The next morning arrived in a pale wash of sunlight over Suginami City, filtering through the curtains and nudging both Izamuri and Haruka awake. Haruka groaned first, sitting upright with his hair sticking out in twelve different directions, looking like a man who had fought a tornado in his sleep and barely survived. Izamuri blinked awake moments later, still half-buried in the futon, clutching the spare workshop key like a talisman.
"Morning…" Izamuri mumbled.
Haruka stretched, joints popping. "No time to be sleepy. Today's gonna be a weird one."
They got dressed quickly. Haruka in his usual black shirt with rolled sleeves and jeans, Izamuri in a clean hoodie and work pants, and made their way to the small kitchen. Breakfast was simple: reheated rice, tamagoyaki Haruka whipped together in a hurry, and miso soup left over from last night. Nothing fancy, but warm and comforting.
Haruka gulped down his soup like a man with a schedule to keep. "Eat fast," he said. "I gotta go pick up the old men."
Izamuri raised an eyebrow. "You mean Daichi, Simon, and Walter?"
"Same difference," Haruka said, grabbing his jacket.
After finishing breakfast, Izamuri washed the dishes while Haruka stuffed his pockets with keys and checked his phone.
"You remember how to get to the workshop?" Haruka asked, slipping his shoes on.
"I've walked there with you before," Izamuri replied. "Should be fine."
Haruka nodded, stepping into the small garage. Instead of taking his Corolla, he pointed at the old mountain bike leaning against the wall. It was dusty, squeaky, and the paint was chipped, but still functional.
"Use this. And don't die."
Izamuri sighed. "That's not reassuring."
Haruka grinned, then headed toward the driver's seat of his car. "I'll text you when we're at the port."
"Alright. Good luck."
"You too."
Haruka reversed out of the garage and drove off toward Daichi's house.
Izamuri rolled the bike out, adjusted the seat height, and mounted it. The moment he pushed off, the bike made a metallic groan.
"I swear if this thing collapses on me…" he muttered, pedaling down the quiet residential street.
The air was crisp, the city slowly waking. Salarymen walked briskly to train stations; small cafés opened their shutters; delivery trucks rumbled along the side roads. Izamuri pedaled harder, feeling the morning wind whip against his face.
Meanwhile, a few minutes later Haruka reached Daichi's house. He pulled up in front of the modest two-story home, easily recognizable by Daichi's beloved 3000GT parked neatly in the driveway. Haruka honked once. A short beep.
The front door immediately opened.
Simon stepped out first, buttoned-up as always in his beige coat and pressed shirt, holding a thermos of hot tea like it was an artifact from a museum. Behind him came Walter, yawning loudly while carrying a folder stuffed with papers for whatever logistics nightmare awaited them. Daichi came last, locking the door behind him, looking surprisingly awake for a man who had spent half the night thinking about a forgotten container from a billionaire historian.
They all descended the front steps.
"You're early," Daichi said, climbing into the passenger seat.
"You said 8 AM sharp. It's 7:58," Haruka replied smugly. "I'm two minutes better than sharp."
Walter got in behind Daichi, grumbling. "Remind me why I agreed to this? Ports are always a bureaucratic hellscape."
"Because you're the least likely to punch a customs officer," Simon said, squeezing into the rear seat next to him.
Walter scoffed. "That's debatable."
Simon ignored him, turning to Haruka. "Let's get moving. The sooner we start, the better."
Haruka nodded, shifting the car into 1st gear. "Next stop… Tokyo Port," he said.
The Corolla eased onto the main road. Traffic wasn't too bad yet; the morning rush was just beginning to build. Simon opened his thermos, sipping the steaming tea with the calm posture of a man preparing for an academic presentation rather than an unpredictable retrieval mission. Walter pulled out his folder and scanned through receipts, shipping codes, and name records.
Meanwhile Daichi stared out the window, brows furrowed, fingers tapping against his knee. Something weighed heavily on him, more than he admitted last night.
Haruka glanced over. "Still thinking about Franz?"
Daichi exhaled slowly. "I just… I don't get it. Franz was the type of man who spent his life chasing history. Not giving it away."
Simon nodded thoughtfully. "Someone who lived through nearly a century of motorsport would have amassed an enormous archive. If he sent a container to you specifically, it wasn't random."
Walter grunted. "Or maybe he got senile in his old age and mailed a bunch of junk to the wrong guy."
Daichi shot him a look. "Franz? Senile? He corrected me on pre-war tire compounds while hooked up to medical machines."
Haruka snorted. "Sounds like someone Daichi would be friends with."
"Watch it," Daichi muttered.
The car turned onto the highway entrance ramp, the city skyline reflecting sunlight like glittering shards. The ocean breeze already faintly reached them even though the port was still several kilometers away.
Simon leaned forward slightly. "Whatever it is, we handle it carefully. If it's historical material, it could be priceless."
Walter added, "Or dangerous."
"Hopefully neither," Haruka said, though he didn't entirely believe his own words.
Back with Izamuri. He pedaled through the last block and finally reached the workshop. Sweat dripped down his temple despite the cool air. The mountain bike wheezed one final metallic protest as he parked it by the side wall.
He fished the spare key from his pocket. Took a breath and unlocked the front door. The workshop smelled like oil, detergent, and faint traces of burnt rubber, a strange combination, but oddly comforting.
He stepped inside, flicked on the lights, and began preparing for the day.
The twins would probably arrive soon. Rin maybe fifteen minutes later. Takamori right as the clock hit opening time.
And Haruka, Daichi, Simon, and Walter were already on their way to confront the mysterious container waiting somewhere in the storage yards of Tokyo Port.
Izamuri stretched his arms and looked around the quiet, empty workshop.
"Alright," he said softly. "Let's start the day."
Meanwhile a few hours later, Haruka, Daichi, Simon, and Walter arrives at Tokyo Port. And it was always busy as usual, but the moment Haruka pulled the Corolla through the security checkpoint and into the administrative district, the air seemed to thicken with an energy different from any normal workday. Containers stacked five, six, sometimes seven high towered over the lots like enormous steel monoliths. Cargo cranes creaked and groaned overhead, moving with mechanical precision. Trucks rumbled in, out, and around the maze of lanes.
Haruka parked in a designated visitor slot outside the main office building, an industrial gray structure with tinted windows and heavy-duty steel framing. The four stepped out and headed straight inside.
The lobby was cold, sterile, and filled with the smell of air-conditioning, printer ink, and fresh floor polish. A digital board flashed messages about customs hours, dock status, and inbound ship schedules. Workers in reflective vests and steel-toe boots hurried past, speaking in clipped voices.
Daichi approached the front desk and gave his name.
The receptionist blinked twice. Then typed rapidly.
"Oh, yes. Fujiwara-san," she said. "You're here for the… ah… large delivery."
Daichi sighed. "That's what the police told me. It's been sitting here since 2007?"
"Yes," she replied apologetically. "It was mistakenly placed in deep storage. We truly apologize. The Port Authority was doing a major inventory refresh and noticed it was still assigned to your name."
Walter muttered under his breath, "How do you lose an entire container for thirteen years?"
Simon didn't miss a beat. "The same way Haruka loses his 10-millimeter sockets."
"Hey!" Haruka protested. "That only happened… like… twice."
"Four times since i knew you," Daichi corrected out of habit.
The receptionist printed a stack of documents and slid them across the counter.
"These are the retrieval forms, clearance confirmations, and chain-of-custody notices. Please check and sign each page."
Simon immediately took charge, flipping through the paperwork with methodical precision. "Customs declaration… storage fee waiver… recovery authorization… container manifest… blank. Interesting."
Walter arched a brow. "Blank?"
"Completely blank," Simon repeated. "No item list. No weight. No contents declared."
"That's not ominous at all," Haruka remarked sarcastically.
Meanwhile Daichi just stared at the top page, the name Franz von Bormann typed neatly in the sender's field. For a moment, his chest tightened. That old man had been a link to the past, one of the last people who could speak of the 1930s racing era from firsthand experience. If Franz really sent him something, it must have been important.
After fifteen minutes of reviewing and initialing, Daichi signed his name on the final page.
And then… it was done.
The receptionist stamped everything quickly and handed them each a bright yellow hard hat.
"You're cleared to enter Yard 7B," she said. "Your container is already moved closer to the access lane. A supervisor will guide you."
Daichi blinked. "That's… very fast."
The receptionist smiled sheepishly. "We moved the file to high priority after realizing how long it had been overlooked."
Walter smirked. "I'd rush, too, if I lost a container for over a decade."
Simon tucked the paperwork under his arm. "Shall we? No point delaying."
They stepped out of the building. The air outside was thicker and humid with sea-salt and diesel fumes. Cargo trucks roared down the paved lanes, some carrying stacked containers, others empty with clattering metal locks. Blue, green, and red metal giants stretched across the horizon like a bizarre cityscape.
A port supervisor, wearing an orange vest and holding a tablet, jogged up to greet them.
"You must be Fujiwara-san?" he asked.
"That's me."
"Follow me, please. Yard 7B isn't far. The container was relocated last night."
The group put on their hard hats.
Haruka's sat slightly crooked.
Walter's was too small.
Simon's fit perfectly, of course.
Daichi tightened his chin strap with a faint frown.
They were escorted toward the massive expanse of the container yard.
The ground beneath their feet vibrated with the heavy thuds of cargo being loaded and unloaded. Cranes moved on their rails like tall steel skeletons, lifting containers with mechanical ease. Seagulls circled overhead, crying loudly every few seconds. The metallic scent of ship hulls mixed with the ocean breeze and the ever-present odor of machine oil.
Haruka walked in awe. "This place is huge. It's like a city inside a city."
"It is a city inside a city," Walter replied. "One that smells like engine grease and wet rope."
Simon kept his eyes on the rows of stacked containers. "The organization alone is impressive. Every single one has a precise location, entry number, and time stamp."
"And yet they misplaced one for thirteen years," Daichi muttered.
Walter chuckled. "Even the best systems fail."
They walked deeper into the labyrinth of steel walls, the shadows growing longer between the towering stacks.
"7B should be that way," the supervisor said, pointing toward the right.
Daichi inhaled slowly. The idea that a container, one sent by Franz, had gone unnoticed since 2007 gnawed at him. Franz wasn't the type to send something trivial. Everything he did was deliberate. Meaningful. Often dramatic. The old historian had a flair for the grand gesture.
"What were you thinking, old man…?" Daichi whispered to himself.
The supervisor continued walking ahead, leading them past forklifts, parked flatbeds, and workers shouting instructions to one another. A gust of wind carried the sound of a distant ship horn.
Walter adjusted his glasses. "Whatever's inside, it's probably heavy."
Simon nodded. "Containers don't get shipped half-empty. Especially not internationally."
Haruka, filled with a mix of curiosity and nerves, asked, "You think it's car parts?"
Simon shrugged. "From what Daichi told me this morning. Franz von Bormann owned everything from Auto Union memorabilia to old Stuttgart photographs. It could be mechanical. It could be historical. It could be both."
Daichi didn't answer.
He simply walked forward, heart beating faster with every step.
The steel aisles widened as they approached Yard 7B, where the mysterious container waited for them, silent and forgotten for over a decade. The walk through yard felt endless, until the supervisor finally stopped, pointed forward, and said,
"Fujiwara-san… that's the one."
The four froze. There, under the shadow of a container crane, sat an enormous 40-foot shipping container. Weathered by years of sun and rain, the steel walls were streaked with faded rust dribbles, the original navy-blue paint now dull and peeling. Stenciled white letters, half-flaked, still read:
FRANZ V. BORMANN – PRIVATE SHIPMENT
DESTINATION: TOKYO, JAPAN
DATE: MAY 2007
Daichi's mouth ran dry. He whispered, "Forty feet..? What the hell did he send me…?"
Simon slowly adjusted his glasses, eyes widening. "This is… far larger than I expected."
Walter let out a low whistle. "This thing could hold a whole workshop."
Haruka gulped. "Or like a car collection."
The supervisor nodded to two port workers standing nearby, each holding industrial bolt cutters. "We'll open it for you now. The lock number matches your paperwork."
The seal, an old, corroded metal clasp stamped DEUTSCHE ZOLL, had clearly not been touched since the day it arrived thirteen years ago. One worker braced himself, positioned the cutters, and with one massive CRUNCH, the lock snapped in half. The second worker slid the locking bar free.
The doors groaned loudly as they were pulled open, complaining with a screech like a beast awakened from a century of slumber.
And then… All four men inhaled sharply.
Walter nearly choked on air.
Simon's jaw hung open.
Haruka didn't move.
It was impossible to fully comprehend at first glance. Right at the entrance of the container, placed like museum pieces, perfectly secured against custom wooden frames, sat two legendary racing engines.
On the left, a long, silver, almost sculptural V12 with exposed velocity stacks gleaming under the light.
Simon gasped. "That's… no… it can't be…"
But the plaque on its cradle confirmed it. It's a Ferrari Tipo 228 3.0L V12 – 1966 Ferrari 312 F1. The engine that powered one of the most iconic Grand Prix machines of the late 60s, sitting casually in Daichi's mysterious container.
To the right was a more compact, more menacing piece of machinery. A V6 engine block with massive snails on each side.
Haruka stepped forward, eyes shaking. "That is the… the Lotus…"
The label reads… Renault-Gordini EF15B V6 TT – Lotus 98T (A. Senna). The turbocharged beast driven by Ayrton Senna himself.
Haruka didn't even finish the breath he was taking. His eyes rolled back. He fainted instantly.
Walter had to catch him by the shoulders before he hit the ground. "Oh for- Haruka! Wake up! Haruka! Scheiße, he's out cold."
Even the supervisor stared in stunned silence. "What… what is this shipment?"
Simon stepped inside, boots echoing on the steel flooring. "It's a private motorsport archive… A treasure vault…"
Then Walter shouted. "LOOK UP!"
They all tilted their heads. Hanging from reinforced chains and tie straps along the ceiling was an unmistakable sight, a Porsche 962 front bodywork. The whole nose section, white and blue, still bearing scuffs from endurance racing. The old number markings were faint but visible.
Even Daichi felt his breath hitch. "Franz… you crazy old man…"
Simon moved deeper inside and uncovered stacked boxes on the left wall. Each one labeled meticulously in German handwriting.
FOTOS – 1950–1970
FOTOS – 1971–1990
FOTOS – SONDERAUSGABE
Another box was open, with its contents spilling out slightly. Baseball caps. At least twenty. Every one of them SIGNED.
Ayrton Senna.
Michael Schumacher.
Niki Lauda.
Alan Jones.
Kimi Räikkönen.
Damon Hill.
Jacques Villeneuve.
Mika Häkkinen.
Fernando Alonso.
And this was just the top layer. Alongside them were faded photos from Monaco, Spa, Monza, Suzuka, every major circuit over half a century.
Walter sputtered. "This is insane. This is… this is priceless!"
Simon picked up a long, flat object leaning against a crate. His face turned ghost-white. "…Haruka is going to die again when he sees this."
It was an original McLaren MP4/4 front wing. The famous white-and-red Marlboro livery. The signatures?
Ayrton Senna and Alain Prost. Side by side.
Daichi rubbed his face. "This doesn't make sense… Why me…? Why send this to me?"
Simon moved to another open box labeled simply. "ENZO"
Inside lay a Ferrari F40 steering wheel, wrapped, preserved, immaculate. The stitching still vibrant. Attached was a certificate. And on the bottom spoke, written in silver ink.
"ENZO FERRARI"
Daichi nearly fell backward.
Next to it, dozens of vintage Ferrari brochures, owner manuals, and factory booklets sat beside a pair of Ferrari 288 GTO magnesium wheels, pristine as if forged yesterday.
Haruka groaned on the floor. "…am I in heaven…?"
Walter patted his cheek. "No. Not yet."
Then Simon noticed something odd. At the midpoint of the container, a tall wall of black plastic sheets stretched from floor to ceiling, covering the ENTIRE back half. A thick industrial tarp, fastened tightly with metal clips.
"What's this?" Simon murmured.
Daichi slowly approached it. The tarp wasn't part of the container. It was something Franz installed himself. A partition, blocking the view of the entire remaining half of the container.
Simon stepped closer. "Whatever's behind it is even bigger…"
Walter swallowed. "Bigger than THIS?"
Haruka, finally awake, sat up. "There's MORE?"
Daichi placed his hand against the plastic sheet. Something was behind it because it was hollow. He then clenched his jaw. "…Alright. Let's see what else the old man sent."
Daichi grabbed the edge of the plastic partition and began to pull. The tarp resisted at first. stiff from age, stiff from dust. but with a sharp RIIIP, one side tore loose. Cold air rushed out from the sealed back half of the container, carrying with it the smell of old fuel, varnished oil, and aged magnesium. A smell only racers recognized instinctively.
Walter held his breath.
Simon froze mid-step.
Haruka, already pale, braced himself against the container wall.
Daichi gripped the tarp with both hands and gave one strong pull.
RRRIIIIIIPPPPPP—!
The entire partition came down.
All four men gasped in unison.
Sitting inside, secured with a dilapidated ratchet strap, spotless despite thirteen years of storage, was a car so iconic, so instantly recognizable, that even a child who had never watched motorsports could identify it.
A 1974 Porsche 911 RSR 3.0
With Jägermeister Livery
The bright burnt-orange body shone under the fluorescent warehouse lights like a polished gemstone, the white sponsor lettering perfectly preserved. The classic ducktail spoiler, massive flared fenders, deep-dish BBS wheels, and the unmistakable long-hood silhouette radiated a presence that punched straight into the heart.
Walter's jaw dropped so far it nearly hit his boots.
Simon whispered, "No… way… Not an RSR. Not this RSR."
Haruka stood perfectly still for two seconds. Then collapsed face-first again.
Walter threw his hands in the air. "Haruka! DU BIST EIN IDIOT—STOP FAINTING!"
Daichi wasn't listening. Because the moment he saw that car… something snapped back into place in his memory—a memory he hadn't revisited since before the crash.
His lips parted. "…Franz. You bastard."
Simon blinked. "You… recognize it?"
Daichi stepped forward slowly, as if approaching a shrine, and gently touched the rear fender.
His voice was low, stunned, half laughing at the absurdity.
"I remember now…" He looked at the others.
"In 2006, DTM. Nürburgring. Friday practice rained out. Qualifying looked like a flood. Everyone was struggling."
He pointed at his own head. "That year… Franz visited me in Germany. Said he wanted to 'motivate' me. So he bet BET some pieces from his collection that I wouldn't be able to take pole position in the rain."
Simon's eyes widened. "He bet this car?"
Daichi nodded. "Him being a billionaire with a sick sense of humor, he casually listed off what he'd wager. Some engines. Old wings. Hand-signed memorabilia. The RSR…"
He gestured to the entire container.
"…apparently all of THIS."
Walter stared in horror. "HE BET HIS ENTIRE TREASURE TROVE?"
Daichi exhaled through a tired smile.
"Franz didn't think I'd actually do it. He said the rain would swallow the field. But I did qualify on pole. By nearly a full second."
Simon's mouth hung open. "So… this… all of this… was because of THAT bet?"
Daichi shrugged helplessly. "I laughed at him afterward and told him he didn't have to keep his promise. He waved it off and said, 'A gentleman never loses a bet.'"
Walter scratched his head. "Then why send it to Japan? Why send it to YOU?"
Daichi sighed, rubbing his temples. "I guess the 2007 crash scrambled some memories… but I remember now. At the end of 2006, he told me he'd ship the collection to me 'when the time felt right.' I thought he meant metaphorically. I didn't think he meant literally."
Simon looked around the container once more, at the Ferrari V12, the Lotus V6, the Porsche nose, the signed caps, the F40 wheel.
"And the right time, apparently… was thirteen years ago." Daichi laughed softly. "But the port lost track of it. Typical."
Haruka, coming back to life, sat up groggily. "I… saw heaven. It was orange."
Walter ignored him.
The supervisor returned with a slightly nervous expression. "Gentlemen, the truck you ordered last night has arrived. They're asking where to start loading."
Daichi nodded. "Send them everything except the Porsche first. The car comes last."
The crew began unloading immediately. A white medium box truck reversed up to the container with a warning beep. Workers rolled out a reinforced ramp, then began carrying out crates one by one. The engines were lifted by crane straps and placed into cushioned steel racks inside the truck.
Haruka remained on the ground, staring at the Porsche like a dehydrated man staring at an oasis.
Walter nudged him with his boot. "Don't faint again. We don't have insurance for emotional trauma."
Inside the container, they watched as the last few boxes were hauled away, the photos, the memorabilia, the manuals. Only the Porsche remained.
Daichi stood at the edge of the ramp and whispered, "Franz… you really kept your word."
Simon crossed his arms. "Someone who lived almost a century probably didn't make promises lightly."
Finally, the foreman approached the group. "We're ready for the car. But… wow. This thing is in incredible condition."
Daichi nodded. "Franz maintained all his cars religiously. Nothing left his possession without being overhauled."
The workers positioned wheel dollies under each tire. Slowly and carefully, they began to push the 1974 RSR out of the container, inch by inch.
Sunlight hit the car for the first time in thirteen years. The orange paint seemed to ignite, vibrant, alive, glowing like embers.
Haruka whispered, "This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
Walter elbowed him. "Hey! What about Hana?"
"... who said I'm her boyfriend?"
Daichi stayed silent, watching the Porsche roll down the ramp. For a moment, he wasn't a retired champion or a convenience store manager. He was back in Germany. Back in his prime. Back on the grid. And standing with him, laughing at the rain, cigar in hand, would've been Franz von Bormann.
"Old friend," Daichi murmured, "you really didn't have to do all this."
But Franz had done it anyway.
When the Porsche finally touched pavement, Simon inhaled sharply.
"It's… perfect. Absolutely perfect."
The truck crew opened the rear gates of the transport carrier, preparing the straps and wheel blocks. The RSR was ready to be loaded. Daichi placed his hand on the roof for one last moment before letting the workers take over.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's take her home."
With the final click of the wheel chocks, the Porsche 911 RSR was secured inside the transport carrier. The orange icon sat in the center of the truck's padded bay, strapped down like a priceless artifact being moved between museums, which, in essence, it was. The truck crew slid the heavy rear doors shut, latching them with a deep metallic clunk that echoed through the container yard.
Daichi exhaled slowly, emotions still wrestling inside him.
Haruka, who had recovered from his second fainting episode, kept glancing back at the carrier like a child watching a departing spaceship.
Meanwhile, the second truck, the medium white box truck loaded with engines, wings, crates, memorabilia, and decades of motorsport history, also prepared to depart. The side door was shut tight, sealed with temporary customs bands until they reached Haruka's workshop.
The port supervisor approached, clipboard in hand. "All items accounted for. Two trucks, both cleared to leave."
Daichi nodded. "Thank you for the help. We'll take it from here."
The supervisor smiled. "Quite the treasure you've got there. Never seen anything like it in twenty years of working here."
"Neither have we," Simon muttered, still stunned.
Walter slapped Daichi's shoulder. "Now the real trouble begins, figuring out where the hell to put everything."
Haruka straightened up, brushing dust from his pants. "The break room! We can organize the memorabilia there! And the engines, those go on display mounts in the workshop!"
Simon gave him a flat look. "You are not putting a twin-turbo V6 from a Lotus 98T next to the microwave."
Haruka pouted. "But it'll look cool…"
"It'll explode if you sneeze on it wrong," Simon snapped.
Daichi stepped between them, smiling lightly. "Relax. We'll sort everything properly when we get back. Engines in the workshop. Memorabilia in the break room. Photos and documents upstairs."
Walter added, "And the Porsche stays untouched until we decide where it goes. Preferably behind bulletproof glass."
Haruka nodded enthusiastically. "YES! I'll order the glass!"
"We're not putting it in a museum display," Daichi said. "We're keeping it alive. Franz wouldn't forgive me otherwise."
The trucks started their engines, deep rumbles bouncing off steel containers. Workers cleared a path in the yard, waving flags and hand signals to guide the precious cargo toward the exit.
Daichi turned to follow, but paused. He glanced back into the now-empty container. Only dust and faint tire marks from the Porsche remained.
"Goodbye, Franz," he whispered. "And… thanks."
Simon, standing beside him, spoke quietly. "You know… most people leave wills. Not shipping containers full of motorsport history."
Daichi smiled. "Franz was not 'most people'."
Walter waved from ahead. "Oi! Sentimental time is over! Let's go before the port decides to charge extra parking fees!"
Daichi chuckled and jogged to catch up.