Peace never stayed long.
Not because the world demanded chaos.
But because Leonardo DeMarco refused to stay still.
He stood on the edge of the vineyard one crisp morning, the wind curling around his coat. Overhead, a drone—one of Tabane's cloaked toys—hovered in silent patrol, casting no shadow.
Alfred approached, tablet in hand.
"Sir," he said, tapping the screen. "There's a situation in Tokyo. Our subsidiary flagged irregular movement. Street-level racing. Possible organized crime entanglement."
Leonardo tilted his head. "That doesn't sound new."
Alfred hesitated. "Han's name came up."
A brief pause. Leonardo's expression didn't change—but his stance shifted.
"Book me a flight," he said. "Low profile. Light footprint."
Alfred gave a curt nod. "And Miss Shinonono?"
As if on cue, a loud bang echoed from the garage.
"WHOOO! I JUST MADE THE GOLF CART GO EIGHTY!"
Leonardo sighed.
"She's coming."
Tokyo greeted them with cold precision and glowing chaos.
They landed at Haneda via a private diplomatic channel, then transferred to an armored black sedan from the DeMarco Tokyo branch. The city unfolded around them—an electric tangle of light, steel, and order humming with speed.
Tabane's nose was pressed against the glass.
"I love it already. Feels like if a motherboard started dreaming."
Leonardo smiled faintly. "That's why we're here."
They settled into Roppongi Hills—top floor, full security, no official registry.
The view was infinite.
Tabane claimed the study within minutes, converting it into a floating lab with magnetic suspension tables and a portable particle scanner. Leonardo took the balcony.
He didn't come for war.
He came to feel the asphalt beneath a different skyline.
To drift for the sake of drifting.
Han met him at the edge of the underground circuit on Leonardo's second night out.
The RX-7 was unmistakable.
So was the man leaning against it, chewing dried mango like he owned the smoke around him.
Han smirked as Leonardo stepped out of a borrowed Skyline, matte grey and stripped of all vanity.
"I was wondering how long it'd take you to show up," Han said.
Leonardo approached, hands in pockets.
"Didn't come for a job. Just the thrill."
Han tossed him a mango strip. "Then you came to the right hellhole."
They stood together in the shadows as cars screamed past—engines howling, tires slicing air.
"You driving?" Han asked.
"Eventually."
Han glanced sideways. "You really flew across the Pacific to burn rubber with kids?"
Leonardo smiled. "It's quieter than robbing drug lords."
By the end of the week, Leonardo had a parking spot in the inner circle—not by name, but by presence.
He didn't flash credentials. Didn't boast. But when a kid's ECU fried mid-drift, Leonardo fixed it in six minutes flat using nothing but his portable diagnostics tool and a thin wire.
Word traveled.
They called him "Ghost Tune."
Tabane called it "drift diplomacy."
Han? He called it "Leonardo being Leonardo."
Late one night, Leonardo finally got behind the wheel.
Han tossed him a set of keys for an R34 custom-built for tight control and torque-heavy release.
"Show me if you've got rhythm," Han said, arms folded.
Leonardo didn't nod.
He simply drove.
Three laps. Tight curves. High speed.
No wasted motion.
Drift wasn't just speed. It was surrender. Harmony between tension and freedom.
When he pulled in, the garage was silent.
Then Han laughed quietly. "You always were annoyingly good at things."
Leonardo stepped out. "I studied the tracks. Every drift lines. Every turn."
Han raised a brow. "Just for fun?"
Leonardo nodded. "Fun's rare. Thought I'd learn what yours felt like."
Han smiled and handed him another mango.
"You're insane. But I like having you here."
Back at the penthouse, Tabane had restructured half the systems.
"Tokyo's surveillance is adorable," she mused, spinning on her hover-chair. "I could rewrite their entire traffic grid in four keystrokes."
Leonardo gave her a look.
"No world-breaking," he said firmly.
She pouted. "Fine. But I upgraded your garage AI. It can auto-balance tire heat ratios and preload suspension timing for drift circuits."
Leonardo blinked. "That's... fine."
"Also," she added with a grin, "I'm building us a vending machine that prints sushi."
Another night. Another race.
Han watched from above. Leonardo stood nearby; arms crossed.
Smoke curled across the track.
"Feels like the calm before something big," Han murmured.
"It is," Leonardo said quietly.
Han glanced at him. "You know something?"
"Not yet. But soon."
Han accepted that. Just like before.
Because trust didn't always need explanation.
In another part of the city, Sean Boswell stepped off a flight from the States, looking for a fresh start.
The winds of Tokyo were shifting.
And Leonardo DeMarco was already part of the storm.