He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not on this tight, rain-slicked hairpin of Gunma Prefecture’s Mount Myogi. He was supposed to be in his father’s garage, rebuilding the same ’65 Toyota Corona for the third time, listening to lectures about honor and straight lines. But Taka had caught the fever. The JDM fever.
"Car number seven," the starter said, handing him a magnetic number. "You’re against the GT-R. Lead-follow. You lead first." JDM- Japanese Drift Master
As Taka pulled into the fog-drenched parking lot at the base of the pass, he saw the competition. A fleet of pristine machines: an RX-7 with a wide-body kit that cost more than his apartment, a R32 GT-R that crackled with the fury of a thousand Godzillas, and a low, menacing AE86 with Watanabe wheels so clean they looked forged by angels. He wasn’t supposed to be here
Tonight was the qualifier for the Gunma Drift Union . No trophies. No prize money. Only respect. But Taka had caught the fever
The driver of the AE86, a woman named Reina with raven hair and eyes that had seen a thousand corners, glanced at his car. She didn’t laugh. That was worse. She just looked away.