The Wangan Expressway roars, a concrete beast swallowing the night. Furuya Arato presses the accelerator, the engine of his souped-up Nissan screaming a familiar symphony. It’s a 1995 Skyline GT-R, midnight purple, a blur against the strobe of passing neon and the tunnel’s endless orange lights. His hands grip the Momo steering wheel, leather worn smooth from countless nights like this. Every muscle in his body is taut, a finely tuned instrument responding to the car’s slightest tremor. He weaves through sparse late-night traffic, a ghost in the fast lane. The speed builds, the world outside the windshield blurring into streaks of red and white. His focus is absolute, a meditative state where only the road, the car, and the rhythm of the asphalt exist. He feels the vibrations through the floorboards, hears the howl of the turbo spooling up, inhales the faint scent of spent gasoline and hot rubber. This is where he finds his strange solace, a high-speed oblivion that silences the other noise in his head. The speedometer needle dances past 280 kilometers per hour. The tunnel walls fly by, a dizzying blur of tiles and concrete seams. He anticipates every shift in airflow, every subtle gradient of the road. It’s not just speed; it’s an intuition, a sixth sense for the geometry of the asphalt unfolding before him. He shifts into fifth, then sixth, the engine note deepening, a throaty growl that vibrates through his very bones. The exhaust pipes spit faint blue flames, momentary beacons in the inky darkness. A white Toyota Supra, lowered and wide-bodied, flashes its headlights behind him, a challenge. Furuya doesn’t acknowledge it. He maintains his line, his speed. He isn't here for races, not really. He's here for the drive, for the edge, for the brief, beautiful moment when nothing else matters. The Supra hangs back, then falls away, unable to match his effortless surge. Furuya glances at the digital clock on the dash. Past midnight. The city sleeps, but the Wangan never does. He enters a long, sweeping curve, the tires biting hard, the suspension compressing. The G-forces press him into the Recaro bucket seat. He breathes, slow and steady, every input precise, almost unconscious. This is the dance he knows, a dangerous, exhilarating ballet between man and machine. The hum of the tires on the asphalt is a lullaby, a constant, reassuring presence in the overwhelming rush of speed. The tunnel stretches ahead, an inviting, endless dark. --- Then, out of nowhere, a black Porsche 911 GT2 lunges. It’s not just fast; it’s reckless, a dark missile appearing in his peripheral vision, then cutting sharply across three lanes. The maneuver is violent, unexpected, designed to force a reaction. Furuya’s instincts scream. The Phantom Drift. He doesn’t think; he reacts. His hands snap the wheel hard to the left, a fraction of a second before his brain registers the danger. He stamps on the brakes, the ABS grinding, the Nissan’s rear end kicking out with a terrifying lurch. The tires shriek, a raw, desperate sound that tears through the roar of the engine. The Porsche, a brutal, angular shadow, scrapes past his front bumper, close enough for him to see the yellow calipers through its alloy wheels. The world tilts. The concrete barrier on his right rushes towards him, an unyielding grey wall. He counter-steers, feathering the throttle, catching the slide just before disaster. The smell of burning rubber fills the cabin, sharp and acrid. His heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic drum. The Porsche disappears into the distance, leaving only the echo of its aggressive engine note and a lingering sense of violation. But the shriek of the tires doesn't fade. It morphs, twists into a different sound, a memory, cold and sharp. A sun-drenched afternoon, not a neon night. The taste of dust, not exhaust. The familiar, sickening crunch of metal. His brother’s bright blue bicycle, twisted beneath the front bumper of a delivery van. Then, the final scream. Kenji. Not the joyous shouts from a playground, but a sound ripped from deep inside, full of terror and pain, abruptly cut short. Furuya’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, knuckles white against the black leather. He can feel the phantom vibration of that impact, the way his own body had locked up, frozen, unable to move. Sweat beads on his forehead, cold despite the heat of the cabin. He manages to bring the GT-R back into his lane, the car shuddering, protesting. His breathing comes in ragged gasps. The adrenaline rush isn't exhilarating now; it's a suffocating blanket, heavy with dread. The tunnel lights blur, not from speed, but from the sudden sting in his eyes. He pushes a button, bringing up the rear-view camera. The Wangan is clear behind him. The Porsche is gone. But the phantom shriek of tires and his brother's last cry linger, an unwanted echo in his ears. He feels suddenly sick, his stomach churning, the control he craves utterly shattered. --- Furuya guides the Nissan through the narrow alley, the rumble of its engine softened, contained. He slides the car into his secluded garage, tucked away behind a row of rusting warehouses in the industrial district. The automatic door grinds shut behind him, plunging the space into a familiar, comforting gloom. He kills the engine, and the sudden silence is deafening, punctuated only by the ticking of the cooling metal. He sits for a long moment, hands still gripping the wheel, not quite ready to let go. His fingers feel numb, yet they tremble slightly. He can still taste the fear, sharp and metallic, on his tongue. The concrete floor feels solid beneath his worn racing shoes, a welcome anchor after the chaos of the expressway. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to push the image of the Porsche, the sound of the tires, out of his mind. Slowly, he unbuckles the multi-point harness, the straps heavy against his chest. He pushes open the car door, the familiar scent of oil, solvent, and old coffee immediately replacing the exhaust fumes. The air in the garage is cool, stagnant. Fluorescent lights flicker to life overhead as he hits the switch, casting a harsh, clinical glow over the tools neatly arranged on the workbench and the spare engine blocks sitting patiently in the corner. He walks to the workbench, his movements stiff, as if his joints have seized up. He picks up a small, silver-framed photograph, its edges tarnished, the glass slightly scratched. It’s a picture of Kenji, grinning broadly, about eight years old, clutching a small toy car. His smile is wide, missing a front tooth, full of uncomplicated joy. Furuya’s thumb traces the faded image, the vibrant colors of his brother's shirt long since muted by time. A fine layer of dust has settled on the frame. He finds a soft, lint-free cloth and meticulously begins to polish the glass, then the silver edges. His hands still have that tremor, a slight, involuntary twitch, betraying the calm he tries to project. He polishes until the silver gleams, until Kenji’s face is clear, vibrant again, staring back at him with those bright, trusting eyes. The memory of the crash, of that final scream, plays on a loop in his mind. He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be racing. Every time he pushed the limits, he risked bringing that horror back, not just as a memory, but as a fresh tragedy. --- The small, beat-up television in the corner of his living space, just off the garage, hums to life. Furuya rarely watches it, preferring the quiet contemplation of engine mechanics or the white noise of the Wangan. But tonight, he needs a distraction, any distraction. He flips through channels, the news anchor’s serious face catching his attention. He perches on a worn vinyl stool, nursing a lukewarm can of Boss Coffee. ing else matters. The Supra hangs back, then falls away, unable to match his effortless surge. Furuya glances at the digital clock on the dash. Past midnight. The city sleeps, but the Wangan never does.He enters a long, sweeping curve, the tires biting hard, the suspension compressing. The G-forces press him into the Recaro bucket seat. He breathes, slow and steady, every input precise, almost unconscious. This is the dance he knows, a dangerous, exhilarating ballet between man and machine. The hum of the tires on the asphalt is a lullaby, a constant, reassuring presence in the overwhelming rush of speed. The tunnel stretches ahead, an inviting, endless dark.---Then, out of nowhere, a black Porsche 911 GT2 lunges. It’s not just fast; it’s reckless, a dark missile appearing in his peripheral vision, then cutting sharply across three lanes. The maneuver is violent, unexpected, designed to force a reaction. Furuya’s instincts scream. The Phantom Drift. He doesn’t think; he reacts.His hands snap the wheel hard to the left, a fraction of a second before his brain registers the danger. He stamps on the brakes, the ABS grinding, the Nissan’s rear end kicking out with a terrifying lurch. The tires shriek, a raw, desperate sound that tears through the roar of the engine. The Porsche, a brutal, angular shadow, scrapes past his front bumper, close enough for him to see the yellow calipers through its alloy wheels.The world tilts. The concrete barrier on his right rushes towards him, an unyielding grey wall. He counter-steers, feathering the throttle, catching the slide just before disaster. The smell of burning rubber fills the cabin, sharp and acrid. His heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic drum. The Porsche disappears into the distance, leaving only the echo of its aggressive engine note and a lingering sense of violation.But the shriek of the tires doesn't fade. It morphs, twists into a different sound, a memory, cold and sharp. A sun-drenched afternoon, not a neon night. The taste of dust, not exhaust. The familiar, sickening crunch of metal. His brother’s bright blue bicycle, twisted beneath the front bumper of a delivery van.Then, the final scream. Kenji. Not the joyous shouts from a playground, but a sound ripped from deep inside, full of terror and pain, abruptly cut short. Furuya’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, knuckles white against the black leather. He can feel the phantom vibration of that impact, the way his own body had locked up, frozen, unable to move. Sweat beads on his forehead, cold despite the heat of the cabin.He manages to bring the GT-R back into his lane, the car shuddering, protesting. His breathing comes in ragged gasps. The adrenaline rush isn't exhilarating now; it's a suffocating blanket, heavy with dread. The tunnel lights blur, not from speed, but from the sudden sting in his eyes. He pushes a button, bringing up the rear-view camera. The Wangan is clear behind him. The Porsche is gone. But the phantom shriek of tires and his brother's last cry linger, an unwanted echo in his ears. He feels suddenly sick, his stomach churning, the control he craves utterly shattered.---Furuya guides the Nissan through the narrow alley, the rumble of its engine softened, contained. He slides the car into his secluded garage, tucked away behind a row of rusting warehouses in the industrial district. The automatic door grinds shut behind him, plunging the space into a familiar, comforting gloom. He kills the engine, and the sudden silence is deafening, punctuated only by the ticking of the cooling metal.He sits for a long moment, hands still gripping the wheel, not quite ready to let go. His fingers feel numb, yet they tremble slightly. He can still taste the fear, sharp and metallic, on his tongue. The concrete floor feels solid beneath his worn racing shoes, a welcome anchor after the chaos of the expressway. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to push the image of the Porsche, the sound of the tires, out of his mind.Slowly, he unbuckles the multi-point harness, the straps heavy against his chest. He pushes open the car door, the familiar scent of oil, solvent, and old coffee immediately replacing the exhaust fumes. The air in the garage is cool, stagnant. Fluorescent lights flicker to life overhead as he hits the switch, casting a harsh, clinical glow over the tools neatly arranged on the workbench and the spare engine blocks sitting patiently in the corner.He walks to the workbench, his movements stiff, as if his joints have seized up. He picks up a small, silver-framed photograph, its edges tarnished, the glass slightly scratched. It’s a picture of Kenji, grinning broadly, about eight years old, clutching a small toy car. His smile is wide, missing a front tooth, full of uncomplicated joy. Furuya’s thumb traces the faded image, the vibrant colors of his brother's shirt long since muted by time.A fine layer of dust has settled on the frame. He finds a soft, lint-free cloth and meticulously begins to polish the glass, then the silver edges. His hands still have that tremor, a slight, involuntary twitch, betraying the calm he tries to project. He polishes until the silver gleams, until Kenji’s face is clear, vibrant again, staring back at him with those bright, trusting eyes. The memory of the crash, of that final scream, plays on a loop in his mind. He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be racing. Every time he pushed the limits, he risked bringing that horror back, not just as a memory, but as a fresh tragedy.---The small, beat-up television in the corner of his living space, just off the garage, hums to life. Furuya rarely watches it, preferring the quiet contemplation of engine mechanics or the white noise of the Wangan. But tonight, he needs a distraction, any distraction. He flips through channels, the news anchor’s serious face catching his attention. He perches on a worn vinyl stool, nursing a lukewarm can of Boss Coffee.The screen flickers, settling on a late-night broadcast. A reporter, dressed sharply, stands against a blurred cityscape backdrop. Her voice is calm, but the words she speaks carry a sharp edge of alarm. “—authorities remain baffled tonight by an unprecedented surge in illegal street racing across the Tokyo metropolitan area.”Furuya’s grip on the aluminum can tightens, the metal creaking faintly. He takes a slow sip, the coffee lukewarm and bitter against his tongue. He watches, his eyes narrowed, a cold knot forming in his stomach. The news report shows grainy, low-quality footage: streaks of light, blurred cars, the unmistakable glow of neon signs reflecting off wet asphalt. One shot, taken from a highway overpass, shows a dark vehicle—a Porsche, perhaps?—cutting aggressively through traffic, its taillights a furious red blur. He recognizes the stretch of elevated highway, the curve of the barrier. The Wangan. The same section where he almost crashed.The reporter continues,

Neon Dreams, Asphalt Tears