then merged onto the Ken-O Expressway, heading west. Outside the window, the urban landscape of Tokyo gradually gave way to the dense greenery and mountains of Saitama Prefecture. The sky was clear and bright, perfect weather for a day at the track.
"So… first time karting, huh?" Hojo asked from the back seat, leaning forward between them.
"Yeah," Izamuri replied. "I mean, I've played sim racing games… but never the real thing."
"You'll be fine," Tojo said, grinning. "Just remember—brake late, and scream louder than the engine."
"You're not helping," Izamuri muttered, laughing nervously.
By the time they passed Iruma, traffic had picked up a little, but nothing too serious. Haruka kept the Corolla steady, weaving through the occasional slow van or truck with surgical ease. The Corolla wasn't fast by modern standards, but it had character. The way it danced on the corners, the mechanical feedback, the growl of the 3S-GE engine. It was the kind of car that taught you how to drive.
About 50 minutes into the journey, the road signs finally pointed toward Hanno, and shortly after, the entrance to Formuland Ra Hanno appeared tucked between a row of dense cedar trees. The narrow mountain road leading to it was twisty and worn, but Haruka took it with ease, shifting gears smoothly as the trees whipped past.
As Haruka's white Corolla E101 TRD2000 rolled up the final gravel path into the lot of Formuland RA Hanno, the old kart circuit emerged from the trees like a hidden stage—quiet, sunlit, and steeped in the scent of burnt rubber and brake dust. The rising hills behind the track framed it like a bowl, the elevation giving it a raw, intimate feel, as if this place existed outside of time.
As they rolled into the parking area, Izamuri's eyes widened slightly. Three cars were already there, neatly parked side by side with enough spacing to suggest pride—and maybe a bit of rivalry.
First was a classic, rally-bred Subaru Impreza GC8 Type R. White paint, gold wheels, carbon hood vents. It looked like it had just rolled off a WRC stage. The front bumper had a light scuff on the side, the kind of mark you don't buff out—because it tells a story.
Next to it sat a blacked-out Nissan Skyline R32 GTR V-Spec II Nismo. The unmistakable Godzilla stance, low and aggressive, made the car seem like it was crouching, ready to pounce. The polished Nismo LMGT2 wheels caught the sun just right. The irony wasn't lost. Takamori drove the same model he had once famously sent rolling down a ravine.
And next to that, a sleek Toyota GT86, painted matte red with a white blossom graphic winding along the side. The car had Ayaka and Hana written all over it. Subtle, elegant, but sharp where it counted. A pair of racing helmets sat on the dashboard, visible through the windshield.
"Well, they beat us here," Haruka muttered, stepping out of the Corolla and slamming the door shut with a thud. "Figures."
Tojo climbed out next, stretching dramatically. "And of course they took the shady parking spots."
Hojo followed. "I swear Ayaka camps the entrance like it's an MMO dungeon spawn."
Izamuri stepped out last, his sneakers crunching on the gravel. The low hum of idling kart engines could already be heard beyond the paddock wall. Just behind the chain-link fence, the pit lane was alive. Mechanics in jumpsuits, karts lined up on trolleys, tires stacked in neat towers. But what stood out the most was the absence of strangers. There were no public racers, no screaming kids in rental helmets, no weekend tourists. Just the track, the machines, and the people who came here to push themselves.
"They rented the whole damn place?" Izamuri asked, blinking.
Haruka smirked. "Of course. You think Hana's gonna risk some clueless dude in Crocs t-boning her at turn four?"
From across the lot, Rin spotted them and waved lazily, leaning against the Subaru with a water bottle in hand. His racing suit was tied around her waist, revealing a black compression shirt and a sweat-streaked forehead. "Oi! Took you long enough!" he shouted.
"You know us," Haruka called back. "We operate on 'fashionably late' time."
Takamori stood next to him, arms crossed, sunglasses reflecting the track behind them. "You're lucky we didn't start without you."
Ayaka and Hana were already unloading their helmets from the GT86's trunk. Ayaka offered a small wave while Hana raised a peace sign. "You brought the stray puppy?" she teased, nodding toward Izamuri.
From a short distance away. tucked behind a delivery van near the entrance. A red Mitsubishi 3000GT sat idle. The car was positioned just so that it remained in partial shadow. The engine was off, but the driver inside had been watching the scene unfold from the moment Haruka's Corolla appeared at the gate. Daichi adjusted his sunglasses and leaned back in the worn leather seat. A half-finished can of coffee rested in the cupholder. He didn't make a sound. He didn't need to.
He watched Izamuri closely. There was something different about the boy today. Something subtle, but it was there. In the way he walked, in how he looked at the track as if he already felt it pulsing beneath his shoes. Daichi took a quiet breath, as if confirming something to himself.
Back in the lot, Haruka clapped his hands. "Alright! Let's get suited up. We're booked until 3 PM—track's all ours."
"Which means no excuses," Rin added, slinging his race suit over his shoulders. "You spin, you buy dinner."
"Who made that rule?" Tojo asked.
"I did," Rin and Hana said in sync.
Hojo pointed at Izamuri. "Bet twenty says the rookie bins it before turn two."
"I heard that," Izamuri said, already walking toward the small building beside the pit lane.
He didn't say it out loud, but something about this place stirred something inside him. The smell of tire rubber. The faint whirring of engines echoed off the nearby hills. The fresh air mixes with fuel fumes. It was strange. He had never driven a real go-kart before. But deep down, it already felt like home.
The small building beside the pit lane was buzzing with quiet excitement. Inside, rows of lockers lined the wall, and each crew member disappeared behind separate curtains to change into their suits. The air smelled faintly of polyester, sweat, and that rubbery-clean scent of race gear.
Rin was the first to change. His white and teal racing suit bore a fading emblem of a long-defunct amateur team, yet he wore it like it was stitched by fireproof gods. Hojo and Tojo had matching suits. black with orange stripes, cartoonishly bold like everything else about them. Hana's suit was elegant and precise. Maroon with thin gold trim, clearly custom-tailored. Ayaka's had a cherry blossom pattern stitched faintly into the sleeves—delicate, until you noticed the scuffed elbow pads from a dozen aggressive overtakes.
Izamuri stood at the far end of the bench, holding nothing but a folded gray rental suit. It hung loosely in his hand like a forgotten curtain from a high school theater club. The helmet? A bright neon orange rental with the padding slightly worn out. It didn't match anyone. And it didn't matter. It was all he could afford.
Haruka noticed the difference but didn't say anything. Instead, he walked up beside Izamuri and gave him a solid pat on the back. "Doesn't matter what you wear, Iza. It's what you do on the track that counts."
Izamuri nodded, trying not to feel embarrassed as he zipped up the rental suit. The legs were slightly long, the collar itchy, and the gloves had clearly been worn by half the population of Tokyo. But it would do.
Everyone gathered outside the changing room as the staff rolled out their designated karts. Lightweight, 2-stroke, 13hp machines. These weren't the sluggish 4-strokes most rental tracks offered. These were light, tuned 2-stroke machines, direct drive, and twitchy as hell. No bumpers. No margin for error. Izamuri's kart stood out. Clean, almost unused, set aside for training. Haruka had arranged a short private stint for him before the others began their actual heats.
"Alright," Haruka's voice crackled through the small comm unit clipped inside his helmet, "before you jump in with the chaos crew, we're going to do five laps. One out-lap, three pace laps, one cooldown-lap. I'll lead, you follow. No overtaking, just stick to my line and watch everything I do."
"Got it," Izamuri responded, tightening his gloves around the thin suede-covered steering wheel. The karts took off, raw and feral. No seat belts. No suspension. Just plastic seats, sticky tires, and angry engines screaming past 15,000 RPM.
Haruka led at a moderate pace, tracing the racing line precisely like a drawing in motion. He exaggerated his braking points and entry angles so Izamuri could easily follow. The kart's vibrations rattled up Izamuri's spine. There was no protection, no padding. Every bump, every slip of grip, every loose rubber pellet on the track communicated itself like a direct signal into his brain.
Turn 1 was a long, off-camber left-hander. Haruka slowed early, turned in wide, clipped the inside curb, and let the kart drift just to the edge. Izamuri mirrored it, eyes locked forward, jaw clenched under the neon-orange rental helmet.
By Turn 4, Izamuri began reading the circuit like a flow chart.
"Visualize the line. Don't just follow it. understand it."
Haruka kept talking calmly through the comms as they exited the tight switchback section in the center of the track. The two-stroke engines barked violently under acceleration, chirping between off-throttle and hard-braking zones.
From a hidden stairwell tucked behind the paddock office, Daichi quietly made his way up a set of metal steps that led to the rooftop observation deck. The worn iron stairs creaked faintly beneath his boots, but no one below noticed. Everyone was too focused on the roaring hum of karts warming up or fitting into their suits.
He stepped up onto the rooftop without a sound, tucked behind the upper ledge with a full view of the track. He crouched low, slipping a folded notepad out of his jacket and peering down through a small pair of binoculars. His gaze locked not on Haruka, not on Rin or Takamori, but on Izamuri. The boy in the grey rental suit and neon helmet.
"Let's see if that spark's real," Daichi muttered to himself.
They eventually crossed the start/finish line to start lap 1 of their training. Haruka didn't even signal. He simply picked up the pace. The engine noise sharpened instantly. Haruka dropped the throttle harder. Izamuri felt the immediate jump in speed. The gap between them widened by a few meters, but Izamuri tucked his body lower and leaned into the kart, reducing drag. No side bumpers meant a stray twitch of the wheel could send him flying, so he stayed dead-straight until the first braking zone.
He reached Turn 1 faster than before—almost too fast. He braked late. Too late. The front tires screeched as the rear danced out slightly. The kart slid inward toward the apex—an aggressive correction saved it from spinning. Haruka looked back and saw what had happened.
"Don't trail-brake that deep yet. You haven't built the muscle memory." Haruka said through the comms
Izamuri didn't reply, just bit his tongue and refocused. Turn 2 came fast. A fast sweeping left-hander leading to a left-hander followed by a left hairpin into a sharp S corner. He feathered the throttle perfectly this time. No mistake. Down the back straight, they screamed. The karts were light and quick, wind blasting into Izamuri's chest. The helmet wobbled from turbulence. But he didn't let go. Didn't ease off. He matched Haruka's line through the sweeping left and into the inner hairpin.
Haruka brake-checked him slightly mid-entry, a test by him, and Izamuri instinctively lifted the throttle, then corrected. "...He remembered," Haruka muttered under his breath.
By the end of lap 1, the pair crossed the line side by side entering lap 2 of training, though unintentional, Izamuri's kart was nearly overlapping Haruka's rear tire.
"He's catching me," Haruka thought with a grin as Lap 2 began. Haruka upped the pace. The engine screamed louder, revs peaking as they thundered into Turn 1 again. This time, Izamuri didn't trail-brake as deep. He tapped the brakes earlier, let the kart rotate on weight transfer alone, and stayed tight to the inside curb. The rear stepped out—just slightly—but he countered it with a subtle flick of the wrist and throttle correction.
"Focus," Haruka said. "This corner's tight. don't overshoot it."
Izamuri didn't respond. His kart entered perfectly on the middle line and kissed the apex without a twitch. He powered out cleaner than the lap before.
Ayaka turned to Hana. "That… wasn't beginner's luck."
"No," Hana replied. "That was reading the track."
At the hairpin, Haruka dropped speed sharply. Izamuri followed—but this time, his kart didn't wobble. His throttle modulation was softer. Cleaner. Like he had already practiced this a hundred times in his mind.
"Holy crap," Rin whispered. "Izamuri's line. That was… that wasn't just following. That was adapting."
Back on the rooftop, Daichi's lips curled into a subtle grin. "He's learning. Fast."
Haruka wasn't speaking anymore. He didn't need to. The boy behind him had begun to hum. Not out loud. With the engine. In sync. Izamuri's body leaned into corners at the perfect angle. His steering was smoother now. His throttle was now pulse-controlled. He didn't need the radio anymore.
Daichi stood on the rooftop, lowering the binoculars. "This is it," he said. "My gut instinct were true"
Lap 2 continued, and every corner Izamuri passed through tightened the quiet around the track. Conversations stopped. Even Hojo, who always had something dumb to say, was frozen. It was like watching someone remember something they'd never known they'd forgotten.
And just as Turn 9 came into view. The quick right before the final hairpin Haruka glanced back one more time. Izamuri was still there. Eyes forward. Expression unreadable beneath the helmet. But everyone knew…
He was home.