The Final Blaze

POP!

The cork launched into the air, lost in a burst of gold and white. The fizz hissed against the sun, splashing over gloves, race suits, and the gleaming curve of a championship trophy. Cheers were everywhere, and camera shutters clicked at the podium. Confetti drifted like fireworks, sticking to his damp hair and the sweat cooling on his neck.

Akira Tsubame lifted the trophy overhead. For a moment, he let the roar wash over him—the blur of faces, the scent of burnt rubber, the warm sting of champagne in his eyes. A grin tugged at his mouth, victorious, real enough to pass for joy.

Down the podium, the lights hit his car, paint shimmering brightly under the heat.

His hand found the door handle. Fingers wrapped around it, and—

Everything froze.

Suddenly, there were no crowds. No lights. No hum of an idling engine. Just the faint creak of old metal under his grip.

The fiery red paint had dulled to old maroon, its surface filmed with dust that left faint marks on his fingertips. A lone fluorescent bulb lit overhead, casting long shadows in a garage that smelled of stale oil.

He stayed there, one hand on the door, as if holding it long enough would take him back to that day. Reality, unfortunately, was cold as the metal in his hand.

His fingers loosened, and the handle clicked as it sprang back.

His shoes scraped on the concrete as he headed towards the entrance. The air in the garage felt heavier than the trophy he lifted on the best day of his life.

The rusty metal rattled when he grabbed the garage's roll-down door. One hard pull, one sharp slam.

The noise echoed, staying behind in the car's company.

---

At the shop, buffers whirred, rags shone chrome, and polish scent lingered in the air. Laughter bounced between bays—good-natured ribbing 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, he saw that retired life isn't so bad.

Even if sometimes careers don't end on your own terms.

The bell over the door rang.

A young man stepped in. Tall, wiry, ruffled from the windy drive. His jacket was covered in proud patches, but his glance around the shop was almost shy.

“Afternoon,” he said, giving a timid bow.

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

The kid grinned. “Just here for a detail job. And wraps.”

The crew turned their heads toward Akira.

"Boss, wrap job."

With a puff of cigarette smoke, Akira 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 it over.

Akira unfolded the paper, and 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.”

Akira let out a low whistle, a faint grin already tugging at his 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.

As they worked, his hands moved on instinct—checking angles, smoothing edges, firing off instructions. Every so often, his gaze drifted between the printouts and his team, because beneath the lively banter, 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 the right car.

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.

"Boss..." the kid said to Akira as he gripped the steering wheel.

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

Akira froze when he heard the question that he least expected. But in his heart, he always knew he would answer in a heartbeat.

"Yes," he muttered, almost subconsciously. "Definitely."

The young racer glanced at him and grinned. Without another word, he shifted gears and rode off, Homura's colors gleaming beautifully in the sunlight.

Akira watched the car leave, wondering about the kid's untimely question and his answer to it.

---

That afternoon, his apartment door creaked open, revealing a modest, tidy space. Not much to brag about, but clean and quiet.

Akira kicked off his shoes and dropped onto the couch, cracking open a cold beer. He set an assortment of snacks on the table that he bought from the customer's tip, and flipped the TV to the horse races; his usual pastime before bed.

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?"

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

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

"Oh, thanks, boss, I'll tell the gang. Please wait for us, we'll pick you up."

Akira paused and smiled faintly.

"Nah, no need. I'm feeling good today, so I guess I'll drive. Just this once."

The other line went into an anxious silence.

"If you say so, boss. Just be very careful."

"Yeah, I will. See you later."

Akira sighed as the call ended. He walked towards a cabinet display full of small trophies and medals. Framed photographs, championship plaques, podium shots.

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

The tag read: Homura.

Minutes later, the garage door rumbled open, spilling cool air inside. The red vehicle stood, patiently waiting for its first breath of the night sky in years.

“Hey, bud… We're going for a walk.”

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Akira 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—just the soft crunch of tires on asphalt and the faint scent of pine from the slopes.

Then—

A roar split the quiet.

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

Akira’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s… the kid.”

Before the thought could settle, two more cars tore past—black, predatory in how they cut the lane.

Akira eased on the gas, observing. The kid’s car danced along the road skillfully but its movements trembled—too sharp into one corner, too late on the brakes in another.

The evening news 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. The driver flinched, swerving before steadying again.

Akira’s grip tightened. For a moment, he held back.

Then—

It hit.

A sudden surge rushed through his veins, like someone had poured gasoline into his bloodstream. His chest thrummed with the ghost of every race start he’d ever lived. 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.

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

---

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—a voice from another age. 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. Hands, feet, eyes—pure muscle memory. Every shift, every slide, every feathered brake felt right.

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

Homura’s tires screamed, the sound slicing through the chaos like a ghost’s howl.

The young racer caught it in his rearview. The thug cars were jittering now. He 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 trailer’s headlights flared.

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

The trailer thundered past. In a split second, Akira dove inside the lane like a dragon locked in on its prey, sliding Homura past the last thug in a clean overtake.

Up ahead, the young racer looked again, eyes gleaming against the blinding lights.

"H... Homura!!!"

But no time to marvel—a truck loomed in the curve. The kid veered clear.

Akira laughed—full and wild—the laugh of a man at the peak of the high.

But caught in the fever, he didn’t ease up. The curve tightened, the road slick with night dew.

A foot slipped off the brakes.

The wheel twitched wrong.

Homura broke loose. Tires screamed. The world tilted into a blur of lights and dark.

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

Too late.

Akira felt time freeze long enough for his last words.

CRASH.

Metal and glass exploded in a violent clash.

Then—nothing.

No sound. No pain.

Just darkness, swallowing Akira Tsubame whole.

"If only I could... one more time..."