A week had passed since that day. Behind Fujiwara Tofu Shop, the deep darkness before dawn still lingered. The air was crisp and cold, and only the sound of water used for making tofu echoed quietly. Kenta couldn't sleep. He sat on a pile of old tires, just staring blankly into the empty space before him. The cuffs of his school uniform were still frayed. The bruises on his face had already turned yellow, and the scabs were starting to peel. He traced them with his fingertip. A dry edge flaked off, tickling his skin. All that filled his mind were Takumi's words in that hospital room. "You drive. In my Hachiroku." He'd given a good answer back then. But ever since, he'd been thinking. (Can I really do it?) His stomach clenched tight. His mouth went dry, his throat sticking every time he swallowed. He'd think the same thing over and over, and morning would come without an answer. Those nights just kept repeating. From the distance, the sound of a truck engine drew closer. Kenta lifted his head. —It's here. The light truck from Maruse Automotive crunched over the gravel as it came around to the back. Its headlights sliced through the darkness, illuminating its cargo. The Hachiroku. Kenta stood up. His legs were trembling slightly. He felt sweat seeping behind his knees. The truck stopped, and Maruse Kouichi climbed out of the driver's seat. A fifty-eight-year-old mechanic. A man with thinning gray hair slicked back, always wearing overalls stained with oil. "Delivered." His voice was hoarse. He must have driven through the night. Deep dark circles hung under his eyes. Kenta looked at the truck bed. There it was. The Hachiroku. The front frame had definitely been repaired. But—the hood still had dents. The fender's paint was still peeling. The cracks in the interior were still there, too. It looked like a completely different car from the old Hachiroku. It wasn't that white-and-black panda color that Takumi had polished every morning. "...The engine's alive." Maruse-san said it shortly. That was all he said, and then he said nothing more. With oil-stained hands, he began the process of unloading the Hachiroku from the truck bed. His back looked small, and there wasn't a single wasted movement. Kenta walked up beside the Hachiroku. He reached out and touched the warped hood. The cold feel of iron. His fingertips traced the boundary between the repaired parts and the parts still broken. The edge of the peeling paint caught against the pads of his fingers. It was the Hachiroku he'd seen over and over in the *Initial D* manga. He'd come to this world, yearning to see Takumi drive it. But now, it was different. He wasn't a spectator anymore. Kenta placed both hands on the hood. The coldness of the iron seeped from his palms into his arms, and from his arms into his chest. When he pressed down firmly with both hands, the hood creaked faintly. (Drive, to protect.) It was heavy. Terrifying. The coldness of the iron was the weight of reality itself. The calves of both legs tensed up, screaming at him to run away. But—the soles of his feet wouldn't move, as if stuck to the ground. Maruse-san lowered the Hachiroku to the ground, got back into the truck without a word, and drove off, kicking up gravel. Kenta couldn't move until the tail lights disappeared into the darkness. The faint smell of exhaust lingered in his nose. The sky was just starting to lighten. The eastern edge shifted from deep navy to a pale, watery blue. The chilled air stung Kenta's earlobes. — How much time passed after that? He heard footsteps crunching on the gravel. *Crunch, crunch.* Someone was walking over. The footsteps were irregular, the intervals between each one a little long. When Kenta turned around, standing there was—Takumi. His bandaged right arm was in a sling. He held a cane in his left hand. He was just wearing a thin jacket over his sleepwear. Scrapes still remained on his face. A blackened scab spread from his cheek to his temple. "Takumi-san...?" His voice trembled. Even though it was his own voice, it sounded distant. Takumi said nothing. He just walked over to the passenger seat of the Hachiroku and placed his cane on the ground. The cane clattered onto the gravel. He opened the door deftly with his bandaged right hand. His fingertip movements were slow, but there was no hesitation. *Creeeak.* The sound of the rusty hinge echoed in the quiet morning. Takumi got into the passenger seat and closed the door with his left hand. Then, he jerked his chin towards the driver's seat. Get in. His eyes were the same as always—narrow, sleepy-looking—but they were looking straight at Kenta. The depths of his dark pupils glinted quietly in the pale morning light. "W-wait a minute...! I don't even have my license yet..." His voice cracked. He waved both hands in front of his chest. His fingertips were clumsy, as if numb with cold. Takumi didn't answer. He just waited. He wasn't blaming him. He wasn't forcing him. But he sat there as if it were the most natural thing in the world. That profile was the same one that had always gazed at the Akina pass from the passenger seat. Kenta's legs moved on their own. Before he knew it, he was opening the driver's side door. He sat down in the seat. He gripped the steering wheel. His hands were shaking. He gripped it until his knuckles turned white. (This is the Hachiroku's driver's seat.) The steering wheel Takumi had gripped every day. The place where he'd run the Akina pass hundreds of times. The faint smell of gasoline and dust came from the seat. "...Let's go." A short voice. Just those words fell into the quiet car. — The Akina Dam access road. A paved road stretching along the north side of the mountain, closed to regular vehicles. There was a chain across the entrance, but Kenta removed it. The chain was cold and heavy, jangling in his hands. From the passenger seat, Takumi watched him without a word. The Hachiroku slowly started to move. Kenta stepped on the clutch and gripped the shift lever. His hand was slippery with sweat. Every time he re-gripped it, the leather of the lever squeaked. "Clutch out slowly." Takumi's voice was quiet, as if telling him not to be nervous. A voice without a single ripple, like the surface of a lake when the wind dies down. Kenta held his breath and released the clutch. *Clunk.* Stalled. "...S-sorry!" The back of his throat grew hot. He could feel the blood draining from his face. "Again." He didn't get angry. He just said it shortly. He stepped on the clutch again. This time, even slower. He focused every nerve on the toes of his left foot. The engine started, and the Hachiroku moved forward just a little. —It moved. Something trembled faintly deep in Kenta's chest. Realizing he'd been holding his breath, he slowly exhaled. "Shift." Kenta frantically worked the shift lever. Trying to get into second gear, a nasty *grind* sounded. He'd put it into fourth. The shriek of metal not meshing crawled up from his toes. "...Well, that's how it goes." Stalled again. Sweat beaded on Kenta's forehead. His palms were sticky. His breathing was shallow. His heart pounded behind his ears. Once more. This time, he somehow got it into second. The Hachiroku picked up a little speed. The trees on both sides of the access road slowly flowed past behind them. The morning light grazed the windshield and flickered on Kenta's knees. (It's moving.) (I'm moving the Hachiroku.) At that moment, he suddenly braked too hard. *Screech.* The tires squealed, and Takumi's body lurched forward. "..." Takumi grimaced. He pressed his left hand against the bandage on his right arm. His knuckles stood out white. "S-sorry...!" His mind went completely blank. His foot on the brake trembled. He let go of the shift lever. Everything was falling apart. The clutch, the gears, the brake, the steering wheel—they all tangled up messily in his head, and he didn't know what to do. A third stall. The silence after the engine died plugged his ears. Kenta hung his head. The strength drained from his hands gripping the steering wheel. His fingers loosened and fell limply onto his lap. "...Maybe I really can't do this." His voice shook. Towards the end, it faded into a vanishing whisper. Takumi was silent for a while. A small creaking sound came from the passenger seat. Then, he slowly turned towards Kenta. His narrow eyes looked straight at him. "You felt the Hachiroku move, right?" Kenta lifted his head. His vision was blurry. He rubbed his eyes. It moved. It definitely moved. Even stalling, even jerking around—it moved. "...Yeah." His voice cleared up, just a little. Without another word, Takumi looked ahead through the windshield. At the end of the access road, the ridgeline of Mount Akina was just visible through the trees. The morning sun was beginning to dye the ridgeline gold. The edge of the mountain was slowly catching fire. Takumi's silence meant he wasn't angry. It moved. That's enough—it was as if he was saying that. A soft silence, with no tension in his shoulders. Kenta stepped on the clutch again. The sole of his left foot was starting to remember the shape of the pedal. This time, he felt like it was okay to fail. — He stalled many times. He messed up the shifts. He braked too hard. Each time, Takumi's body swayed, and Kenta bit his lip. But the Hachiroku kept running. Little by little, Kenta's body began to learn the Hachiroku's movements. The sensation in his left foot as he released the clutch. The faint vibrations transmitted from the pedal, passing from behind his knee to his hip. How to grip the shift lever, wrapping it in his palm. The coldness of the leather and the hardness of the metal core. The brake wasn't something to stomp on, but to press gently. The adjustment of putting his weight on his toes. There were several moments when his body moved before his head could think. (So this is what it means to drive.) An indescribable sensation slowly climbed up his spine. Takumi said almost nothing. He just sat in the passenger seat, occasionally giving him a short word. But that silence was, rather, comforting. It wasn't about logic. It wasn't about words. Just driving was everything right now. The engine revs, the tire vibrations, the wind resistance. That alone was the entire world. When they reached the end of the access road, Kenta stopped the Hachiroku. He turned off the engine. A small *psshh* sound, and then silence. The residual heat of the engine faintly reached them from beyond the hood. The two of them got out of the car. Leaning on his cane, Takumi silently looked towards Mount Akina. He adjusted the position of his bandage with his left hand, then gazed up at the mountain again. His profile narrowed his eyes slightly, as if remembering something. "...Do you think I'll be able to drive faster?" Kenta's voice was hoarse. His throat was bone-dry. After a short pause, Takumi answered briefly. The wind passed between them. "If you don't give up." That was all. Kenta nodded. Without saying anything, he just nodded, *yeah*. Each time he bobbed his head, the back of his eyes grew hot. The morning sun streamed in from the mountain ridgeline. The Hachiroku's battered body emerged in the golden light. The warped hood, the peeling paint—everything was enveloped in light. Even the scars were part of the gold. Kenta placed his hand on the Hachiroku's hood. The feel of iron warmed by the morning sun. The coldness from earlier was now warm, like a living thing. (If I don't give up.) Only those words remained in his chest. Small, but with a certain weight. — That same night. Yokohama, Kanagawa Prefecture. A high-rise building in Minato Mirai. A conference room on an upper floor. Inside the room with its blinds closed, cigarette smoke hung thinly in the air. The night view glittered brilliantly through the wall o