The next moring at 7AM the sun is rising when the knock came. Three sharp raps against the doorframe jolted Izamuri out of sleep. He sat up, groggy, rubbing his eyes as the hallway light poured in. "Iza," Haruka's voice called softly. "Get dressed. We're going out."
Izamuri squinted toward the half-open door. "H-Haruka? What time is it?"
"7:30 in the morning."
Izamuri blinked. "What? Why?"
"Trust me," Haruka said, already halfway down the stairs. "We've got an appointment."
Mumbling under his breath, Izamuri threw off the blanket and pulled himself out of bed. The air was still cold with morning chill, and the scent of engine oil from the garage lingered faintly on his borrowed clothes from yesterday. He shuffled into the bathroom, splashed his face, then changed into something simple. Jeans, hoodie, sneakers.
When he came down, Haruka was waiting by the front door, fully dressed in black slacks and a dark denim overshirt. He tossed a banana at Izamuri without looking. "Eat in the car. We're gonna be late."
Izamuri caught it with one hand, more out of instinct than alertness. "Dude... what kind of appointment happens before sunrise?"
Haruka just gave him that sly, nonchalant shrug. "Early bird special."
Fifteen minutes later, the Corolla TRD2000 hummed quietly along the near-empty streets of suburban Tokyo. The sun was barely brushing the horizon, leaving long shadows on the buildings. Izamuri leaned his head against the window, watching the blur of storefronts and vending machines pass by.
He finally broke the silence. "So… what happened yesterday?" he asked, not accusingly, just curious. "You were gone… for the entier day!."
Haruka paused for just a second, just long enough to make it feel suspicious. "Inventory management," he replied smoothly. "Routine stuff. Needed to reorganize parts, double-check tire stock, rotate tools. You didn't miss much."
Izamuri turned to look at him. "All day?"
Haruka nodded. "Yeah. It sucked. The twins complained the whole time, Hana nearly threw a torque wrench at Tojo for mislabeling oil filters, and Ayaka kicked a toolbox. Real productive day."
Izamuri narrowed his eyes slightly, but said nothing. Something about Haruka's tone felt too… polished. Too rehearsed.
But before he could push further, Haruka casually added, "By the way, we're going to a tailor."
Izamuri raised an eyebrow. "A what?"
"A tailor. Formalwear."
"I already have a suit."
"And now you'll have two."
Izamuri blinked. "Why? I barely wear the one I have."
"Spare," Haruka said without missing a beat. "What if you get invited to something and spill sauce on your only good outfit?"
Izamuri stared at him flatly. "I don't go to events."
Haruka kept his eyes on the road. "You might."
"And this couldn't wait until, I don't know… after lunch?"
Haruka finally smirked. "Tailor's a friend. Works by appointment only. Early mornings, private sessions. You'll thank me later."
Izamuri didn't argue further. He leaned back in the seat and opened the banana. But in the back of his mind, a thought lingered. Why would Haruka drag him out at sunrise for a second suit… now?
Meanwhile, back at the workshop, the air was thick with the smell of solder and motor oil. The break room was quiet except for the gentle tapping of a laptop keyboard and the low hum of an old wall-mounted fan. Daichi sat at the main desk, a cup of steaming coffee beside him, folders spread across the table. His eyes flicked between handwritten sponsor notes and his laptop screen.
William leaned against the file cabinet, holding a phone to his ear in one hand and tapping a pen rhythmically against a clipboard in the other. "No, no, we're not running turbocharged units," William was saying in his heavy German accent. "Naturally aspirated. Yes, it's an EK9. One-make race. We're sending engine specs to your email now."
Daichi glanced at him and held up a document. "Mention we're limiting torque steer with reinforced control arms. The track rep will eat that up."
William nodded, speaking again. "Exactly. Custom bushings. Low CG. Proper weight balance. Think of it as vintage chaos made elegant." A pause. Then William smiled. "Perfect. Yes. We'll expect your email confirmation by tonight. Danke."
He hung up and looked over at Daichi. "One more down. That's six potential sponsors this morning."
Daichi exhaled. "We need at least two big ones to commit before Fuji. If not, well, we'll still run it. Just hungrier."
William smirked. "You like hungry teams."
"Hungry teams win races," Daichi replied.
Out in the main garage, Rin sat on an overturned bucket sipping from a can of Georgia Black, eyes watching the Kaira twins as they attempted to replace the driveshaft on a rusted old AE101 Corolla. Tojo had one leg awkwardly hooked into the wheel well while Hojo yelled from beneath the chassis.
"You're twisting it clockwise, not counterclockwise, you dumbass"
"I am twisting it counterclockwise! You're looking at it upside down!"
"No, you're upside down!"
Rin tilted his head and took another sip. "Y'know, one of you is gonna strip the threads, and when that happens, I'm not the one playing tow truck."
Next to him, Hana and Ayaka were prepping a fresh set of plugs and belts on the workbench for the next customer job. Ayaka handed over a socket wrench without looking up.
"Let them strip it. Then they'll learn what an 'inventory write-off' feels like."
"They'll blame each other," Hana said flatly. "And probably the wrench."
"They always do," Rin muttered.
Meanwhile, far from the city bustle and the soft click of tailor scissors, Takamori squinted under the midmorning sun, one hand shielding his face as he stepped onto the gravel lot of a secondhand commercial truck dealer in the outer district of Chiba. The yard was stacked wall to wall with industrial haulers . Some caked in dirt, others polished to a surprising shine. Diesel fumes lingered faintly in the air.
Beside him stood Nikolai, arms crossed, looking almost too clean for a place like this. His black shirt was tucked into cargo pants with tactical precision, and a clipboard was tucked under one arm like he was inspecting tanks, not trucks.
Takamori whistled low as he surveyed the options. "Well," he said, "they weren't kidding when they said heavy-duty. Some of these things look like they've been to war."
Nikolai nodded approvingly. "That's good. Means they survived."
The two of them walked past a line of flatbeds, a few beat-up Isuzus, a rust-scratched UD, and then finally, what Takamori was hoping to find. "There," he pointed. "That Hino."
Nikolai followed his finger. A Hino Profia, long-bed, double axle, sleeper cab. It looked like it once belonged to a small logistics firm and now sat quietly, waiting for a second life.
"Suspension looks decent," Takamori muttered, crouching down to check the undercarriage. "We might need to rework the shocks. Maybe new tires too."
Nikolai knelt beside him. "Payload capacity is high. Bed is long enough to fit the EK9 with ramps. Storage compartments too. Engine?"
"Should be a J08E," Takamori said. "Inline-six, turbo diesel. Bulletproof."
The Russian smirked. "Good. Because hauling race cars across Japan is going to break lesser trucks."
"mileage?" Takamori asked.
"Under 180,000," Nikolai replied after peeking at the odometer. "For a diesel workhorse like this? Barely broken in."
The two exchanged a glance. A silent agreement passed between them.
They moved on to a nearby Mitsubishi Fuso Super Great, its cab tilted open for engine inspection. Nikolai gave it a once-over, tapping on the fuel tank with the back of his knuckles. "I drove these when I was in the Russian F4," he said. "Team used two to move three F4 cars across Europe."
"Too thirsty?" Takamori asked.
"Too loud," Nikolai replied. "But… reliable. That's what matters."
Takamori leaned against the side mirror of the truck, eyes scanning the rest of the yard. "You know, we could go small. A Toyota Dyna. Less maintenance, easier to park. The EK9's light."
Nikolai shook his head firmly. "Small truck, small ambition. You want to race with the big boys, you arrive like one."
Takamori chuckled. "Alright, Ivan Drago. We'll get the Hino. Big, loud, and proud. We gut the interior, throw in radio comms, shelving for tools. Maybe repaint it black with silver trim, something clean."
Nikolai grinned. "We'll make it a proper war wagon."
Takamori pulled out his phone and dialed the number on the sign taped to the window. A gruff man answered on the third ring.
"Yeah," Takamori said into the phone. "We want the Hino Profia in the back row. Send it to the nearest certified workshop. Full inspection, fluids flushed, brakes checked. We'll handle cosmetic later."
A short pause. Then he added, "Bill it under G-Force."
Meanwhile… in downtown Tokyo Izamuri stood awkwardly in front of a full-length mirror, arms out to the sides, as a polite but firm tailor wrapped a measuring tape around his shoulders.
"I still don't get why we're doing this," he mumbled, watching his reflection with a scowl. "I have a perfectly fine suit already."
Haruka was lounging on a nearby chair, flipping through a fashion magazine with zero real interest. "It's good to have options."
"You mean to tell me this is about formal options?" Izamuri raised an eyebrow. "Because I swear you just made me stand on a footrest and take off my hoodie in front of a man with tiny scissors."
"You'll survive," Haruka said without looking up. "Besides, this guy tailored Daichi's interview suit. It's practically bulletproof."
"That doesn't sound reassuring."
The tailor gently measured his waist, muttering numbers under his breath and scribbling them into a leather-bound notebook. He moved to the inside leg, prompting Izamuri to take a nervous half-step back.
Haruka cleared his throat. "Just trust the process."
Izamuri sighed. "Still feels weird. You don't even know what color I want."
"Classic black. Slim cut. Two-button," Haruka rattled off. "Done."
"Is this really about a spare formal suit," Izamuri asked slowly, "or are you just distracting me from something?"
Haruka looked up at him and gave a smooth, unreadable grin. "Do I look like the kind of guy who lies?"
"Yes."
Haruka shrugged. "Fair."
Izamuri stared at himself in the mirror as the tailor draped a mock jacket over his shoulders. He tilted his head. "…I guess it doesn't look that bad."
Haruka nodded. "Told you."
"I still feel like you're lying to me."
"You'll thank me later."
Izamuri crossed his arms. "You're acting weirder than usual."
"I'm just a guy getting his friend a backup suit. Can't that be wholesome for once?"
The tailor turned and smiled politely. "We'll have the final fitment ready by next week."
Haruka stood up, stretching his arms. "Perfect timing."
"For what?" Izamuri asked.
Haruka didn't answer. As Izamuri left the room to grab his jacket from the rack near the door, the tailor turned to Haruka, eyes serious now.
"Here." He handed over the form, filled with exact measurements. "This is for the real suit, yes?"
Haruka nodded once. "Sparco. Custom order."
"Then send it before he grows or changes anything. Chest width like that? You'll want pre-curve structure built in."
"I know," Haruka replied.
"Good. You'll get no second chances once they stitch the Nomex."
Haruka took the form, tucked it neatly into his jacket pocket, and left a discreet envelope on the tailor's desk, the kind of envelope filled with enough yen to keep someone quiet about what was really going on.
Out on the sidewalk, Izamuri stood with arms crossed, squinting into the sun. "Still not telling me why you insisted on this, huh?"
Haruka kept walking. "You'll thank me later."
"I doubt that."
"Trust me," Haruka said, letting a rare smirk slip. "I'm investing in your comfort."
"And here I thought we were investing in overpriced socks and buttoned collars."
Haruka said nothing. Because in exactly two weeks, Izamuri Sakuta would no longer be a passenger. He would be G-FORCE's rookie driver, behind the wheel of a battle-hardened EK9 in the most competitive one-make race in Japan.
And he still didn't have a clue.