The morning after his fifth straight win, Bunta Fujiwara was under a car again.
Not racing. Not bragging. Just wrenching bolts and changing oil at Yuichi's father's gas station. The sun baked the pavement, the air was thick with gasoline, and the only music was the rhythmic clink of metal on metal.
"You should be a celebrity by now," Yuichi muttered from the office, flipping through a stack of invoices. "Somewhere in Tokyo, there's a billboard that's missing your face."
Bunta, half-buried under the chassis of a dusty Corolla, snorted. "Then it's better off without it."
Yuichi leaned back, chewing his pen. "No, I'm serious. You've beaten guys from three prefectures now. People are coming to Akina just to lose to you."
"That's their problem."
"You're a real piece of work, you know that?"
---
But Bunta's silence didn't mean nothing was happening.
The streets were buzzing — quietly.
Whispers of Akina's ghost had made their way to Usui Pass, a place known for high-speed corners, open stretches, and racers who cared more about grip than drift. Where Akina was tight and personal, Usui was violent and unforgiving.
And it was from there that the next challenger would rise.
---
That night, Yuichi didn't show up at the mountain.
A family thing, he said.
So Bunta ran alone.
The Fairlady S30 moved like smoke. Not loud. Not flashy. Just fast. Smooth. Controlled.
The mountain didn't challenge him anymore.
It… welcomed him.
He finished the run and sat alone at the summit, engine off, city lights flickering below.
For once, the silence felt strange.
He didn't like it.
---
The next morning, Yuichi slammed a newspaper on the counter.
"Read this."
Bunta glanced down lazily.
"Local Racer from Usui Seeks 'Ghost of Akina' — Declares Open Challenge."
Bunta lit a cigarette. "Ghost, huh?"
Yuichi's eyes gleamed. "He's serious. Name's Masaki Arizawa. Drives a tuned Silvia S12. They call him the 'Snake of Usui.' Supposedly drifts without lifting on the widest sweepers. And he's already in Gunma."
Bunta raised an eyebrow. "Big talk."
Yuichi leaned in, whispering like he was delivering war plans. "He's not like the others, Bunta. I heard he doesn't race for fun. He races to humiliate."
That got Bunta's attention.
---
Three days passed.
Nothing happened.
Then — Friday night — they arrived.
A dark grey Silvia pulled into the gas station right as Yuichi was locking up. It hissed as it stopped, turbo whining low like a mechanical growl.
The man who stepped out was tall, confident, and quiet. Aviators. Leather jacket. Arms crossed.
"You Fujiwara?"
Bunta was leaning against the wall, sipping canned coffee.
"No," Yuichi said before Bunta could speak. "He's just the janitor. Bunta's out."
Masaki didn't flinch. "Then tell him this. Saturday night. One-on-one. Downhill. No crowd. No ceremony. Just us."
He slid into the Silvia and vanished into the dark, as smooth as he came.
Yuichi stared after him, jaw tight. "That guy gives me the creeps."
Bunta chuckled. "Finally."
---
Saturday night.
No crowds.
Yuichi stood at the bottom of Akina, arms folded, trying to control his breathing. "I don't like this. It's too quiet."
Bunta didn't reply. He just pulled the door of the Fairlady shut and rolled his shoulders.
They were alone.
The MR2 hadn't shown.
No other racers had come.
It was just Akina.
And Masaki.
The Silvia rolled into place beside the S30, its engine purring like a beast held on a leash.
Masaki cracked his neck. "You're smaller than I thought."
Bunta lit a cigarette. "You're louder than I hoped."
---
Three… two… one…
They launched.
Masaki's Silvia jumped off the line with brute force, turbo screaming. The Fairlady held back — not losing, just watching.
Corner one — Masaki braked late, threw the Silvia into a wide slide, tires howling. Bunta braked earlier but exited faster, his line tighter, more calculated.
Corner two — the Silvia surged ahead on the straight, but Bunta reeled it in mid-corner with a perfectly timed downshift and another whisper-silent drift.
Corner three — the mountain narrowed.
The game changed.
Masaki's strength on wide corners became a curse.
He struggled to adjust.
The Silvia was a weapon — powerful, fast, deadly on paper.
But Bunta was a ghost.
He knew every inch of the pass.
By the halfway point, he was breathing down Masaki's neck.
---
And then it happened.
Masaki looked into his mirror and saw nothing.
Then, at the apex of the next turn, the Fairlady appeared — silently, suddenly — dipping into the inside gutter like it was born there.
Masaki twitched.
Oversteered.
Skidded wide.
The Fairlady slid through like a phantom and was gone.
---
At the bottom of the mountain, Masaki sat in his car for a long time.
No words.
No anger.
Just shock.
Bunta stepped out, stretched, and cracked his neck.
Yuichi jogged over, wide-eyed. "You okay?"
Bunta shrugged. "I've had tougher runs in the rain."
Masaki finally got out.
He walked up to Bunta and extended a hand.
"You're the real deal."
Bunta shook it once, firm.
"You're not bad either. You just brought a snake to a ghost fight."
---
Later that night, as Bunta and Yuichi sat outside the shop, the silence returned.
But this time, it felt earned.
Yuichi looked up at the stars. "How far do you think this is gonna go?"
Bunta exhaled slowly.
"As far as the road takes me."
---
In a garage across town, a man in a white MR2 stood in the shadows, watching old videotapes of Akina's downhill.
He rewound.
Paused.
Watched again.
"Kai," he whispered to the darkness, "you're gonna want to see this one day."
And behind him, stacked on a shelf like a secret, sat a folder labeled:
Gunma 86
Phase I: Observation