The Final Blaze

POP!

The cork launched into the air. The fizz hissed against the sun, splashing over gloves, and race suits. Wild cheers filled the air, and camera shutters clicked at the podium. Confetti drifted like fireworks, sticking to the winner's damp hair and the sweat on his neck.

Akira Tsubame lifted the trophy overhead. For a moment, he let the roar wash over him. A grin tugged at his mouth, victorious, real enough to pass for joy.

Across the podium, the bright colors of his car, Homura, shimmered under the heat.

Akira waved as he stepped down, and his hand soon found the door handle.

Suddenly, there were no crowds. No lights.

The fiery red paint had dulled to old maroon, its surface filmed with dust. A fluorescent bulb lit overhead, casting shadows in a garage that smelled of stale engine oil.

He froze, re-living the day in his head. Reality, unfortunately, was cold as the metal in his hand. Akira loosened his grip, and the handle clicked as it sprang back.

His shoes softly scraped on the concrete as he headed to the entrance. The rusty metal rattled when he slammed the garage's roll-down door, leaving old Homura in the company of the dark.

---

At the shop, laughter bounced between bays, with good-natured banter over who was broke, who could stay sober longer.

At the counter, Akira leaned on one elbow with a tall cup of iced coffee. He watched them with a faint smile, chiming in now and then with a joke or a quick pointer.

For a while, it seemed impossible to get used to it. But in the company of spirited young people, retired life wasn't so bad.

Even if sometimes, careers don't end on one's own terms. And so he thought.

The door chime jingled as a young man stepped in with a timid bow.

“Afternoon,” he said.

The crew perked up. “Hey, welcome! Need a wash?” one called.

“Just here for a detail job. And some wraps.”

The crew turned their heads toward Akira.

"Boss, wrap job."

Akira sipped on his coffee before he stood, brushing his palms on his work pants.

“Alright, let’s see that.”

The young man dug into his bag and pulled out a folded printout. He handed the paper over to Akira, and as it unfolded, the shop’s noise seemed to fade.

Deep, bright crimson paint, a black swallow poised mid-flight, fiery arcs curling like wings.

At once, he recognized every curve, every exact shade.

“You sure you want this design?” he asked.

The kid’s eyes lit up. “Absolutely. Found it online, thought it was perfect. Figured you guys could do it.”

A faint grin tugged at Akira's mouth.

“Alright, guys,” he said, looking at the crew, the printout raised. “...we have work.”

Akira rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a rag, and leaned over the car with the confidence of a man who’d lived around wheels and engines.

Ever so often, he would stop to gaze at their work as Homura's colors slowly returned to life in a different face. As for his team, their energy and passion injected a subtle but undeniable truth: the job meant more to him than he’d ever say.

---

The job took three days.

The young man stood before his car, wide-eyed and still. He circled it once, twice, as if to ensure he was looking at his own.

Akira watched the kid, wiping his hands on a rag. He flicked a thumbs-up, and the crew watched, grinning, feeding off the energy.

The young man laughed, running his fingers over the hood before sliding into the driver’s seat. The engine purred to life.

The kid happily offered Akira a handshake, and he met the gesture with the same enthusiasm.

As the kid gripped the steering wheel, the kid muttered something almost inaudible.

"Boss..."

Akira froze.

"If you could... would you do it all over again?"

His chest thumped, surprised by a question that kicked hard into his ears.

"Yes," he replied as if in a trance. "Definitely."

And with a faint grin, the racer uttered.

"Then... may the wind and thunder be your steed in the next life."

Without another word, he shifted gears and rode off, Homura's colors gleaming beautifully in the sunset.

Akira watched the car go like a blaze in its final light, breath caught by the kid's words.

"Wind and thunder?"

---

That afternoon, Akira kicked off his shoes and dropped onto his apartment's couch, cracking open a cold beer. He set an assortment of snacks on the low table and flipped the TV to the horse races, his usual pastime.

Halfway through his first sip, a thought hit him.

“Oh… right.”

He dug a betting slip from his wallet. One quick check and his brows rose.

“Wait a minute...” he chuckled.

The win sparked something. He glanced toward the hallway, weighing the thought, then nodded.

He immediately scrolled through his phone and dialed one of his shop assistants.

"Hey. Are you free tonight?"

"Yes boss, kind of. Do you need anything?"

"Round the boys up, I'll treat you to some ramen."

"Really? Thanks, boss! I'll tell everyone. Wait for us, we'll pick you up."

Akira smiled faintly, eyes drifted to the ceiling.

"No need. I feel good today, so I guess I'll drive for once."

The other line fell into an anxious silence.

"Are you sure, boss?"

"I'm alright."

"Okay. Just be very careful."

"Yeah, I will. See you later."

Akira sighed, then walked towards a cabinet display full of trophies and medals. Framed photographs, championship plaques, podium shots.

But he settled on the largest trophy in the center, drifting down to the keys beside it.

The tag read: Homura.

---

The garage door rumbled open, spilling cool air into it. The red machine stood, patiently waiting for its first breath of the night sky in years.

“Hey, bud… We're going for a walk.”

He stripped the dirt off its body with a duster with gusto, like a jockey grooming a retired horse.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Akira kicked the pedals once or twice, then finally turned the key Homura’s engine growled awake, headlights glaring at the street.

With a smooth shift, he eased her into the open road, pointing toward the mountain downhill.

---

It was a drive without rush. Tires crunched on asphalt and the faint scent of pine filled the slopes.

Then—

A roar.

A blur streaked past his flank, close enough to catch the paint under the streetlights.

Akira’s eyes narrowed at the vehicle in front of him.

“That’s… the kid.”

Before the thought could settle, two more cars tore through the lane like a predator locked into the prey.

Akira eased on the gas, observing.

The evening news he saw earlier replayed in his mind: downhill assaults, cars forced off the road, drivers robbed, or worse.

Up ahead, gunfire cracked against the young racer's ride.

Akira’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, taking a deep breath.

Then, a sudden surge rushed through his veins, like someone had poured gasoline into his bloodstream.

The road wasn’t just a road anymore—it was a battlefield.

He flicked the radio on, spinning the dial until a pulsing, furious beat punched through the speakers.

A slow, dangerous grin crept across his face.

“Alright…” He slipped Homura into a higher gear. "Let's do this."

One heel-and-toe shift, one check in the rearview—and Akira Tsubame launched forward, the world narrowing to stinging wind and screaming tires.

---

The mountain road twisted like a serpent under the moonlight. The thug cars hounded the crimson-and-gold rally car, laughter cutting through the night.

Then, behind them, a sudden glare appeared at the curve. Blazing headlights ate the distance with impossible speed.

One thug squinted in the mirror. “What the—?!”

The roar deepened. They leaned out, firing back, but the oncoming beast didn’t flinch.

Akira’s eyes locked in, his body moving with the wheel like an old dance partner. Every shift, every slide, every feathered brake was perfect.

"Go, buddy. Just one more..."

Homura’s tires screeched like a ghost’s howl.

The thug cars jittered. The target's car seized the chance, leaning into the next curve and pulling ahead.

But Akira wasn’t done.

He closed on the nearest thug, tapping their bumper once, twice—taunting.

“Come on, amateurs.”

On the third hit, their car lurched just as an oncoming truck's headlights flared like a meteor.

The lead thug swerved right, clipping his partner. The second car spun off the road, swallowed by the dark.

The truck thundered past. In a split second, Akira dove inside the lane like a sparrow slicing against the wind, sliding Homura past the last thug in a clean overtake.

Another truck loomed in the curve. The young racer veered clear.

Akira laughed wildly, with the laugh of a man at the peak of the high.

But caught in the fever of his prime, he didn’t ease up. The curve tightened, and a foot slipped off the brakes.

The wheel twitched wrong.

Homura broke loose. The world spun into a blur of lights and dark.

Through the windshield, a truck’s grille filled his vision.

Too late.

CRASH.

Metal and glass exploded in a violent clash.

Then, nothing. No sound. No pain.

Just darkness, swallowing Akira Tsubame whole.