The cold breath of early autumn clung to the asphalt like a stubborn spirit.
It was half past three in the morning, and the world above Aokigahara Pass was still — a thin sheet of mist stretching between the pine trees like cobwebs. The only sound was the low hum of an old vending machine shivering against the chill.
At the far edge of the mountain's belly sat a withering gas station, its cracked neon sign buzzing half-heartedly against the black sky. Aoyama Gas & Repair, it read — though half the letters had long since surrendered to rust and rain.
Inside, Riku Aoyama rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead, smearing a thin line of grease along his temple.
Another night shift, another dying car to coax through another day.
Same old story.
He was seventeen. Shorter than most of the local boys, quieter than all of them.
The kind of kid that even teachers forgot to call during attendance.
But behind the wheel — not that anyone had noticed yet — he became something else entirely.
The garage smelled like oil, wet rubber, and cold steel.
The sort of smell that soaks into your bones until even your dreams reek of gasoline.
Riku didn't mind.
It was better than silence.
"Yo! You still alive in there, Riku?"
A voice cut through the stillness — rough, playful, too loud for this hour.
Tatsuya, his childhood friend, kicked open the side door and stomped into the garage with all the grace of a drunken bear.
He was carrying a plastic bag stuffed with canned coffee and onigiri.
"Man, I swear, you're turning into a ghost working these shifts," Tatsuya said, tossing a can toward him. Riku caught it without looking.
"I'm already a ghost," Riku muttered, cracking open the can. The coffee inside tasted like burnt mud. He drank it anyway.
"You hear about the race tonight?" Tatsuya plopped onto a stool, hands gesturing wildly. "Real heavy hitters from down south coming up to test our passes. I'm telling you, Riku, the heat's insane. They're saying some guy from Numazu is bringing a tuned RX-7."
Riku shrugged, wiping his hands on a rag. "Doesn't concern me."
Tatsuya groaned. "Bro, you're killing me. You're sitting on a damn monster out there and you don't even care."
His eyes flickered toward the side lot — where a battered silver Honda Prelude rested quietly under a sheet.
The Phantom's Blade, the old men called it once.
Now it was just another relic rusting away in the fog.
Riku finished his coffee and stood, stretching out stiff joints.
"I got deliveries," he said simply.
Same as every night.
---
The roads unfolded before him like dark veins running through the heart of the mountain.
He drove without thought, without tension.
Foot over clutch, hand over shifter — fluid, silent, effortless.
His headlights cut thin slashes into the mist, and the engine sang a soft lullaby of power under restraint.
A curve tightened ahead — sharp, blind, slick with dew.
Any normal driver would have braked early, cautious, respectful.
Riku didn't flinch.
He twisted the wheel just so, feathered the clutch, tapped the gas — and the Prelude slid through the bend like it was born from the road itself.
At the top of the pass, he pulled into a forgotten repair shop, dropping off the crate of parts in silence.
The old mechanic glanced up at him from under heavy brows.
"You drive like you're breathing," the man muttered, almost to himself. "You don't even know it yet, kid."
Riku didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
The road was waiting.
And somewhere, far ahead in the mist, so was his future.