The next morning came quietly, almost respectfully, as if the workshop itself understood that something historic now lived within its walls.
Sunlight filtered through the high windows, cutting long pale lines across the concrete floor. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, stirred by the slow opening of the main shutter. The smell inside the workshop was familiar. oil, rubber, old metal, but underneath it now sat something heavier, older. A presence.
The Porsche sat where they had left it the night before.
Even without its engine running, without heat in its pipes or tension in its suspension, it dominated the space. The 1974 Porsche 911 RSR 3.0 rested low on its wheels, orange Jägermeister livery dulled slightly by decades of darkness but still unmistakable. The curves were pure purpose. no excess, no softness. Every panel existed because it had to.
Everyone gathered around it in silence.
Haruka stood closest, hands on his hips, eyes moving inch by inch like he was afraid to miss something if he blinked. Izamuri hovered just behind him, posture straight, expression unreadable but intent. Rin leaned against a tool chest, arms folded. The twins crouched low near the rear wheels, already arguing quietly about something they hadn't even touched yet. Takamori stood back, assessing from a distance, the way a veteran driver looks at a circuit before walking it.
Daichi arrived last.
He didn't say anything at first. He just stopped, took in the sight, and let out a slow breath.
"It survived," he said quietly.
That single sentence seemed to unlock the room.
They began moving around the car, not touching yet, just observing. Walter circled with a notebook, already jotting things down. Simon adjusted his glasses and leaned closer to the front splitter, frowning slightly at the condition of the rubber seals. Nikolai appeared with a mug of coffee and froze mid-sip when he saw how close everyone was standing, like worshippers around an altar.
Haruka broke the silence first.
"Okay," he said, voice steady but barely containing excitement. "Let's start with the obvious. No one turns anything. No one cranks anything. We inspect first."
The twins groaned in unison.
"We know," one of them said.
"We really know," the other added.
Izamuri crouched near the oil tank access point and carefully removed the cap. The smell hit immediately.
It wasn't oil anymore.
It was thick, sour, metallic, like something that had forgotten what it was supposed to be.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "That's sludge."
Daichi nodded. "Dry-sump system. Forty-plus years sitting still. Gravity did the rest."
Haruka leaned over to look inside and grimaced. "That's not draining. That's excavation."
Simon moved to the wheels next. He ran his hand slowly along the tire surface, fingers tracing the subtle distortions.
"Flat spots," he said. "Bad ones. Probably from sitting in one position for decades. Rubber's hardened too."
"Expected," Takamori said calmly. "Even museum cars get that."
Walter crouched near the brake calipers, peering through the spokes. "Surface corrosion on the discs. Lines will need replacing. Every seal too."
Rin walked to the rear and tapped gently on the exhaust with a knuckle. The sound was dull, lifeless.
"Internals are probably coated in varnish," he said. "Fuel residue. Injectors too."
Haruka straightened up and exhaled slowly.
On any other car, this would've been bad news. On this one, it felt almost reassuring. These weren't signs of abuse or neglect. They were signs of time.
The Porsche hadn't been forgotten. It had simply been waiting.
They rolled it a few inches forward, carefully, just enough to inspect the underside. The suspension creaked softly in protest, metal waking from a long sleep. Every sound was noted, remembered.
Izamuri lay flat on his back and slid underneath, flashlight cutting through shadow.
"Chassis looks straight," he said after a moment. "No visible cracks. Floor pan's solid. Some surface rust, but nothing structural."
Haruka smiled faintly. "Of course it is."
He reached out and rested a hand lightly on the roof.
"This car wasn't abandoned," he said. "It was… preserved."
Daichi looked at him, understanding exactly what he meant.
Franz.
The paperwork lay spread across the workbench nearby, documents stamped, signed, verified. Import cleared. Ownership transferred. Provenance authenticated. The bureaucratic nightmare had already been slain, quietly and efficiently.
That alone felt unreal.
"At least," Daichi said, glancing at the papers, "we don't have to fight anyone over it. No collectors. No museums. No lawyers."
"Just registration," Walter added. "And inspections. And about a thousand hours of work."
The twins grinned.
"Easy."
Haruka shot them a look. "Careful."
They laughed, but they understood.
This wasn't just a race car.
It was history.
Hana and Ayaka arrived a little later, stepping inside and stopping dead in their tracks. Hana covered her mouth without thinking. Ayaka just stared.
"It's real," Hana whispered.
Ayaka nodded slowly. "It's really here."
Haruka gestured toward the car. "Welcome to your new problem."
They walked around it slowly, Hana trailing her fingers just above the paint, not quite touching. Ayaka crouched to study the front lip, eyes sharp.
"This thing's going to need everything," Ayaka said. "Fuel system rebuild. Full teardown."
"Every bolt," Rin agreed.
Daichi listened to them all, arms folded, expression unreadable. Somewhere between pride and disbelief.
He hadn't expected Franz to keep his word.
Not like this.
A ridiculous bet. A rain-soaked qualifying session. A laugh shared in a paddock long gone. And then life had happened. Crashes. Loss. Time.
The memories had faded.
But the car hadn't.
"We're not restoring it to showroom," Haruka said finally. "And we're not touching originality unless we have to."
Everyone looked at him.
"This car tells a story," he continued. "We make it safe. We make it run. But we don't erase its past."
No one argued.
A few hours later, around noon. Outside, the city moved on. Traffic passed. Customers would come and go. The world remained ordinary. Up on the second floor, the office had taken on the quiet, focused atmosphere of a war room.
Four chairs were pulled close to the desk, laptops open, phones scattered between stacks of old notebooks and printed diagrams. Haruka leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on a grainy photograph of a 1974 911 RSR engine bay pulled from some obscure forum archive. Izamuri sat beside him, scrolling slowly, stopping often to zoom in, compare part numbers, cross-reference tiny details that only someone who lived and breathed machinery would notice.
Rin stood behind them, arms folded, occasionally leaning in to point at the screen.
"That oil line routing is different from the later customer cars," he said. "If we mess that up, pressure's going to spike."
Takamori sat opposite, calm as ever, typing methodically. He wasn't searching aimlessly. every query was precise, deliberate.
"Original magnesium case hardware is the problem," he said. "Modern replacements exist, but if we want period-correct strength, we'll have to source from Europe. Probably Germany."
Haruka sighed softly. "Figures."
The Porsche's parts list was growing longer by the minute. Seals, hoses, tires, bushings, bearings—some reproduced, some extinct, some available only through people who didn't like parting with them. Every click brought up another dead end or a lead buried behind a language barrier and a time zone difference.
"We'll need Hugo's connections," Haruka muttered. "Someone like him will know a collector who knows a guy who still has a crate sitting in a barn."
Izamuri nodded. "Or someone who remembers where one disappeared."
They worked in silence for a while, broken only by the soft tapping of keys and the occasional murmur of frustration. Outside the office window, the workshop below was unusually quiet. Too quiet.
Then
BOOM.
The entire building shook.
Not a sharp crack, not a metallic bang. this was a deep, concussive detonation that rattled the windows and sent dust cascading from the rafters. The office lights flickered once.
Before anyone could speak, a sound followed.
A sound so violent, so raw, that it felt less like an engine and more like something alive forcing air into existence.
A thunderous, uneven roar. Mechanical. Furious.
Like Satan himself had coughed up a lung.
Haruka was on his feet instantly. "What the hell—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He was already halfway down the stairs, boots hammering against metal steps, heart racing for only one reason.
The twins.
He burst through the office door and nearly slipped on the concrete floor as the noise intensified.
The workshop was chaos.
Not destructive chaos, but unhinged chaos.
The first thing he saw was the Ferrari V12.
Running.
Actually running.
Mounted on an engine stand.
A stand that was moving.
The engine's rotation was so violent, so alive, that the entire stand was slowly walking across the floor, inch by inch, like a possessed industrial Roomba possessed by the spirit of Maranello.
Haruka froze.
"What—WHAT—"
He turned his head and saw them.
Daichi stood calmly to the side, hands behind his back, observing the engine with a thoughtful expression.
Walter was holding a bottle of German beer aloft like a torch, laughing so hard he had to brace himself against a workbench.
Simon stood nearby, cheeks flushed, singing loudly and very incorrectly. "FRA-TEL-LI D'I-TA-LIA—"
Nikolai leaned against the table, arms raised, conducting the noise like an orchestra conductor gone rogue.
On the worktable lay the evidence of crimes against common sense.
Eight empty and half-empty bottles of German beer. One very half-empty bottle of vodka.
Several cans of WD-40. At least three carb cleaner bottles. And one oily rag that looked like it had given up on life.
The V12 howled again, exhaust headers glowing faintly, shaking the walls.
Haruka finally found his voice. "ARE YOU ALL INSANE?!"
The engine answered him by revving higher.
Daichi turned calmly. "Oh good, you're here," he said, completely unfazed. "Can you grab a wooden block? The stand keeps drifting."
Haruka stared at him. "You—You started it?!"
Walter laughed harder. "Started is an understatement!"
Simon, still singing, slapped the engine stand affectionately. "SHE LIVES!"
"Stop singing!" Haruka shouted. "You're making it angrier!"
Nikolai grinned. "We just wanted to see if it would wake up."
"You don't wake up a Ferrari V12 like this!" Haruka yelled. "You don't spray half the workshop's chemical inventory into it and—"
The engine surged again, the stand rolling another few centimeters.
Daichi nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. That's the issue."
Haruka grabbed a heavy wooden block from under a shelf and kicked it into place in front of the stand's wheel. The stand slammed into it and finally stopped, the engine still screaming like it was offended by modern society.
Rin and Takamori arrived seconds later, both skidding to a stop at the edge of the madness.
Rin blinked. "Why does it sound like hell has pistons?"
Takamori crossed his arms. "…Of course."
Izamuri appeared behind them, eyes wide, staring at the engine like it had personally challenged him.
"That's… actually running," he said.
Daichi nodded. "Compression is healthy. Oil pressure stabilized after a few seconds. No knocks."
Haruka whipped around. "You measured oil pressure?!"
"Yes."
"With what?!"
Daichi gestured vaguely. "Improvisation."
Haruka ran a hand through his hair, then screamed into his palms.
From the break room, faint shouting could be heard.
"I TOLD YOU PARK PLACE IS MINE!"
"YOU LANDED ON IT ONCE!"
The twins were sitting at the table, Monopoly board sprawled between them, utterly oblivious to the demonic symphony echoing through the workshop.
Izamuri slowly turned his head toward Haruka. "…The twins didn't do this?"
Haruka laughed. A short, broken sound. "For once? No."
The Ferrari V12 roared again, proud and defiant.
Daichi stepped closer to the engine, voice raised just enough to be heard over the noise. "She's been asleep for decades," he said. "Let her stretch."
Haruka looked at the engine. Then at the beer bottles. Then at Daichi.
"…We are never letting you near the vodka again."
Daichi smiled faintly.
Daichi reached forward and turned the ignition cut with the same calm he'd used to start it, as if shutting down a seventy-year-old Formula One engine on a borrowed stand was just another item on a checklist. The roar collapsed into ticking metal and the smell of hot oil, fuel vapor, and burnt history hanging thick in the air.
For a few seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Haruka exhaled, long and slow, like he'd been holding his breath since the boom.
"…That," he said, pointing at the now-silent V12, "never happens again without warning."
Walter wiped his eyes, still grinning. "Worth it."
Simon raised his beer in salute. "She sings beautifully."
Takamori pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm adding 'ear protection' to the emergency supply list."
Izamuri stared at the engine, awe slowly giving way to disbelief. "You brought it back with WD-40 and alcohol."
Daichi shrugged. "Italian engineering understands passion."
Before Haruka could respond, the workshop door banged open.
A group of unfamiliar faces spilled inside, four local delinquents, early twenties at most, loose jackets, loud voices, and the kind of swagger that came from thinking a garage full of mechanics was harmless.
"Oi!" one of them shouted. "What the hell was that noise?!"
Another cupped his ears theatrically. "Sounded like the building was gonna explode!"
Haruka turned, irritation already bubbling. "Workshop hours are—"
"We don't care about your hours," the tallest one snapped, stepping forward. "You been shaking the whole block."
Behind them, Nikolai quietly set his bottle down on the table.
The group spread out, eyes roaming the space. The engines. The cars. The tools.
Bad sign.
"We already shut it off," Haruka said, forcing calm into his voice. "It won't happen again today."
"Good," one of them muttered. He leaned casually against a toolbox, fingers drumming on the metal. Too casually.
Izamuri noticed it a second too late.
The delinquent's hand dipped, quick and practiced. A brief metallic clink. Something vanished into his sleeve.
Nikolai noticed instantly. He didn't move. Didn't speak. His eyes simply followed the motion with the focus of a hunting animal.
The group turned to leave, muttering complaints, satisfied with themselves.
"Next time we call the cops," one said over his shoulder.
They were almost out the door when Nikolai spoke.
"Stop."
The word wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
The room seemed to shrink around it.
The last delinquent hesitated, hand still on the doorframe.
Nikolai walked forward slowly, boots echoing on concrete. He stopped just behind the man and reached out, fingers closing around the back of his shirt collar.
Firm. Controlled. Not aggressive.
Yet.
In a calm, deliberate tone, his Russian accent suddenly heavier, every consonant sharpened, Nikolai spoke.
"You took a wrench. 24 millimeter. From that toolbox."
The delinquent laughed nervously. "What? You crazy, old man?"
Nikolai leaned closer, voice dropping. "You return it. Now. Quietly. And you walk away."
The others turned, eyes flicking between Nikolai and the exit.
"Let him go," one said. "We didn't take anything."
Nikolai's grip didn't tighten. His voice didn't rise. "You did," he said simply.
For half a second, it looked like the situation might end there. Then one of the delinquents made a very stupid decision.
He lunged.
A quick, sloppy swing aimed at Nikolai's head.
Bad move.
Nikolai released the collar and stepped inside the punch in one smooth motion. His foot swept low, precise and brutal, knocking the attacker's legs out from under him like they were never there.
The man's body tilted forward.
Before he could hit the ground face first, Nikolai's other leg snapped upward.
A sharp, controlled kick.
TO THE JAW.
Crack!
The sound echoed louder than the Ferrari had.
The delinquent collapsed backwards in a heap, stunned, gasping, hands scrambling uselessly against the floor.
Silence. Absolute silence.
Nikolai stood over him, posture relaxed, breathing steady. "Siberian dentist," he said calmly. "No appointment needed."
The other three froze.
Walter blinked. "Holy—"
Haruka held up a hand. "Don't."
Nikolai turned his gaze to the one nearest the door, the one who'd taken the wrench. "Tool," he said.
The delinquent's hand shook as he pulled the wrench from his sleeve and dropped it on the floor. The metal clanged loudly, echoing like a gunshot.
"Pick up your friend," Nikolai continued. "And leave."
No one argued. Two of them hauled the groaning attacker to his feet, fear written plainly across their faces now. They backed toward the door, eyes never leaving Nikolai.
As they disappeared outside, the workshop door slammed shut.
For several seconds, no one moved.
Then Rin finally spoke.
"…You learned that in the Red Army?"
Nikolai shrugged, picking up the wrench and placing it back in the toolbox exactly where it belonged. "Brief training. Long time ago."
Izamuri stared at him. "Remind me never to steal from this place."
Haruka let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "I was going to yell at you for escalating."
He paused.
"…But thank you."
Nikolai nodded once, then reached for another beer.
Daichi glanced at the Ferrari engine, then at the door. "Well," he said quietly, "she certainly announced her return to the world."
Somewhere outside, sirens wailed in the distance, but they never came closer.
Inside the workshop, the ticking of cooling metal resumed, the Ferrari V12 resting once more, as if amused by the chaos it had caused.