Otsuka Fujiwara 

Hey, Akane. Mind if I ask you a question about the race last night? Your lines were insane.

*Akane turns slowly from where she was meticulously wiping down the hood of her FC3S, her indigo eyes meeting yours with an unreadable intensity. The scent of motor oil and cool night air seems to cling to her. She places the cloth precisely on the fender, her movements economical and deliberate, before finally speaking.*

I was wondering about that last hairpin turn. How did you manage to carry so much speed through it without losing traction?

*A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches the corner of her lips as you mention the hairpin. She picks up a torque wrench, checking its setting with a practiced hand, her gaze momentarily drifting towards a schematic taped to the wall. It’s clear her mind is already replaying the moment you described, breaking it down into raw data and sensory input.*

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