The morning after the race came cold and colorless.
The mist hadn't lifted from the pass, curling low around the gas station like a lazy predator.The neon sign buzzed weakly against the gray sky, half the letters blinking out of sequence.
Riku leaned against the side wall, a steaming can of coffee warming his hands, watching the road in silence.
Another delivery day.Another sunrise no different from the last.
Or so he thought.
"Hey, kid."
The voice pulled him from his thoughts.
It was Mr. Fujimoto, one of the old mechanics who rented space behind the station — a man built from rust and cigarette smoke.He rarely spoke unless something broke or something pissed him off.
Today, though, he wore an odd look.
"You hear about it?" Fujimoto asked, lighting a cigarette with a battered lighter.
Riku shook his head slowly.
Fujimoto squinted at him through the smoke.
"Some punk from Kurokawa got smoked last night. Outdriven clean on the bend."He exhaled sharply, a cloud drifting toward the cloudy sky."Word is... it wasn't even close."
Riku said nothing.
Fujimoto studied him for a long moment, then snorted and turned away.
"World's changin'," he muttered.
Riku sipped his coffee, the metal can burning against his lip.His hands felt steady.They always did.
Tatsuya crashed into the station thirty minutes later, a human thunderstorm.
"Riku!!" he shouted, skidding across the gravel lot like a car on bald tires."You are literally FAMOUS!!"
Riku blinked at him.
Tatsuya waved his arms like he was trying to swat invisible flies.
"Everyone's talking about it! They're calling you... get this... the Phantom Blade!"
He grinned wide enough to split his face in half.
Riku raised an eyebrow.
"That's stupid," he said.
Tatsuya deflated slightly.
"Bro, it's badass! You just show up in an old Prelude, smoke a Silvia without even sweating, and vanish like a ghost?! That's straight out of manga!"
Riku shrugged.He wasn't trying to make stories.He wasn't trying to be anything.
He just... drove.
The day crawled by in a haze of deliveries and minor repairs.Everywhere he went, Riku caught snatches of conversation.
"—you see him last night?""—some nobody in a Prelude?""—they say he didn't even push hard—"
The words floated around him like smoke.
He ignored them.
He wasn't interested in legends or whispers.
He was interested in the next turn, the next delivery, the next curve of road breathing under his tires.
The mountain didn't care about stories.
Neither did he.
But stories — like ghosts — have a way of finding you even when you're not looking.
That night, after the shop closed and the last neon flickered out, a car pulled quietly into the station lot.
Sleek. Black. Low.
A Nissan Fairlady Z (Z31) — wide tires, low growl, headlights cutting twin spears through the mist.
A man stepped out.Older.Wearing a battered leather jacket, hands tucked casually in his pockets.
He looked at Riku with eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
"You're the kid with the Prelude, yeah?"
It wasn't a question.
Riku said nothing, wiping his hands clean with a rag.
The man smiled slightly.
"Name's Hajime Koizumi," he said."King of Sazanami Pass."
A heavyweight.Real street racing royalty.
Koizumi tossed a coin into the air, caught it, and pointed a finger like a gun at Riku.
"Let's see what you're really made of."