Pit-Stop

By the time we reached the outskirts of Matsumoto, the adrenaline had curdled in my veins.

The AE95 hummed beneath us, still catching its breath. Ryoji killed the eurobeat the moment the race ended—mid-synth stab—snapping the soundtrack that had kept my heart hammering. Silence followed: just road noise, shallow breaths, the pavement unwinding below.

I hadn’t spoken. My throat ached from screaming.

Streetlights passed—orange, humming. The mountain gave way to rooftops, vending machines, shuttered buildings. Civilization, sort of. I stared out as signs blurred past.

Then I finally said, “So, are you going to tell me—”

Ryoji cut in before I could finish, his voice brisk and bone-dry. “Another collaborator. He’s part of the network. We’re making a stop here to swap cars.”

That was it. No names. No reasons. Another shadow in his mystery network.

I blinked. “Okay. Right. Of course we are.”

I slumped a little in my seat. Tension peeled from my shoulders in layers.

We turned down a side street frozen in the ’70s, slipped into a narrow alley between a laundromat and a closed soba shop. A rusted corrugated metal door hid the garage. Ryoji honked once. The door creaked, grudgingly.

Inside, the air smelled of oil, metal, and something sharp that stung my nose. Fluorescents flickered before settling into a sickly glow. The AE95 coasted to a stop. Engine silent. I exhaled for the first time in an hour.

My legs shook as I stepped onto the concrete.

That’s when I saw him.

Tall, lean, older—like time had wrung out every softness. Oil-stained coveralls, sleeves pushed to elbows. Hands thick and worn. A long, unsmiling face framed by grey hair and dark brows that made him look permanently scowling.

He didn’t speak. Just stared. And somehow, without a word, his presence filled the room—heavy, brooding. The kind of man the world listens to without a single sound.

I swallowed.

Ryoji stepped forward with zero hesitation.

Of course he did.

I stayed put, suddenly aware I looked like a Tokyo girl who’d just tumbled off a roller coaster into someone else’s life.

The garage door creaked, then rumbled up, spilling low-beam headlights across the space. The black Supra rolled in, quiet now—no growl, no revving. Just a tired engine, a more tired driver.

He parked beside the AE95, under the lift rails. Everything about him had changed—no swagger, no grin. Just a mop of ponytailed shame and the slump of someone thoroughly shown up.

He stepped out, not even bothering to shut the door with attitude.

Ryoji didn’t even glance at him at first.

“So?” I muttered under my breath.

The kid shuffled over with his hands in his pockets like a schoolboy about to be scolded.

Ryoji raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

The kid scowled, more pout than threat. “It’s not just that you won, okay? You styled on me.”

Ryoji tilted his head slightly. “I told you I didn’t want to race.”

The kid opened his mouth to retort, then changed gears mid-thought. “Ok, I get it. I asked for it. Are you sure it wasn’t for the girl, though?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?!”

“Or was it because I brought up the whole ‘Reika’ thing?”

Ryoji looked at him slowly. His annoyance was subtle, a flicker at the corner of his eye. Not anger. Just that uniquely older-brother level of I should’ve left you at the station.

Then—

“Sendo,” the old man muttered, without even looking up from the engine bay.

The kid—Sendo—snapped to attention. “Y-Yeah?”

“Toolbox.”

“Right! Right!”

Sendo turned and jogged to the far wall, grabbing a large metal case from under a workbench. He nearly tripped over a coil of cables on the way back but managed to play it off like he meant to.

“Put new tires on the Supra,” the old man added, still not sparing him a glance.

Sendo’s face twisted like he wanted to protest but thought better of it.

“Got it,” he grumbled, then hustled off toward the lift mechanism.

Ryoji stepped toward me, brushing his hands off on his jeans.

“Let’s go up and rest,” he said, his voice finally softening. “They’ll be working a while.”

I nodded numbly, already halfway out of my body from exhaustion. My legs moved, but it felt like someone else was piloting them. My head throbbed in that post-panic crash sort of way—like all the adrenaline I’d burned during the race had turned into lead and settled into my brain.

Behind me, I heard Sendo hook the Supra onto the lift, the chains clinking and the hydraulics hissing to life as the car began its slow rise.

I didn’t ask where we were sleeping. Or who the old man was. Or why this strange little garage in the middle of nowhere felt like Ryoji’s secret clubhouse.

I was too tired.

Just another gang of shadows in his life, I guess.

And I—I was just trying to keep up with the speed of it all.

Ryoji led me up a narrow metal ramp at the back of the garage. Each step clanged beneath my feet, louder than it should’ve. I was dragging by then, every muscle finally realizing it could stop pretending to hold me together.

At the top, there was a small landing, then a door with a plain keypad and no sign. He keyed us in.

Inside, the space looked like an old office retooled into a safehouse. Spartan but clean: one window with sealed metal shutters, a kitchenette, a table, even a tiny bathroom with a folding door and stall shower that had clearly seen some things.

I turned slowly, taking it in. Not cozy, but not unfriendly. Designed to disappear and protect at the same time.

Ryoji stepped forward, gesturing to the back wall where two narrow beds were bolted into the corner—stacked one above the other.

Bunk beds.

I blinked. “Seriously?”

“You take the bottom,” he said, already walking toward one of the duffel bags resting against the wall.

“Why?” I pouted. “I want the one on top.”

He didn’t even turn around. “Clients sleep on the bottom. Quicker to move. Safer.”

“Oh, so now I’m cargo,” I muttered.

He added, “Bodyguard has the overview. Easier to respond to an attack.”

I flopped dramatically onto the bottom bunk with a sigh. “I liked Sylvie better.”

He glanced over, expression unreadable.

“I’m not arguing, though,” I said, pulling the pillow under my chin. “Because I’ve never felt this tired in my life.”

I meant it.

My limbs felt full of sand. My thoughts were still drifting somewhere back on that mountain road. But my body was done.

As I curled on my side, I caught a last glimpse of Ryoji kneeling by the duffels. Methodical, calm. He was checking each zipper, laying out gear I couldn’t name, making sure everything was where it was supposed to be. Quiet. Focused. Like the day wasn’t over for him.

My eyes fluttered once, twice.

And then the world faded.