Haruka didn't need a mirror to know it. He could feel it. like a presence clinging to his rear bumper. Not aggressive, not reckless. But controlled aggression. It wasn't the kind of driving you'd expect from someone doing their first kart laps. It was calculated. Relentless. Like being hunted by something far older than a rookie's nerves. And far faster than logic should allow.
Behind him, Izamuri wasn't following anymore. He wasn't waiting to react. He was predicting. Every time Haruka turned in, Izamuri was already adjusting. Every lift, every brush of the brakes. Izamuri was one step ahead. Not close enough to overtake, but dangerously close to understanding.
It was no longer teacher and student. It was predator and prey.
Lap 2's final corner approaches. A wide left-hander. Haruka braked early and settled into the apex, letting the kart glide mid-track to prepare for the second. It was a line designed to preserve rhythm, not aggression. Haruka took the corner in stride, still slightly ahead, but his ears caught something subtle.
Blip.
It was faint at first. But unmistakable.
Blip. Blip-blip.
Throttle blips. Not accidental. Not random. A perfect heel-toe-style flick, done on instinct… by someone in a rental kart that didn't even require it.
Lap 2 ended. Lap 3 began. Haruka didn't say a word. His pace was higher now, nearly full race speed. But Izamuri was still there. Stalking. Haruka turned into the downhill left of Turn 1, easing on the brake before trail-braking into the tight apex. But just before he turned, Izamuri had already begun turning too. half a beat earlier than he should have. Not recklessly. Not out of impulse. It was as if he knew exactly what Haruka was about to do before he did it. Then, the sound came.
Blip-blip-blip-blip-blip
Quick, violent throttle stabs on the throttle. Not sloppy, not random. But rhythmic. Mechanical. Musical.
Izamuri's kart tucked in on the entry to Turn 1 like it was on rails. The chassis flexed just right, the rear-end slid out by just a hair, and he caught it. Not with steering correction, but with throttle. Not even a beginner kart racer would try that. That was something only someone possessed by rhythm would dare.
Daichi watched from the rooftop, his face now unshaded, completely still. His sunglasses hung low on his nose. The binoculars rested at his chest.
"Senna…" he muttered.
"What?" murmured a staff member who had snuck up to join him
.
Daichi didn't answer. He just whispers faintly. "I've heard that kind of throttle once before."
Daichi gripped the cold railing of the rooftop tighter. In his head, he wasn't seeing Izamuri anymore. He was hearing old VHS tapes, grainy onboard footage from 1988. Ayrton Senna's black-and-gold Lotus. The same exact throttle pattern.
Blip-blip-blip. Brake. Flick. Blip again.
But Senna was dead. Wasn't he? Daichi's breath caught in his throat. He couldn't look away. Couldn't move.
Izamuri had become silent behind the helmet. No emotion. No panic. No hesitation. Just those eyes locked forward, hidden beneath the visor, staring at the racing line like he could see beyond it. Like the track was speaking to him in a language only he could hear.
Haruka pushed harder now. Turn 2, the long left. He swung wide, trying to lure Izamuri into a later apex, but the rookie took the perfect middle line. No wasted angle. No wasted throttle. His kart's rear kicked out slightly, just enough to rotate, then it snapped back like it had a will of its own.
Blap-blap.
Again. Every throttle blip was like a ghost from the past. Every time that engine barked, it echoed something more than just performance. it echoed spirit. The kind of spirit that made spectators cry and drivers fear.
Haruka's breathing quickened. He wasn't panicking, but he was no longer comfortable either.
Down the back straight, the two-stroke karts screamed in harmony. Haruka leaned in to reduce drag. But he could feel it. The presence. Izamuri wasn't just chasing his line. He was chasing him. Like a phantom on his shoulder.
On Turn 4, Haruka tried a trick. He shifted his braking point earlier to bait Izamuri into a rear-end mistake. But Izamuri was already off-line—intentionally. Predicting it. He rotated from the outside and countered mid-apex with a micro-correction. The kart skittered but never lost grip. Dust kicked up on corner exit. The tires screamed, but Izamuri didn't.
He didn't even flinch.
Daichi gripped the edge of the railing harder. His jaw clenched. "He's not driving like a rookie. He's not even driving like a pro," Daichi muttered. "He's driving like he's remembering something from a past life."
Onboard his kart, Izamuri wasn't thinking about the lines anymore. His eyes weren't fixed on Haruka. they were watching the corner exits, the tire sheen, the groove lines baked into the tarmac. Every vibration through the seat, every kickback in the wheel, he absorbed and translated it like language. His brain wasn't racing. it was calm. Too calm.
By Turn 5 and 6, the mid-track chicane, he was no longer a lap behind in ability. His kart wavered slightly on the bump at apex, the rear slid half a degree—he held it. Not with panic. Not with correction. But with rhythm. His throttle danced. His hands flowed. His entire body read the kart like braille through the wheel and floorpan. Through the inner esses, Haruka clipped every apex, scrubbing tires hard. But Izamuri glided through with precision, keeping the kart just off the curbs.
Ayaka and Hana stood by the fence, frozen.
"That's impossible," Hana whispered. "I've seen hundreds of new drivers. Hell, I trained Super GT rookies," she continued, voice unsteady. "And none of them. NONE did what he just did into that chicane."
"He's blipping every downshift like it's second nature," Ayaka muttered. "But the karts don't have gears."
"No, but he's pretending they do," Hana said. "He's applying heel-toe braking technique in a direct drive kart. And somehow, it's working."
Back on the rooftop, the track staff pulled the cigarette out of his mouth. "That's not driving. That's art."
"No," Daichi said. "That's muscle memory from another lifetime."
A few corners later, the pair tore past the start/finish line again. Lap 3 flowed into Lap 4—the cooldown lap. The engines didn't scream as loud. Haruka rolled off the throttle, gesturing slightly with his hand as if to signal "ease off." A return to pace. A return to breath.
He looked back one last time. Izamuri was still there, now coasting gently. Still locked in. Still focused. But not in a trance. Not anymore. The engines settled into a low whine as Haruka and Izamuri glided into the pit lane, wheels clicking softly over the yellow-painted line. The scent of hot rubber and scorched oil lingered thick in the air, rising from the tires like smoke off a battlefield. Haruka lifted his visor first. His eyes weren't panicked. But they weren't calm, either. He slid off the kart and walked toward the tool bench in silence. His gloves came off slowly. Carefully.
Izamuri parked right behind him. He didn't move at first. He just sat there, his hands resting loosely on the wheel, chest rising and falling beneath the rental suit. The engine ticked behind him as it cooled. Then, without a word, he lifted off the helmet. His face was calm. Not tired. Not smug. Just… focused. Eyes still sharp.
From above, Daichi crouched beside the roof's ventilation fan, ears tilted toward the group. The old metal vent amplified just enough of the voices below to make out the conversation.
Haruka turned. "…Where did you learn to drive like that?" he asked, bluntly.
Izamuri blinked once, slowly. "I didn't."
"Don't give me that," Haruka replied. "You weren't following me anymore. You were—"
"—Chasing," Izamuri finished for him, nodding. "I just… saw where you were going. And I went there first."
Haruka narrowed his eyes. "You were throttle blipping."
"I was?" Izamuri blinked. "I didn't realize."
That answer made Haruka freeze for a moment. The others, still at the edge of the pit wall, were walking over now—Rin, Ayaka, Hana, and the Kaira twins, all silent. From the rooftop, Daichi leaned closer.
"You triple-blipped before every major turn," Haruka continued. "That's not just instinct. That's technique. That's something you have to learn."
Izamuri looked confused. "I wasn't thinking. I just did it."
Tojo, still holding an energy bar, finally spoke. "That wasn't something you do out of the blue, man. That was something else. You looked like a demon."
The entire group turned to him. Ayaka blinked. "That's... kind of dramatic."
"Did you not hear the blips?" Rin snapped. "That wasn't some beginner mistake. That was exact. That was rhythm. That was goddamn art!"
Haruka, still looking directly at Izamuri, said one word under his breath. "Possessed." Silence followed.
Then Hana spoke, arms crossed, voice quieter than usual. "You weren't copying Haruka's line. You were predicting it."
"And not just the line," Ayaka added. "He was predicting behavior. Brake pressure, throttle point, steering input. All of it."
Haruka exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. I noticed that too…"
Daichi's pulse quickened from above. Every word only confirmed what he feared. The staff next to him leaned on the wall, chewing on a toothpick.
"What's the matter, Fujiwara? You look like you're watching a horror movie."
Daichi didn't answer immediately. He just stared at the trees. "You know," he finally said, "in the old days, when I used to run support for privateer teams at Fuji, there were drivers who had that kind of 'talent' in them. But even they didn't scare me."
He paused. "This kid does." Suddenly, Daichi's voice turned low, nearly a growl.
"Want to know the scariest part?" he said, eyes locked on Izamuri. The staffer nodded.
"He doesn't know what he did."
The man blinked. "You think he's dangerous?"
Daichi turned his head slightly. "Not yet. But he's on the edge. And once he crosses it—once he learns what his body is doing? Once his mind catches up to his instincts?"
He looked down at Izamuri below. "That kid is going to become a monster."
"Talent like that," Daichi continued, "isn't a blessing. Not without control. Not without guidance." He leaned on the railing and looked down at Izamuri, now laughing lightly with the group as Rin jokingly threatened to unplug his spark plug wires for the race.
"That kid," Daichi said, "has no idea what's coming. And if no one steps in soon…" He didn't finish the sentence.
Back down at the pit , Rin, Haruka, Hana, Ayaka, and the twins had gathered around the timing sheet near the check-in board.
Hana looked up. "So. How are we arranging the grid?"
"Tojo and I were planning to go by last year's points ranking," Hojo said, holding a small clipboard. "But…"
They all turned slightly toward Izamuri, standing alone, looking at the timing screen.
Rin was the first to speak. "…Put him at the back."
Ayaka frowned. "Why? He's faster than half of us already."
"That's exactly why," Rin replied. "It's his first race. If we put him mid-pack, someone's going to get dive-bombed. Or worse."
Hana nodded. "Rin's right. Let's not let his instinct blind us. If he's gonna pass us, make him earn it. From the very back."
Haruka looked uncertain for a moment, then slowly nodded. "Alright. Back of the grid it is."
Tojo scribbled something on the clipboard.
"You sure he won't be mad about this?" Hojo asked.
"He won't," Haruka said. "He's not racing us yet. He's racing something else."
Hana looked down at her watch. "We've got twenty minutes before the first proper heat. I say we let the rookie cool down and join us in the real fun."
The group slowly began settling under the canopy near the pit building. Someone handed Izamuri a water bottle. He took it, grateful but still visibly confused. Everyone dispersed. Rin wandered toward the Subaru. Hana and Ayaka sat together on the grass. The twins collapsed into a pair of folding chairs and instantly resumed arguing about whether suspension stiffness mattered on a rental kart.