Chapter 7: The Mask and the Engine

Minato, 10:58 PM.

The garage had stayed open later than usual. Naomi had finished an automatic transmission repair on a stubborn Prius, eaten a cold onigiri standing up, half-cleaned her hands then she had changed a fitted black jumpsuit, reinforced gloves, a simple mask covering the lower part of her face, wide dark glasses no signature, no ego she locked the garage, got into her Pinkbolt MKII, and drove silently towards the other Tokyo the one of shadows and living asphalt Sumida Bridge, 11:29 PM a small gathering a dozen cars, glances, engines idling she arrived without music, without a horn she parked to the side, like a whisper. The Pinkbolt barely shone no giant spoiler, no neon lights but eyes immediately fell upon it. "What model is that?" a guy in a blue hoodie whispered. "Looks like an RS, but not factory." "Customized to hell, look at the tires not for the track, that's for slippery terrain."

Naomi got out of the car, calm, confident, silent a girl approached, surprised. "You're new?" Naomi nodded slowly. "Yeah." The girl observed her outfit, her gloved hands. "No sponsor? No team?" "No." A guy in a drift T-shirt shrugged, impressed. "Nice car, anyway. Did you build it yourself?" Naomi answered without hesitation. "Every piece." They exchanged a glance, a silent acknowledgment. "That's clean, respect," he said, extending his hand she shook it, a firm grip, neither too much nor too little another guy, standing on a wall, shouted, "WE'RE RACING IN THREE MINUTES! Three by three, as planned. First run for the newcomers." a subtle shiver ran through the racers a Naomi didn't flinch a racer approached her, short, solid, with an Osaka accent. "You don't look scared." "I'm tired, and I've been working all day, so either I lose, or I fall asleep in the turn." He laughed, genuinely. He also extended his hand. "I'm Kota. I'm starting with you on the front line. Don't pretend to be slow." She looked at him for a moment. "I'm not pretending. I'm faithful to the road." the engines ignited. The lights dimmed. Naomi sat in her Pinkbolt, closed the door, put on her gloves, lowered her glasses over her eyes and for the first time, she was going to race not as a goddess, not as a Noctielle, but as a stranger with an engine that breathed just enough to speak to the road.

End of Chapter 7 — The Mask and the Engine