[Novel] Run, Sena. ―GRID:ZERO―

Chapter 1: A Father's Back

My first memory is the sound of an engine.

I don't know if I was two or three, exactly. Held in my mother's arms, I was looking at the other side of the fence. A line of small karts was going round and round a gray track.

The smell of exhaust. The smell of burnt rubber. While clutching the skirt of my mother, who was sitting on the grass, Sena followed one of them with her eyes.

The person in the red helmet. Father.

He wasn't fast. He was probably about third from the back. But every time he went around a corner, Sena would raise her voice. Ah, she'd say. Kya, she'd say. Without even knowing what was fun about it, she just let her voice out.

After the race ended, my father, who had taken off his red helmet, came running over with a sweat-drenched face.

“Sena, were you watching? Was Daddy cool?”

My mother gave a bitter smile.

“You were tenth out of twelve, I don't think 'cool' applies.”

“I'm not talking about the ranking. I'm talking about how I looked while driving.”

Father said that and lifted Sena up. There was a smell of oil from the chest of his coveralls. That became the 'father's smell' for Sena.

Yuichiro Shinya was a very ordinary company employee working at an auto repair shop in Funabashi City, Chiba Prefecture.

His hobby was rental karts. Twice a month, on weekends, he would go to a kart track in Fuji or Tsukuba to participate in races among friends. He didn't have the skill to become a pro. He knew that well himself. But he loved to drive. More than anything, more than anyone.

At the factory, he would take apart engines with oil-stained hands, and on his days off, he would drive a kart equipped with a different engine.

My mother, Maki, would be exasperated, saying, “Is your life nothing but engines?”, but Yuichiro always replied with the same words.

“Engines, you, and Sena. Three things are enough, aren't they?”

When Sena was four, Father bought a kid's kart. A used one with peeling paint.

Maki let out an exasperated sigh.

“Yuichiro, this child is only four.”

“There are plenty of kids who start karting at four. Sena is one of them.”

“Sena... you mean that Ayrton Senna? You intend to make our child do the same thing?”

“I'm not making her do it. I'm just showing her. Whether she wants to try driving is for her to decide.”

Maki said nothing more. She knew—six years into their marriage—that once he got into this tone, he wouldn't stop.

She just crossed her arms and stared at the kart being carried into the yard. A rusted frame, a faded red seat. 'This man,' she thought.

Even though he wasn't the one riding, his eyes were shining. Even before seeing his child drive, he was already happy.

Sena approached the kart placed in the yard cautiously. When she sat in the seat, her feet didn't reach the pedals.

“See, it's still too early,” said Maki.

Father said nothing and tied wooden blocks to the pedals. He wrapped scraps of wood he'd brought from the garage with duct tape. It was clumsy.

Maki said, “Can't you find a better way to do that?”, but Yuichiro replied with groundless confidence, “It's fine, things I make don't break.”

“—I reached it.”

Sena stepped on the accelerator.

The kart moved forward slowly.

Five meters to the edge of the yard. Only five meters. But for the first time in her life, Sena felt the sensation of 'moving forward' under her own power.

She turned back and looked at her father. Her father was smiling.

Maki watched that scene while sitting on the step at the entrance. It would be a lie to say she wasn't worried.

But the face of her daughter, who had turned back on the kart, was exactly the same as the face of her husband, who was smiling next to her.

The same way of narrowing her eyes. The same way of opening her mouth. Oh, this child, Maki thought. She is this man's child.

Sena never forgot that smile for the rest of her life.

Chapter 2: The Fast Girl

Sena entered her first kart race when she was seven.

A kart track in Chiba Prefecture. Fifteen karts were entered in the junior class, and Sena was the only girl among them.

Before the start, a boy lined up on the grid next to her said,

“Girls shouldn't ride karts.”

With a seven-year-old's vocabulary, no clever comeback came to mind. She just said, “Shut up,” and looked forward.

Beyond the visor, the gray asphalt stretched out. Inside her chest, there was a hot lump that was a little different from anger. She couldn't put it into words. She just thought, I'll step on it. The accelerator. With all my might.

The race began.

Sena started from the back and passed three karts on the first lap. She passed two more on the second lap. On the final lap, she got behind the boy from earlier.

The final corner. She lined up on the outside, delayed her braking, and squeezed ahead at the last second.

Seventh place. Seventh out of fifteen. It was a good result for a first race.

But for Sena, finishing ahead of that boy was more important than the ranking.

In the parc fermé (vehicle impound area), that boy was crying. Sena passed by him in silence. She said nothing. There was no need to say anything.

In the car on the way home, Father turned around secretly from the passenger seat and said,

“Sena, that way you passed on the final corner was the best.”

“Father, don't turn around while driving.”

Mother, who was holding the steering wheel, calmly interjected.

“I, for one, thought my heart was going to stop. When you lined up with that boy at the final corner. What would you have done if you had crashed?”

“We wouldn't have crashed. There was space,” Sena said through the rearview mirror.

Maki tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “Don't use the word 'space' when you're seven.”

From age nine to twelve, Sena became obsessed with the world of junior karting.

Weekdays were for school, weekends for the kart track. Time to play with friends was cut short. While her female classmates were excited about exchange diaries and matching keychains, Sena was discussing carburetor settings and tire pressure with her father.

She was called a 'strange child' at school. Sometimes she was teased. Sometimes she was told, “Only cars. You're like a boy.”

It would be a lie to say she didn't care.

After a class observation day in the fifth grade, she asked her mother.

“Do you think I'm strange, Mom?”

Maki stopped washing the dishes. For a while, only the sound of water from the faucet echoed in the kitchen.

“You're not strange.”

“But everyone—”

“How many is 'everyone'? There are thirty people in your class, how many told you that?”

“...Three.”

“Then twenty-seven didn't say it. If it's a majority vote, you're winning by a landslide.”

Even as a child, she thought that was strange logic. But she was a little happy that her mother had put it that way.

In the winter of her sixth grade, there was an assignment to write about her 'future dream' in a school essay. Sena wrote, “I want to be a racer.” The homeroom teacher added a comment in red pen.

“Let's think about a more realistic dream.”

She showed that essay to her father. Father read the comment in red pen and was silent for a while.

Then, he opened a notebook that was nearby and wrote with a blue ballpoint pen.

“Reality is something you change by running. From Father.”

Sena didn't throw that notebook away even after she became an adult.

Chapter 3: Rainy Fuji

Fourteen years old. Second year of junior high school.

This year, Sena began full participation in the All Japan Kart Championship junior class.

With the savings Father had diligently put away and a modest sponsorship from the local repair shop, they managed to set up a system to compete for the season.

The machine was used. The mechanic was Father. There was no data engineer. Setting changes on the track were decided by Father and Sena talking to each other, saying, 'Doesn't it feel like this?'

While the children of pro teams used the latest telemetry equipment, they had a stopwatch and a notebook.

Father always carried that notebook with him. Lap times were written densely in a college notebook bought at a 100-yen shop. The handwriting was messy.

He made excuses that a mechanic's fingertips were rough and he couldn't hold a ballpoint pen well. But the data was accurate.

Which corner did she lose seconds in, and on which lap did the tires start to fade? Even without telemetry equipment, her father's eyes and his handwritten notes were Sena's data engineer.

Even so, Sena was fast.

Fifth place at the season opener in Suzuka. Third place at the second round in Motegi. When she stood on the podium, her father was pumping his fist on the other side of the fence. Her mother, standing next to him, was pulling on his arm, looking embarrassed.

And then, the fourth round. Fuji Speedway's kart course.

Clouds hung low from the morning, and rain began to fall just before qualifying.

While other drivers frowned, Sena was strangely calm. She liked the rain. She couldn't explain why well.

On a wet road surface, the gap between machines narrows, and human intuition becomes the deciding factor. She loved the feeling of reading the changes in grip transmitted to her fingertips while searching for the limit just before it was reached.

Her father had taught her: 'On rainy days, talk to the machine. On sunny days, if you ask, "Can you do it?" the machine will answer, "I can." But on rainy days, you have to ask gently, "Is it okay up to this point?" Then the machine will tell you.'

It was unscientific. An engineer might laugh if they heard it. But Sena understood that sensation with her body.

The subtle vibrations transmitted to the palms gripping the steering wheel. Whether the tires were gripping the road or starting to slide. Her fingers told her the boundary line before the data did.

Qualifying. Wet conditions. Sena took pole position.

She was over a second faster than the second-place driver. A fourteen-year-old girl had overwhelmed the boys from the works teams in the rain.

In the race, too, she never gave up the lead. She ran at the front from start to finish and won in a solo run.

When she received the checkered flag, Sena screamed inside her helmet. It was a soundless voice. She didn't even know herself if she was happy or relieved. She just screamed.

When she returned to parc fermé, her father was crying on the other side of the fence.

She couldn't see the tears because he was soaked in the rain, but she knew because his shoulders were shaking.

Her mother was trying to hold a vinyl umbrella over him next to him. But her father wouldn't get under the umbrella. He stood in the rain, shaking. Maki stopped trying to hold the umbrella and stood next to her father, getting soaked in the rain herself.

That night, she went to a family restaurant with her father. Her mother had said, "I'll head home first, you two go talk," and got on the train.

Sipping a melon soda from the drink bar, Sena asked.

"Dad, why were you crying?"

"I wasn't crying. It's the rain."

"Liar, you were definitely crying."

Her father laughed as if he had given up.

"I was happy. Not because you're fast. But because you won in your own way."

"My own way?"

"We don't have money. No latest machines, no professional mechanics, no data analysis. But you ran through the rain with your own senses and your own judgment. That made me happy."

"…You're the one who taught me. To talk to the machine."

"I taught you, but you're the one who actually did it. That's completely different."

The ice in the melon soda clinked.

"Se-chan. You can go higher."

"Higher? Where?"

Her father took a napkin from the table and wrote something with a ballpoint pen.

"F4. Formula cars. The next step after karts. You can challenge it next year when you turn fifteen."

"Do we have the money?"

"…I'll manage."

"What do you mean by manage?"

"Manage means manage."

The "F4" written on the napkin was indeed in her father's handwriting, and it was indeed messy. The same as the writing in his college notebook. Two characters written with calloused fingers, but with a firm pressure.

It was a secret from her mother. Her father started working more overtime at the factory and taking on part-time jobs on his days off. Sena found out later, and her heart tightened.

She found out after her father had passed away.

Her mother said quietly.

"Your father, you know, he stopped going to Sunday karting. Did you know? It's a big deal for him not to drive on a Sunday."

It was for her racing funds. Her father had silently given up that happy hobby of his twice a month.

Chapter 4: The Person Who Is Gone

Sixteen years old.

The year Sena entered the FIA-F4 Championship.

Before the spring season opener, her father collapsed.

At first, he said, "I'm just a little tired." He didn't want to go to the hospital. Her mother forced him to go. The test results came back in mid-April.

Pancreatic cancer. Stage 4.

"Surgery is difficult," the doctor said. The color drained from her mother's face. Sena stood in the corner of the examination room, staring blankly at the posters on the wall. An illustrated poster labeled "Functions of the Pancreas."

The illustration of the rounded organ was drawn in strangely calm colors. Her brain was refusing to process the information.

Her father was strangely calm. No, he was making it look like he was calm.

Only Maki saw through it. When they were alone in the hospital room, Yuichiro let his guard down for the first time.

"Maki, I wanted to see Se-chan's race through to the end."

Maki couldn't answer. She sat on the folding chair by the bed and held her husband's thinning hand. There was still strength in his grip. The calloused fingers that had taken apart engines. That sensation, at least, hadn't changed.

"You'll see it through to the end. What are you saying?"

She said it with all her might so her voice wouldn't tremble. She knew it was a lie. Her husband knew it too. Still, there were words that had to be said.

Lying in the hospital bed, her father said to Sena.

"Se-chan, when is the season opener?"

"…Next week."

"Go."

"There's no way I'm going. Dad, you're like this—"

"Go."

Her father's voice was unusually strong.

"If you say you won't race because I'm like this, I will never forgive you."

It was a joking tone, but his eyes weren't smiling. He was serious.
Maki chased after Sena, who had gone out into the hallway.

"Mom, I—"

"Go race."

Her mother's voice, which had been trembling inside the hospital room, was straight in the hallway.

"While your father is still watching, race as much as you can."

Sena understood the meaning of those words exactly. Her mother was directing the cruelty of the phrase "while he is still watching" at herself.

Taking care of him while sending her daughter off to race. During that time, she was alone in the hospital room. Yet, seeing her mother's profile as she said "Run," Sena saw the strength within her mother for the first time.

The Fuji season opener. Sena rode an F4 machine for the first time.

It was completely different from a kart. The car weight was different. The downforce was different. The brake pedal pressure was different. When she first went out on the course, her breath stopped because of the sheer speed.

Qualifying was 18th out of 22 cars. The final was 16th.

After returning home, she stopped by the hospital to report the results. Her father spread his thin fingers on the bed.

"16th, huh. Well, that's how it is at first. Where's the next one? Motegi?"

When talking about racing, her father didn't look like a sick person. His eyes were lively, and his voice had tension.

Maki was silently adjusting her husband's IV tube next to the bed. While listening to the two of them get excited about the race. Occasionally, she looked out the window. Sena didn't know what she was looking at.

June, the third round. Suzuka. Sena finished in 11th place. When she called her father on the Shinkansen on the way home, a muffled voice came back through the oxygen mask.

"One more. One more and you're in the points."

"Yeah."

"Get in next time. It's a promise."

His voice was weaker. Clearly weaker than the last call. Sena pretended not to notice.

July 14th. The day before the fourth round.

Her mother called.

"Your father, this morning—"

She didn't see anything like a panoramic view of her life. Her hand holding the phone just trembled, and the name of her mother on the screen shook and became unreadable.

The funeral was small.

Colleagues from the factory, karting friends, and a few relatives. Her father's red helmet was placed in the corner of the altar.

Sitting in the chief mourner's seat, Sena stared at that helmet. The paint was peeling. There was a small scratch on the visor. A helmet he had worn hundreds of times and driven thousands of laps in.

During the chanting, Sena didn't cry once.

Her mother was worried. She was told, "It's okay to cry," but no tears came. If she cried, she felt like her father would say, "Don't cry when you haven't even finished racing yet."

Maki cried alone that night after Sena went to sleep. Under the fluorescent light in the kitchen, stifling her voice. Her husband's teacup was still in the cupboard. She tried to wash it and put it away, but stopped. She couldn't put it away yet.

She missed the fourth round. And the fifth.

The end of August. With the rest of summer vacation to spare, Sena stayed in her room.

The shelf lined with karting trophies. The Ayrton Senna poster on the wall. The "F4" written by her father on a napkin. Next to it, a notebook.

"Reality is something you change by running. From Dad"

Sena picked up the notebook.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then she stood up and went to the garage. She opened her father's toolbox. It smelled of oil. It was her father's scent.

Her mother was standing at the entrance to the garage. She didn't say anything. Sena didn't say anything either.

Maki was watching her daughter's back. The small back hunched over in front of the toolbox. The way her shoulders were rounded, just like her husband's. She didn't say anything not because she lacked words. It was because words weren't needed.

The next morning, Sena called the team manager.

"I'll be in the next race."

There was the smell of coffee from the kitchen. Canned coffee with a little sugar. Her mother had started stocking the brand her father drank every morning without her noticing.

Chapter 5: The Promise at Motegi

Autumn of her sixteenth year. The sixth round. Motegi.

Sena returned to racing.

A two-month blank. Her sense of the brakes was dull. There was a slight delay before her body reacted when entering a corner. A feeling like a thin film was sandwiched between her brain and her body.

Qualifying was 14th.

On the morning of the final, she sat alone in the machine's cockpit in the pit garage. When she closed her eyes, she heard her father's voice.

"Talk to the machine."

She gripped the steering wheel. It was cold.

"Can you do it?" she asked the machine out loud.

There was no answer. Obviously. Machines don't talk.

But she felt like something was transmitted through the steering wheel. It wasn't vibration or temperature. It was something more ambiguous, yet certain.

The final.

She moved up two positions at the start. 12th at the end of the first lap. She dove into the inside at the hairpin on the third lap to take 11th.

On the tenth lap, she was in 10th place, within the points.

"Get in. It's a promise."

Her father's voice revived. The muffled voice through the oxygen mask. She would never forget that voice.

The final lap. The 9th place car was right in front of her. A 0.5-second gap. She entered the slipstream on the downhill straight and held the brakes deep until just before the 90-degree corner.

The tires almost locked. But she could do it. She felt like the machine was saying so.

9th place. In the points.

The moment she received the checkered flag, Sena cried for the first time inside her helmet.
When she won in the rain at Fuji, she screamed. But today, she cried. Without making a sound, tears streamed down her cheeks inside the visor.

When she returned to parc fermé, the team manager was waiting.

"Glad you're back."

Sena nodded. She couldn't speak.

Her mother drove the car home. A nearly three-hour drive from Motegi to Funabashi. Sena fell asleep in the passenger seat. When she woke up, the car was parked in front of their house.

"Go report to your father."

Her mother said without turning off the engine.

"What about you, Mom?"

"I'm fine. You go report."

Sena got out of the car and went into the house. She sat in front of the Buddhist altar.

"Dad, 9th place. I got in the points. I kept my promise."

There was no answer. Obviously. The altar doesn't talk. It's the same as the machine.
But Sena didn't miss the way the incense smoke swayed.

Chapter 6: The Choice at Eighteen

Third year of high school. Career counseling.

The homeroom teacher frowned.

"Shinya-san, you haven't written anything in the career preference column."

"I haven't decided yet."

It was a lie. She had decided. She just thought there was no point in telling this teacher. She remembered the essay she wrote in the sixth grade. "Let's think about a more realistic dream"—schools are always like that.

Sena had raced her second season of F4 and finished 6th in the rankings. This season, her third, she was aiming even higher.

She wouldn't go to college. She would continue racing. She didn't know what lay ahead. But she had decided that she would keep running.

She had already told her mother.

"I'm not going to college. I'm going to race."

After a long silence, her mother said this.

"If your father were here, he'd probably say, 'Obviously.'"

"What about you, Mom?"

Maki stared at the teacup on the table. Her husband's teacup. Two years had passed since then, and she still hadn't been able to put it away in the cupboard. Every morning, she lined it up next to her own and poured tea into it.

"I'm… worried. Obviously. A girl alone, with no money, trying to make a living in the world of motorsports."

Her mother's voice trembled. But her eyes were straight.

"You probably don't know about the sponsors yet, but you don't know how much your father had to bow his head to people. There were almost no places that would give money to a girl driver. How many times were we turned down with, 'Well, she's a girl.'"

Sena didn't know. Her father never said anything like that.

"Even so, your father continued. He believed that if anyone saw you running, they would understand."

Maki took her hand off the teacup and looked at Sena.

"But you know, the face you make when you're running is just like your father's. You're not afraid, you're not carrying anything, you just look happy. When I see that, I can't tell you to stop."

Sena wrote "Racing Driver" in the career preference column.

The homeroom teacher looked troubled, but Sena didn't care.

Chapter 7: The Three-Race Winning Streak at Fuji

Nineteen years old. FIA-F4 Championship, third season.

This year, Sena awakened.

Victory at the Fuji season opener. 3rd place at Suzuka in the second round. Victory at Autopolis in the third round. She stood at the top of the championship.

What had changed?

Technically, the precision of her braking had improved significantly. She had thoroughly polished the "trail braking" technique—leaving the brakes on until just before turn-in and using weight transfer to point the nose inward—during the off-season of her second year.

I watched hundreds of F1 onboard videos and taught myself to analyze the brake traces of professional drivers.

Days turned into nights spent staring intently at the screen in my room. My mother would bring me hot milk, saying, "You'll ruin your eyes."

On the screen, an F1 car dives into the first chicane at Monza. The moment the brake lights turn on. The moment they turn off. Everything is packed into those split seconds in between.

I wrote it down in my notebook. I was using my father's old college notebook. My handwriting was smaller and neater than his. But the color of the ballpoint pen was the same blue.

Mentally, I had overcome my father's death—or rather, I had learned to race alongside it. Instead of recalling the words of someone who was no longer there, I began to trust the sense of my father that lived within me.

At the fourth round in SUGO, I had a bitter experience regarding sponsorship. When I met with a representative from a company introduced through the team, they said this:

"Ms. Shintani, to be honest, sponsoring a female driver carries risks for our company. Media exposure is lower compared to male drivers. Even with the same race results, the coverage is smaller. Considering the cost-effectiveness—"

The words were polite. But the meaning was clear. Because you're a woman, there's no money.

The team manager interrupted, saying, "If you get results, the situation will change." But the representative just gave a vague smile, left a business card, and walked away.

In the car on the way home, Sena looked out the window. A dull sensation, different from frustration or anger, sat at the bottom of her chest. She realized this was the world her father had fought in.

The world after taking off the helmet is much harder than wearing one and driving fast.

But I have no choice but to run. I have no choice but to run and get results. Sena had no other language.

And then, the rain.

The fifth round at Fuji. It had been pouring since the morning. The rain was so heavy that they even considered a safety car start. Visibility was almost zero. I couldn't see anything through the spray kicked up by the car in front.

While many drivers drove cautiously, Sena did not slow down.

If you can't see, you just have to feel. The vibration of the steering wheel. The bumps in the road surface transmitted through the seat. The reaction force of the brakes returning to the pedal. Using all five senses, I conversed with the invisible road surface.

Sena understood what her father had taught her more deeply than she had at fourteen. Conversing with the machine was not a metaphor. The human body is connected to the road surface through the machine. How much can you increase the resolution of that connection? That was the essence of driving in the rain.

Starting from third, I passed two cars at once on the outside at the Dunlop Corner on the second lap. The moment I dove into the spray, there was no fear. The grip of the tires was transmitted to my palms. My body knew I could do it.

The announcer in the commentary booth shouted.

"Sena Shintani is coming! She's passed two cars from third place and taken the lead! In this rain, it's an unbelievable drive!"

She went on to win by an eight-second lead.

The following sixth round at Fuji. This time, it was an irregular condition where it started raining from the middle of the race. The timing of the switch from dry tires to wet tires determined the outcome. While many teams pitted early, Sena stayed out on dry tires for two extra laps.

"I can still go."

I told the team over the radio. The road surface had already started to get wet, but I had a feeling that the dry tires still had grip. That two-lap margin decisively changed the position after pitting.

Sena, who switched to wets in third place, was in the lead when she returned to the course.

She held off the followers and won two races in a row.

The seventh round at Motegi. Dry conditions. I had to prove that my speed wasn't just about the rain.

Qualified third. In the final, I moved up one spot at the start to second. I chased the lead car the whole time. On the twelfth lap of the fifteen-lap race, I dove to the inside at the entrance of 130R.

I threaded the nose in with trail braking and pulled alongside at the corner exit. I moved ahead with acceleration on the exit.

Three consecutive wins.

At the end of the season, I was third in the rankings. I didn't reach the championship, but the three consecutive wins at the end—two of which were in the wet—became a big topic in the industry.

A motorsport media outlet wrote a feature article on Sena. The headline was:

"The Child of the Rain, Sena Shintani—The Potential Shown by a Japanese Female Driver"

The article detailed Sena's background. Her father. Her handmade data analysis. Limited budget. The difficulty of obtaining sponsors.

The reporter asked Sena this in an interview after the race.

"As a female driver, do you feel there is a wall?"

Sena thought for a moment and answered.

"While I'm wearing my helmet, there is no wall. The machine doesn't know if the person riding it is a man or a woman. If there is a wall, it's in the world after I take off the helmet."

That phrase was added to the article's headline. "The wall is outside the helmet."

The article was widely shared on the internet. There were pros and cons on social media. Affirmative voices like "She's truly fast" and "Can a woman really drive this well?" Negative voices like "Even if she's fast in F4, she won't make it higher up" and "There's no way a woman can go to F1."

Sena read both and closed her smartphone.

For both voices, her answer was the same. I have no choice but to run and prove it.

Chapter 8: Foreign Gazes

Twenty years old. January.

Sena wasn't the only one who read the article.

In the UK, Jamie Nelson, a scout for Rodin Motorsport, one of the entry teams for the F1 Academy, found the article.

Jamie's job is to find promising female drivers from junior formula categories around the world. He always kept an eye on major series in Europe, South America, and North America, but he hadn't been able to cover Japan's F4.

The article was only in Japanese, so he read it through translation software. From the unnatural English, several keywords caught his eye: "Overwhelming speed in the wet," "Self-taught data analysis," "Father was a mechanic," "Limited budget." The last sentence, "The wall is outside the helmet." It was the words of a twenty-year-old Japanese person.

Jamie didn't close the screen and opened the onboard video from the link attached to the article.

A wet race at Fuji. A small driver running through the rain as if the road surface were dry. The braking was unique. It wasn't the general "textbook" braking; she was dragging the brakes deep into the corner while synchronizing it with the start of the steering turn.

Jamie rewound the video and watched it again. The entrance to the Dunlop Corner. Usually, with this amount of rain, you start braking 100 meters before. But this driver was pulling it to around 70 meters.

And instead of releasing the brakes, she started turning the steering wheel while keeping them on. With the load still on the front, the nose was sucked into the inside.

As a technique, he knew it. Trail braking. But to master it with this precision in this amount of rain, you couldn't do it without a considerable sense of the road surface.

Jamie contacted team manager Adam Hughes.

"There's an interesting kid in Japan. Watch the onboard."

Adam watched the video three times.

"How long has this kid been in formula cars?"

"This is her third year in F4. She's third in the season, but her speed in the wet is abnormal."

"Age?"

"Just turned twenty. No problem with the F1 Academy age limit."

"Physical condition? Can she handle the stamina during a race?"

"No data. In Japanese F4, they probably don't even collect physical data."

"Team environment?"

"Her father was a mechanic, but he passed away two years ago. Currently, she belongs to a small private team. The budget is minimal. They don't even have proper telemetry equipment."

Adam played the video for the fourth time, thought for a moment, and said,

"If she's putting out these times in this environment, what happens if we give her proper equipment?"

"I want to see that."

"Let's go see for ourselves."

February. Fuji Speedway. Joint test.

At this time before the season, each team conducts test runs. Sena was preparing in the team's small garage as usual. There were two mechanics. The budget was as tight as ever. The number of tire sets was also limited.

That day, there were unfamiliar foreigners in the paddock.

Jamie and Adam were trying not to stand out. They obtained paddock passes and observed the test runs from the pit wall, pretending to be general visitors.

Morning session. The road surface was dry. Sena's time was third. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't special either.

Adam signaled to Jamie.

He had an expression that said, "Well, I guess that's it."

Jamie shook his head.

"Look at the machine. Compared to other teams, it's clearly inferior in cornering speed. The aero setting is loose. Probably no wind tunnel data or CFD. And yet, she's third."

Adam pointed his binoculars at Sena's machine. Indeed, the straight-line speed was comparable to the top, but the rear was clearly unstable in high-speed corners. There wasn't enough aerodynamic downforce. The driver was compensating for that with throttle work.

"I see. So she's filling the machine's deficiencies with the driver's sense."

"That's why the gap narrows when it rains. In the rain, the advantage of downforce is less effective. The driver's sense is what matters."

Afternoon. The sky began to cloud over. Around 3:00 PM, it started to rain.

The teams were divided into those that continued test runs and those that finished. Sena's team kept running. They switched to wet tires and went out on the course.

Adam's expression changed when Sena entered her second lap from the out-lap.

Immediately after switching to wet tires, normal drivers take several laps to check the grip sensation. But Sena started pushing from the second lap. As if she had completely grasped the amount of water on the road surface and the grip level of the tires in one lap.

"What is this?"

Adam muttered.

He looked at the stopwatch. Sena's lap time in the wet completely surpassed the other drivers who were third in the dry.

Five laps. Ten laps. The time didn't drop. Rather, she was shaving off a tenth of a second each lap. Even though the rainfall was increasing.

Jamie compared the stopwatch and his notes and said,

"Look at the tenth lap time. It's 0.8 seconds off her personal best in the dry. In this amount of rain. It's impossible."

Adam lowered his binoculars. He didn't need to look at the numbers anymore. You can tell by watching the run. This driver doesn't feel fear in the rain.

No, she's gone beyond fear. She's conversing with the road surface. It was a kind of talent that couldn't be fully conveyed through video, something you only understand when you see it live.

After the test, Adam said to Jamie,

"Let's call this kid."

Final Chapter: March Canned Coffee

Early March.

Sena was at Fuji alone that day. Final confirmation of the seat fitting for the team's machine. She finished the work in the morning and had nothing to do in the afternoon.

She bought a canned coffee from a vending machine behind the paddock. The slightly sweetened one her father liked. She had developed the habit of drinking it before she knew it. Even though she thought she was a black coffee person.

When she was four, her father's overalls smelled like oil. The slightly sweetened canned coffee was remembered along with that smell. Every time she drank it, the feeling of being held in her father's arms came back.

When she put her finger on the pull tab, her smartphone rang.

An unknown number. And a UK country code.

Is it a sales call? Her mother had said that scam calls from overseas were increasing recently. She hesitated for a moment, but decided to answer. A racing driver answers every call. It might be about a sponsor, or it might be a contact from some team. You shouldn't close off possibilities yourself. Her heart jumped.

"Hello? Sena Shintani?"

A low, calm man's voice.

"...Yes, speaking."

"I'm Adam Hughes, team manager of Rodin Motorsport. I'll get straight to the point. We want to invite you to next season's F1 Academy."

The canned coffee slipped from her hand. It hit the asphalt with a light metallic sound. The brown, slightly sweetened liquid made a small puddle on the ground.

After the call, Sena stood there for a while.

F1 Academy. She knew the name. A formula series created for female drivers. It travels the world as a support race for F1. A place where talented drivers from Europe gather. She thought it was a story from a different world than hers.

And it had come to her.

She picked up the canned coffee with trembling hands. Half of the contents had spilled. She took a sip of the rest. It had gone lukewarm. The sweetness of the slightly sweetened coffee tasted different than usual.
She called her mother.

"Mom, you know..."

The words didn't come out well. Excitement, confusion, and nameless emotions were all mixed up.

"Calm down. Take a deep breath."

Her mother was calm. She was always like that. No matter what, the first word was always calm. She would shake after that.

"A team from the UK... to F1 Academy... next season..."

"Eh?"

Her mother was speechless. There was silence on the other end of the phone for a while.

"...Is it true?"

"It's true. I just got a call. It was someone from the UK."

A long, long silence.

Then she heard her mother's voice. It was trembling.

"...We have to report this to your father, don't we?"

Tears spilled from Sena's eyes.

On the other end of the phone, her mother was crying too. Muffled. Under the kitchen fluorescent light, just like that time. But this time, it wasn't tears of sadness.

After returning home, she sat in front of the Buddhist altar. Her father's photo was smiling. The one from that kart course, holding a red helmet.

"Dad."

She lit the incense. The smoke rose straight toward the ceiling.

"I've been called. I've been called by the world."

Her father in the photo was still smiling. He wasn't fast, but he was the person who loved racing more than anyone. Her mother was standing behind her. She didn't know when she had been there. They sat side by side in front of the altar.

Maki stared at her husband in the photo. There was one more thing to report.

"You did it. This child is going to run the continuation of your dream."

She didn't say it out loud. She said it in her heart.

Sena closed her eyes.

That scene floated behind her eyelids. Herself at two or three years old. A red helmet running on the other side of the fence. The third kart from the back, but the coolest one in the world.

She opened her eyes.

"I'm going."

She said to her father. She also said to her mother.

She stood up.

There are mountains of things to do. Passport confirmation. Visa procedures. English study. Strengthening physical training. Adaptation to the simulator. Preparation for European courses. Contract negotiations with the team. Finding sponsors.

The anxiety is endless. The language barrier. The cultural barrier. The ability barrier. The gender barrier. The wall outside the helmet.

But there is something my father taught me.

Reality is something you change by running.

Sena Shintani, twenty years old.

Running to the world. The first step started in front of the vending machine at Fuji Speedway. A stain of canned coffee remained small on the asphalt.

"Understood"