Chapter Text
BREAKING
Gen Narumi crashes into the barriers and flips over at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix
Tragedy at the season-ending Abu Dhabi Grand Prix
A five-time consecutive world champion suffers the worst accident imaginable with the winner's trophy in sight.
Champagne ceremony and fireworks to be omitted
A subdued podium ceremony held in a solemn atmosphere
Gen Narumi transported to hospital unconscious
Gen Narumi was a driver personally discovered and deliberately groomed by Isao Shinomiya. Or rather, now it would be more accurate to say he was. The young driver whom Mercedes had systematically raised to the point that people spoke of an era dominated by Narumi saw his career cut short just before claiming a fifth consecutive world championship.
It was a clear violation of the rules. Narumi had driven steadily throughout the race and built up a huge gap over the cars behind him, and in the closing stages the blue flags were out. Even so, the backmarker refused to yield. There was no way to tell whether he had decided it was the last race anyway and was willing to take the penalty, or whether he simply meant to obstruct Narumi. Either way, the backmarker's breach of sportsmanship led to contact between the two cars, and Gen Narumi lost control, slid, and slammed into the barrier. The tightening of safety regulations after numerous fatal crashes in the past saved Gen Narumi's life. But the medical car, swerving in haste to avoid the wreckage of his destroyed machine, brought him a result he had never imagined, never even considered.
His vision shook. With an impact like a lightning strike, the world twisted from side to side. The two legs that only seconds earlier had been planted firmly on the ground folded uselessly in midair against his will. It felt as though his chest had slipped away. The circuit, hard as steel, smeared like shards of passing glass, and a sharp, alien sensation traveled up his spine and poured coldly into his brain. No. Put strength into your legs. His brain sent the signal, but his legs were dead. Somewhere there came the horrible sound of metal grinding, and someone's scream cut through the air. He could not even tell whose it was. Every sound turned into a muffled gray haze. What did it mean? Was he really going to die like this, so pointlessly?
They said his life was not in danger. The records he had been piling up at astonishing speed. If things had continued this way, he would have become the all-time leader in Grand Prix wins, podiums, pole positions, and fastest laps: a super rookie, emperor of the circuit, ruler of the track. The man who reigned as Formula One's young emperor under all manner of epithets was still only twenty-four years old. The faint rise and fall of his chest was the only sign by which they could tell he was alive.
"......, ......, ......, it's a spinal fracture."
All sorts of unpleasant diagnoses kept being spoken, but there was one name that lodged in his ear at once. The voice was calm, yet strangely cold, like someone far too used to pronouncing other people's fates.
"For the time being, you won't be able to move your legs."
Once his condition stabilized, they would be able to begin rehabilitation, and some degree of recovery might be possible. But there could be lasting aftereffects. That last sentence sank into the hospital room as heavily as the air itself. Isao Shinomiya stood beside the bed, silently looking down at him. The ECG monitor on the wall blinked at intervals, proving his fragile survival, but the bed itself remained still. In that stillness, only Isao's gaze flashed sharply.
How would Gen Narumi accept this sentence? A life lived inside the rush of speed had been shattered by an accident that lasted only seconds. The steps that had carried him briskly down the pit lane in a racing suit, the tremor of the engine that had traveled through him when he climbed into the machine, the G-forces he felt when pressing the accelerator, the sensations of surrendering his body to speed. Now all of them were ghostly sensations surviving only in memory. He would never return to that scorching speed again. He had never imagined it would end so simply.
When Narumi regained consciousness, he accepted it with surprising calm. Contrary to everyone's expectation that he would be overcome by violent emotion, he was merely quiet.
It wasn't as though he had particularly loved cars or karts. He was around five when he lost his parents and entered a children's home. The place was noisy every single day. A child who could do everything on his own was treated as somehow not childlike, not admirable so much as unsettling. The only moments when Narumi received praise were when he played with the rowdy children. He was only imitating the exemplary behavior the adults wanted, but in those moments he was not lonely. He was only six. Still, to hear those three syllables—well done—Narumi thought hard about how he could play well with the other children. In the end what landed in his hands was a plastic toy kart someone else had thrown away, junk that had come in under the name of charity. With his small hands he ground down the wheels and tightened various parts. That crude tuning proved stronger than expected, and before long the other children were lining up for turns. One day, as the squeaking kart skimmed over the grass as though it were flying, Isao Shinomiya saw the scene for the first time.
From that day on, Isao Shinomiya, CEO of Mercedes and team principal, took Gen Narumi in. He had come this far without liking cars, karts, or even driving, because he had wanted to show Isao something. Bringing me back then was an excellent choice, old man, and I'm proud of myself too, so be grateful for someone like me. It was that kind of feeling—neither grand nor humble, just something small and personal. Now it was all useless.
No one knew better than Gen Narumi himself that his life as a driver was over. With legs that throbbed and tingled relentlessly like this, even ordinary walking was difficult. Getting angry and frustrated over simulation test results that were worse than the records he had set in junior world karting as a child would only deepen his depression. The hardest thing to endure was the pathetic look of pity. And the wearying words. Narumi Gen, who had once enjoyed the public attention constantly fixed on him, now found all of it unbearable. He had barely been discharged from the hospital and already they wanted to make a documentary. What interview? What did it matter that he had grown up in a care facility? Why were they spinning these ridiculous what-if stories about what would have happened if he had died? Were these people out of their minds? He was sick to death of them. Did they really want to feel so superior by talking about somebody else's misfortune?
Even in his anger, Narumi felt hollow. What was he supposed to do now? What Isao proposed was university. The team lacked engineers who could carry its future, so Narumi was to help. Isao could not simply leave that clever brain alone, the one that had known how to tune even a toy kart into something impressive. Narumi refused at once. His reason was simple: sitting at a desk sounded boring. Of course, that was only what he said. Isao's proposal had been a notice, not a suggestion, from the start. By then the recommendation letter and application had already been sent, and by the time Narumi came to his senses, he was in the sky over California.
Before he knew it, he was double-majoring in aerospace engineering and mechanical engineering, and when he was told a doctorate was essential, he could not even argue before being pushed straight into a combined master's and doctoral program. A laboratory where day and night blurred together. Repetition of failure, error, and revision. He had no idea how he had endured it. Though to be fair, there was also someone around who made sure the environment gave him no choice but to endure. On the day of his doctoral hooding, Narumi declared through clenched teeth that he would never set foot in Pasadena—no, California—again. He did not keep that promise. Had he heard later that the paper he had written while tearing at his hair had become a foundational text, and that people had begun praising him as a genius, he probably would have forgotten those earlier words entirely.
After eleven years of study abroad, he had to jump into practical work the moment he returned to Britain. How long had it even been since he clawed his way out of academia, and now they wanted him designing cars? Did they think they'd just left it all to him? That old bastard! There was some internal resistance, though for reasons entirely different from Narumi's own. Some argued it was too soon to throw him into practical work, but the objection was immediately crushed because Narumi had also consistently taken part in Formula SAE. It was added that someone who had actually driven cars would surely understand them better. There was logic to it. Every team had its own way of designing a car, and every driver had a different way of driving. Isao's choice was an excellent one. In motorsport, people say openly that the driver is the final component fitted to the car. Even so, when the interaction between driver and machine works properly, it can produce the most extreme synergy.
Even after half the season had passed, Narumi still could not understand the team's two drivers. He replayed the lap times on the monitor again and again. The calculations, the setup, the output—nothing was wrong. Even while checking the nonstop stream of data over the radio, he had missed nothing.
"I built them the perfect car to win in, so why the hell can't they win?"
Once again that bowl-cut man with slitted eyes took pole position. Camera flashes went off, and he accepted the microphone with that signature smile. Narumi leaned back in his chair and glared at the screen. If only that bastard, that bastard, weren't there. Mercedes' two current drivers both understood the car well, adapted quickly, and possessed excellent individual skill. They did not ignore team orders, and they worked well with the engineers. Above all, neither of them ever swore during a race. Narumi sincerely applauded them for that. In his own active years, he had unfailingly held the No. 1 spot for the driver who swore the most over the radio. The FIA had even floated the idea of introducing fines for profanity because of it.
But.
That was that, and this was this. The Mercedes car was clearly faster. An undeniable fact, and Narumi knew it. Naturally. Who did they think had made it? In his view—allowing himself only the slightest exaggeration—it was a car fit to be called the beginning of a legend, yet these two had won only rarely, like beans sprouting in a drought. True, they both finished on the podium often enough to rack up points every time, which was nice. Their team would probably take the Constructors' Championship anyway. Even so, his pride as an engineer would not allow it. When he turned his gaze back, the smile on the man on the screen looked smooth and mechanical.
Soshiro Hoshina. A neat appearance that made it hard to believe he was thirty-seven years old. When Narumi first saw his record, he had hesitated. Normally that was an age when a career had already passed its peak. Yet this man ruled the circuit as if his career were only just beginning. If asked when a driver's skill is usually at its best, most people would say from the late twenties to the mid-thirties. If a driver's ability was good enough, he could keep a seat past forty, but in reality, with only twenty-two seats in the world, it was not easy unless he had an overwhelming career behind him.
Soshiro Hoshina had won the world championship in each of the past two years and was now challenging for a third straight title. And unless some extraordinary thing happened—such as retiring from every remaining Grand Prix—that was exactly what would happen. That was the part people found strange. Most drivers built dazzling careers when they were young, but this man had had no particularly remarkable career in his youth, then suddenly shone later, appearing out of nowhere one day and shaking races around as though he held them in his hand. There was even frequent talk that his driving style resembled Gen Narumi's, and now the title ruler of the circuit had passed to Soshiro Hoshina.
"Hmph. Even so, he's still got a long way to go before he breaks my records."
The strange thing was that he had debuted in F1 the same year Narumi had, yet Narumi had never once seen him—not in the free paddock, not in practice sessions.
[Congratulations! You've taken pole position today. It was an incredibly impressive lap time—how do you feel?]
[Well, to be honest, it's the result I expected. The car responded beautifully today, and every setup we prepared fell exactly into place.]
Holding the microphone, Hoshina spoke evenly. There was not the slightest hesitation. His tone was polite, but the confidence inside it was rock solid.
[You showed such a strong performance in qualifying—what kind of strategy are you thinking about for tomorrow's race?]
[I'm not worried about the pace dropping off. That's what we're good at.]
It was true. Red Bull—in other words, Hoshina Soshiro's team—was strong in the closing stages. Mercedes' two drivers, on the other hand, always lost concentration at the end. This season, among every car running on the circuit, there was none superior to Mercedes, and yet they still could not win. It was not even a matter of strategy. In the end, the chronic problems of those two drivers held them back.
[Especially when the balance is this good, like today, I think if we get the start right, the race is ours.]
Hoshina added with a faint smile,
[Well, some teams keep taking issue with our car... but we'll prove it on track.]
That bastard, is he talking about us?! The engineer who had lodged more technical protests than anyone else among the engineers of Formula 1's eleven teams bristled at once.
[Haha, that's a rather sharp remark. Were you perhaps thinking of the Mercedes team?]
With a loud laugh, he answered.
[I never said any particular team, did I? But there does seem to be an engineer on some team who can't quite stand seeing us do well. That's all right. We prefer to show results rather than talk.]
[That's some strong confidence. Finally, would you like to say a word to the fans?]
[Thank you to the fans who always support us.]
[Thank you. We're looking forward to a great race tomorrow!]
A great race, my ass! Because of you, nobody's paying attention to my car! Fundamentals do not change. Narumi no longer wanted attention on himself, but evaluations of the car were the one exception. He archived every article and did not miss even a single line of expert review. It was a child born from his own head after hundreds of simulations and sleepless nights. Without even getting up, Narumi tilted his chair back. Fatigue was severe, piled on top of sleep deprivation during a Grand Prix stretch that had now lasted three weeks, but there was too much to do. For tomorrow's race, he had to analyze an enormous amount of data collected during qualifying: driver feedback, vehicle sensor data, tire wear, fuel consumption, temperature changes, and more.
"And I still have to do the briefing... ha."
I hate having too much to do. I want to become cosmic dust. Then I wouldn't have to do anything. Narumi murmured the impossible wish with heartfelt sincerity.
It had felt ominous from the very start, and in the end disaster struck. Mercedes' current two drivers, Jack and Aaron, had both come through the Mercedes junior team and been raised with team support into Formula One drivers. The team spared no expense in backing its next generation of drivers, but their total number of wins could be counted on one hand. They had only just begun to rack up podiums this season; until last year, even that had been difficult. In a sport where huge sponsors attach themselves and fierce competition is unavoidable, victory is what everyone wants. Especially when it is a place granted to only twenty-two people in the entire world. This season, they had yet to win even once, and they were growing desperate.
Jack had looked visibly on edge from the formation lap onward, and the instant the start lights went out he instinctively targeted Hoshina. Hoshina, chasing a third consecutive world championship, was calm but decisive, while Jack, charging hard behind him, shoved a wheel in without hesitation.
"Soshiro Hoshina and Jack Barton are side by side from the very first corner! This looks dangerous!"
As the commentators' voices rose, the two cars came out of the hairpin separated by barely the width of a tire. In the grandstands, cheers and screams were already mingling, and on the pit wall the engineers of both teams pressed their radios at the same time.
『Box! Box! Protect the tires, manage the pace!』
『Calm down, you're being too aggressive. Just wait until the DRS zone.』
But there was no way messages like that were going to get through. And even if they had, there had been no intention of listening. The decisive moment came on the third lap, just before entry to the chicane. The rear of Jack's machine twitched slightly, unable to handle the speed, and that crack in control struck Hoshina's front wing head-on. Tire smoke, carbon debris, the smell of skidding rubber. In an instant, both machines were flung off the track and buried themselves in the barriers.
With the commentator's cry, the broadcast switched to slow motion. Spectators screaming, pit crew members covering their mouths. In the stillness, Jack moved first. Pulling off his helmet and brushing at his hair, he strode toward Hoshina, still not entirely free of the shock yet walking with conspicuous boldness. Hoshina, who had not yet climbed out of the car, was staring straight through him. Jack spoke first.
"Why'd you press so hard? Couldn't you have given up just one corner?"
Hoshina slowly removed his helmet. The pit wall cameras closed in on his face, and millions of fans around the world watched his eyes. His lips were pressed firmly shut, but his sharp gaze said everything.
『The cameras are rolling. Don't say anything right now.』
It was advice he agreed with. Without answering, he simply turned and left the circuit.
That afternoon, the race continued, but by far the most talked-about moment was the collision between Soshiro Hoshina and Jack Barton. Replays, drone shots, onboard cameras, team radio, fan reactions on social media—everything. Because it was Hoshina's first race without seeing the checkered flag, the Monza Grand Prix in Italy could not help but sear itself into people's minds.
"Go apologize."
Jack stood with his head lowered, lips clenched tight. Right after the FIA notified him of penalty points and a grid drop, Isao Shinomiya had said only that, in an even tone.
"Because of you, he couldn't race today. Go apologize at once."
His face was full of fear. He had caused the accident in a burst of anger and impatience, and now his emotions seemed to be welling up in him only after the fact. His state of mind was obvious even without looking closely. The realization that his reckless judgment had put the team in trouble had come far too late. Apologizing was hard. Especially when one had only just admitted to oneself that one was wrong.
Narumi was leaning against the wall. Open-wheel racing was cruel precisely because it was so fast. And this time, the fault was clearly Jack's.
Team boss Isao neither raged nor raised his voice. He simply said, quietly but unmistakably, apologize. Narumi could imagine how much weight those words must have carried for Jack. It might actually have been easier if Isao had shouted. One sentence questioning the driver's attitude, his sportsmanship, and his responsibility to the team. It was not a mere scolding.
But Jack hesitated for a long time. Eyes squeezed shut, he could not bring himself to move. After pacing around like that, he finally looked up at Narumi.
"...Could you come with me?"
Narumi swept a glance around him. Everyone's eyes were on him. He did not want to get dragged into something this annoying. He's not a child, for God's sake.
"Why should I?"
A detached reply. But he did not refuse all the way to the end. Letting out a long sigh, he finally started walking. He did talk to the kid fairly often and had helped him organize data before. Honestly, seeing him shrink this small for the first time, he did feel a little sorry for him.
At the quiet team house meeting room behind the circuit, Hoshina sat holding a cup of coffee. His manager sat beside him in silence. He showed almost no reaction when the two of them entered. Jack took a hesitant breath, then bowed his head.
"...I'm sorry. The accident was my responsibility. I'll be more careful in the future."
It was a short, clean apology. Silence. Hoshina slowly set down his coffee cup after glancing at Narumi, who stood some distance behind Jack with a slight limp, and tilted his head to one side with a smile.
"An apology with a guardian in attendance. That's amusing."
Narumi frowned. Jack's face flushed red at the remark, but he could not say anything. Instead, Narumi stepped forward.
"Let's end this here."
"End what, exactly?"
"Quit being sarcastic."
"I wasn't being sarcastic. I only stated a fact."
"If you say you get it, that's the end of it."
At those words, Hoshina looked directly at Narumi. Open cynicism spread through his eyes.
"Is this a daycare? He apologized, so I should accept it and soothe him?"
"That's not what I mean—"
Narumi's voice trembled low as he forced down the anger rising in him.
"If you won't accept the apology, then—"
"I will accept the apology. Collisions during races can happen at any time. I'm simply not very good at comforting people. Perhaps the guardian can do that for him instead."
For a moment, silence hung there. Jack fidgeted, the manager watched the room, and Narumi clenched and unclenched his fist. Shooting Hoshina a dissatisfied look, he grabbed Jack by the shoulder.
"Let's go."
Hoshina watched Narumi leave while pushing along Jack, who looked utterly flustered. He kept staring until Narumi had disappeared completely from view, then let out a sigh and clicked his tongue.
"What the hell is with that bastard?"
Narumi, whose mood had been thoroughly ruined instead, yanked out a chair and sat down in irritation. Seriously, what is with that guy? And why does he keep looking at my legs? It's not like he's never seen someone limp before. Rude bastard. His angry fingers rattled into the search bar:
. He hit enter and scrolled with his eyes wide. Judging by the way he talked, it should have told him enough. He hadn't been able to say anything to the man's face, so he'd use the power of anonymity to curse him out instead. But contrary to expectation, there wasn't even a single trashy clickbait article. Which meant all the articles were good. There were even plenty of fans praising him as the most sincere interviewer among Formula One drivers. Then a comment caught Narumi's eye as he scrolled with a sour expression, and his insides twisted oddly.
FFF This is random but he reminds me of Narumi from back then. Narumi skipped interviews when he was in a bad mood and got fined lol
↳ FFF Ah, that did happen lol. Pretty sure he got fined more than once too?
↳ FFF sry newbie question, do you get fined if you skip interviews?
↳ FFF welcome newbie yep you get fined. It's mandatory on race weekends.
↳ FFF wow thanks but why'd he skip them?
↳ FFF I think people kept saying only Narumi talked so he got annoyed and skipped the next interview?
↳ FFF Basically the comment above isn't wrong, but to explain: Narumi was such an unmatched superstar that the questions were all directed at him in the first place. But then people complained that only Narumi was talking, so he said he'd step aside next time to give the other drivers a chance. And then he got dragged for that too, like who are you to decide whether to give them a chance or not? So he got slammed, paid the fine, and still got cursed out.
↳ FFF That's true. Though honestly Narumi did talk really arrogantly every time...
↳ FFF Whatever the reason, the fact is he skipped interviews and got fined, right?
He had almost managed to forget, but the comments put an end to that. Thinking about the fines suddenly made irritation flare in him.
Narumi had risen to the top the moment he debuted, and he had never come down. He had no interest not only in the drivers at the back, but even in the ones sharing the podium with him. For that reason, he got a lot of hate. When one race ended, he had to prepare for the next, attend sponsor and team events, handle PR, and even do charity work. So whenever he had a little private time, he locked himself up at home, and people criticized him for having no hobbies. Even so, his fan service was impeccable—he took photos readily and signed autographs well—and he got called an attention-seeker for that too. Interviews were the same. He merely answered when asked a question, but was called arrogant, lacking in class, hogging the spotlight all to himself, and inconsiderate of the other drivers. Even now, Narumi still did not know what he should have done back then to be hated at least a little less.
And meanwhile Soshiro Hoshina, unlike me who got hated just for breathing, is nothing but praised?
"Then why don't they just praise Soshiro Hoshina and leave it at that? Why even bring me up? Must be nice, living in such a wonderful era."
He didn't like it at all. He didn't like the bowl cut. He didn't like the slitted eyes. He didn't like that the man was a two-time reigning world champion. He didn't like that people kept comparing him to himself. (He had literally only just learned that while searching.) He disliked everything about him.
Beeeeep—
It was Isao calling him.
"Looks like word reached the old man's ears too. Ha..."
He grabbed his head and leaned back. Really, if teleportation existed, now was exactly the time to use it.
On the outskirts of Geneva, the FIA headquarters conference building felt even more sinister beneath the thin rain falling from a gray sky. The air inside the meeting room was heavy and damp, and the attendees either stared down at their laptop screens or flipped busily through the revised regulations that had been distributed less than thirty minutes earlier. Amid warm coffee cups, plastic water bottles, and worn pens scattered messily across the tables, Hoshina, attending as the drivers' representative, maintained a relaxed posture, one arm braced on the desk and a pen rolling in the other hand. At the edge of the room, meanwhile, Narumi sat among the engineers, quietly taking notes before fixing his eyes on the projector screen.
The next Grand Prix was Spa-Francorchamps in Belgium. If weather like this—dark and wet—continued, there was a high chance the entire weekend would turn into a rain race. The FIA technical director changed the projector slide and began to explain.
"The item we will now discuss concerns standards for visibility in wet conditions and vehicle regulations to suppress spray. We can no longer suspend races because of unpredictable spray. This is an essential response to repeated crashes in rainy conditions, the increase in collisions caused by poor visibility, and the need to guarantee the spectators' right to watch the race."
As the room filled with the sound of pages turning while people searched for the listed items on the screen, Hoshina, who had been sitting with his chin propped on one hand, finally spoke. His calm voice carried unexpected censure.
"Next you'll be saying we should cancel races entirely on foggy days. Devices like this belong on tour buses, not race cars. If you don't want cars throwing up water, are you telling us to drive slowly? This isn't racing."
Several heads turned toward him all at once. Hoshina continued, unconcerned.
"F1 should be a sport where drivers overcome even extreme conditions through skill. Too many regulations only limit a driver's abilities and show the fans a tedious spectacle."
People's expressions subtly stiffened, but he ignored that and kept talking.
"Spray is part of F1. Drivers train to punch through it. And devices like wheel arches or mudguards only ruin the aerodynamics and add weight to the car. If the car gets dull and the balance breaks down, that could be even more dangerous. We want fast cars. And risk is something we accept."
The final sentence carried firmness and a slight hardening of expression. A heavy silence settled over the meeting room again. Some foreign technicians who had been waiting for the interpretation stopped writing and looked up. At that moment Narumi spoke. His voice was low and calm.
"That's exactly what data exists for, people like you."
Narumi worked the controls beside the monitor and changed the slide. Simulations of visibility distance rendered in graphics and analyses of vehicle positions in past wet-weather crashes spread across the screen.
"If visibility is under five meters at 300 kilometers per hour, that's not driving, it's gambling. Human reaction speed isn't enough to break through a wall of spray and avoid a car that's suddenly stopped."
The slide automatically moved to the next sequence. Cars in the distance suddenly bursting through spray and colliding. Familiar accidents. Some of them were crashes Hoshina himself had experienced or witnessed.
"Sure, wheel arches and mudguards might reduce performance. Ruin the aerodynamics, was it?"
At that point Narumi gave a scoffing laugh. In front of whom did he think he was talking about aerodynamics?
"But the safety of the drivers, mechanics, and marshals comes first. One accident can cost the team enormously, and the driver can lose his career—or pay an even greater price."
Narumi lifted his eyes. Though he had clearly twisted the sentence ending with a sarcastic intent, his gaze held a cool recognition of reality.
"You can't ignore the risks the data is showing you."
Hoshina spoke again. His tone was rougher and sharper than before, edged with mockery.
"If you're afraid of accidents, then maybe you shouldn't be a driver."
Before the words had even fully landed, a strange silence spread through the room. Some people looked away uncomfortably, others bit their lips. Hoshina soon realized he had gone a little too far. Narumi stared straight at him for a moment. There was contempt in that gaze, and at the same time something like the pain of the past passing through it. Then he said, very quietly but firmly,
"It's not a matter of fear. I say it because I know all too well the cost of unavoidable risks, unpredictable variables, and what comes after facing them."
The words were so quiet that they struck harder for it. Hoshina found himself momentarily unable to speak. His fingertips tapped unconsciously on the table. It felt as though he were being pressed down by some subtle emotion he could not put into words.
When the meeting ended, people stood and left one by one. Hoshina remained seated, deliberately nodding to each person as they exited. His earlier remark still bothered him. Just as Narumi gathered his things and headed for the door, Hoshina carefully called out to him.
"Narumi-san."
Narumi glanced back at the sound of his name, but then turned and walked toward the door without a word. There was no emotion at all in his eyes. Hoshina called him once more. But Narumi did not even look back; he slammed the meeting-room door behind him and left. Hoshina could only stand there as if nailed in place, staring blankly at the closed door. Inside him, regret tangled together with a complicated emotion he could not explain. At this rate, it was just like the Monza Grand Prix all over again. No—maybe even worse.
Still carrying that discomfort, he returned and sank into a soft sofa, watching the replay of the previous Grand Prix. He had replayed it to check whether the collision could have been avoided, whether his response had been inadequate, but for some reason none of it went in. After a moment, he reached out and picked up the phone lying beside him. It was an Instagram account he used only for promotional purposes, so he had not checked it in a long time. He opened the app to look through the pile of notifications.
The moment the screen came on and the feed loaded, what he saw was a scene sickeningly familiar. It was a video of the moment Narumi had suffered that terrible accident in the past. The way he had helplessly slid into the barrier because of the backmarker's inexplicable actions, and the medical car that struck from behind just as he was walking away from the wrecked machine, were replaying in slow motion. Only then could Hoshina vaguely understand why Narumi's final words had felt like such a sharp dagger.
Hoshina loved racing.
Some people had fathers who bought them teams, or gave them enormous sponsorship money, but Hoshina had been thoroughly shut out by his family. The reason was simple: it would damage the Hoshina family image. The core of it was that a profession like racing was not something they could proudly show off, and that it was dangerous and trivial. Being told as a child to quietly stand behind his elder brother, who would inherit the family, hurt him terribly, but Hoshina did not give up.
After school he went to the kart track in secret from his parents. It was possible only because his secretary, who quietly cheered on the young master's little rebellion, chose to look the other way. When he wasn't at the kart track, he studied racing through simulators and race footage. Thanks to that, Hoshina was even able to enter amateur competitions in secret and hone his racing sense. When he turned thirteen, the secretary realized that the young master's little rebellion was not a fleeting whim and, without telling the elders, introduced him to an acquaintance. With the help of that acquaintance, who worked in the motorsport industry, Hoshina enrolled in a karting academy under the pretext of studying in Europe. On weekends he raced karts, and on weekdays he attended school, all while earning a karting federation license.
When it came out that what everyone had thought was ordinary study abroad was in fact an adventure meant to let him race, his tuition was cut off, he nearly got dragged back home by force, and the secretary lost his job. Even so, saying only that he wanted the young master to be happy, the man took over the support even the parents had cut off. Later, Hoshina Soichiro brought him back into the household as a secretary again, remembering how he had supported his younger brother in every possible way.
For the first year or two, Hoshina simply could not move up from the lower midfield. He thought it was only because of his unstable circumstances. What changed his mind was seeing the notebook of a friend he shared a room with. Unlike Hoshina, who had run on instinct alone, the friend drew out his driving lines and compared them, recording braking and throttle timing for each corner in a systematic way. Taking the friend's advice, Hoshina began making the same kind of records. He also developed an interest in kart setup and studied how to tune it. That was when he understood that racing was not simply a matter of driving.
That did not mean his career as a driver then unfolded smoothly. In his first year in British F4, he sat in the midfield; in his second he started making upper-field podiums and drew enough attention to move up to F3, but keeping a seat was far from easy. Even so, his qualifying pace was good and he had shown several impressive weekends, so he was able to sign with an F2 team, though it was a lower-midfield one because his sponsorship was weak. Even in F2, his steady podiums and completion rate earned him a reputation for being stable and avoiding accidents, allowing him to enter the F1 world of his dreams.
But even then, Hoshina's seat was never something guaranteed. Stability and a lack of mistakes were highly valued in him, but at the same time that was what held him back. People had little interest in a driver who produced no eye-catching runs and remained quiet and inconspicuous. Even when he steadily scored points and faithfully provided the data the teams wanted, they merely took it for granted. He only received a regular seat two years later, when a team terminated another driver's contract in the middle of the season. It was an emergency replacement. Hoshina stood on the grid with little preparation and finished the race without incident.
P20 Soshiro Hoshina, a safe and uneventful race
Perhaps it was thanks to that very ordinariness that Hoshina managed to survive in F1.
Over the years that followed, Hoshina alternated between reserve roles and regular seats. Even when the team changed, even when the series changed, he always existed in the same way: quietly, carefully, and sometimes unexpectedly tenaciously. For several seasons he was outside F1, continuing his career in Formula E or on test-driver contracts. He did rather well for one season there. But he regarded that too as merely a place he had stopped by temporarily. The place Hoshina truly wanted to be was always F1. His rivals changed. There had once been a time when he found it strange that drivers younger than him were coming in, but before long he had grown used even to rookies more than ten years his junior sitting in the neighboring pit.
Even as teams changed, he always talked a great deal with the engineers, and by then Hoshina had become a driver who knew vehicle characteristics better than anyone. But the grid was cold. The records did not remember him. One podium—that was all. And even that had only come on a rainy day after every car at the front had fallen away. Hoshina had never once been considered a title contender. It was rare even for him to have a seat guaranteed until the final day of the season. Still, each year he came back to the team carrying another contract. The conditions were always precarious, and the possibility of being replaced mid-season always existed, but he took that burden with him to the starting line. That was the kind of driver Hoshina was. He did not shine, but he never disappeared. He might not be remembered, but he was never meaningless.
In the year Hoshina turned thirty-three, the FIA approved the entry of a new F1 team. The eleventh team was Cadillac. It was scheduled to join the grid the year after next. As soon as the official announcement was made, articles and social media were flooded with speculation about seats across the field. Hoshina had been idly watching a paddock monitor, but found himself staring at that screen for a long time. Rather than asking, Is there a place for me there? the more realistic thought came to him first: somewhere, a seat is going to open up. He imagined that empty place. Who would fill it, whether he might squeeze into it, whether there was any chance at all.
But that year, too, his contract was not extended, and in the end he remained only on the roster as a simulator driver for his former team. He still longed for the circuit, but it was always the same story.
"This season is mainly focused on testing."
"Without Hoshina, we can't get the car setup right."
He heard words like that from time to time, but they almost never led to a chance to stand on the grid. The year turned. One day after winter testing ended, Hoshina was sitting in front of his laptop preparing for the Monaco test the following week when a woman came to see him. He did not recognize her.
"You're very good at data analysis. I've been watching you for a while."
Instinctively, Hoshina thought: a test-driver offer. Development support once again. Roles like that were always all he could get. Then the woman said,
"Now you're someone who belongs inside the car. Prove it. This time, on a real track."
Hoshina looked at her. He did not particularly show emotion. Even so, she seemed to notice that he was flustered. He stayed silent for a long time. Among the countless thoughts in his head, only one line came out of his mouth.
"...I heard you clearly."
The woman held out her hand.
"Mina Ashiro. This season—do you have confidence?"
He looked down at her hand for a moment, then quietly took it.
"I've been ready for a very long time."
That was how, at thirty-five, Hoshina finally won a regular seat. It was a timing no one expected, not even he himself. From that day on, the name Soshiro Hoshina began appearing in headlines, and for the first time commentators called him a driver who could change a race.
Sometimes the world feels as if only a single road exists. At first, he had only wanted to prove that he could stand here, that he was someone worthy of it, that all he had done was state proudly the convictions he had long kept as a driver. Sometimes, though, that made him fail to see what mattered most.
The video in the feed was still playing. Narumi's accident looping in slow motion. Without thinking, Hoshina tapped the comments beneath it.
— Even seeing this again gives me chills...
— I still can't believe this actually happened…
— I seriously thought Narumi was going to die back then … Ugh, thank God he lived
— Watching it now, it almost feels like a movie.
— I covered my mouth when I saw this live,, when Narumi actually walked out on his own two feet I was like wow, that's the power of rules written in blood,,
— But racing is just like that, isn't it? Narumi was just unlucky
And beneath that,
— The guy nearly died because of this and is suffering lifelong aftereffects, and you're posting this as a Reel to farm views? With the looped playback and slow motion too??? The title is f***ing stupid too. Greatest shocking incident ever at an F1 season finale??? Is slapping a viewer discretion warning on it supposed to make it okay????? It's disgusting how pieces of s*** like you consume someone's tragic accident like gossip.
Hoshina stared at the screen for a long time without moving. He agreed with the comment written in such a heated tone. For far too long, he had focused only on surviving. He had run while looking only toward the next season, the next race, the next contract. Because of that, he had treated someone else's pain as though it were merely one of the ordinary variables that could happen in a race. Only now did he feel he was beginning to understand how cruel that attitude had really been. He had never once faced head-on the pain of that moment, the danger, and what had been lost. Pressing a hand to his forehead, he sank deeper into the sofa. He had to apologize. No—apologizing was the only thing he could do.