The pale March sunlight crept over the rooftops of Suginami, spilling warmth into the still streets. At just past seven, the neighborhood was still quiet. Shops closed, traffic is very light, the air carrying that crisp spring coolness. But one figure was already on the move.
Izamuri jogged along the narrow sidewalks, breaths steady but sharp, the rhythmic patter of his shoes against the pavement echoing faintly in the calm. Beside him, keeping perfect pace without breaking a sweat, was Nikolai. Dressed in a simple tracksuit, the Russian's movements were almost mechanical, controlled strides, measured breathing, posture straight.
"Keep your arms closer," Nikolai said evenly, glancing at Izamuri. "You're wasting energy swinging too wide."
Izamuri adjusted, tightening his form. His lungs burned already, sweat forming on his forehead, but he didn't complain. Training with Nikolai wasn't optional, Haruka had arranged it specifically because Nikolai knew how to build drivers into athletes.
"You want to last an hour in a race car," Nikolai continued, "you need the body to match. Reflexes mean nothing if your stamina dies before the checkered flag."
"I know," Izamuri muttered between breaths.
"Good," Nikolai replied simply.
They made another loop around the block, past the vending machines and closed ramen shops. Residents out walking their dogs gave them curious glances, especially at Nikolai's stern figure shadowing Izamuri like a hawk. By the time they circled back toward Haruka's street, Izamuri's shirt clung to him with sweat and his legs felt heavy, but Nikolai didn't let him stop.
"One more kilometer," he said firmly.
Izamuri groaned but obeyed, pushing through the final stretch.
By the time they finally stopped, it was almost nine. Izamuri bent forward, hands on his knees, panting heavily. Nikolai stood calmly, breathing steady, not even breaking a sweat.
"Not bad," the Russian admitted. "But you've got work to do. We build stamina first. Then we sharpen reflexes."
Izamuri looked up, exhausted but determined. "Fine… what's next?"
Nikolai checked his watch. "Gym. Come."
The gym wasn't far, just a small, modern facility tucked between convenience stores and a café. Inside, the faint smell of rubber mats and disinfectant mixed with the low thump of music from ceiling speakers. Early Sunday meant fewer people, mostly older men stretching or young professionals trying to squeeze in morning workouts.
Nikolai wasted no time. "Cardio first. Treadmill. Ten kilometers. Pace yourself."
Izamuri climbed onto the treadmill reluctantly. He pressed start, the belt whirring beneath his feet, and soon he was running again, sweat pouring down his temples. Nikolai stood nearby, arms crossed, watching his form like a hawk. Occasionally, he would call out adjustments, "shorter strides," "don't slouch," "steady breathing."
By the sixth kilometer, Izamuri's shirt was drenched. His legs screamed, but he bit down on the pain and kept going.
"Pain is your teacher," Nikolai said bluntly. "Ignore it, and you'll fail. Learn from it, and you'll improve."
By the time the treadmill beeped completion, Izamuri collapsed against the side rails, gasping for air. He felt like his lungs were on fire.
"Drink," Nikolai ordered, handing him a bottle of water. "We move on."
Next came the machines. Squats on the rack to build leg endurance. Bench presses for upper body stability. Core rotations for balance in high-G corners. Everything had a purpose, and Nikolai explained each exercise in clipped, efficient sentences. Izamuri's muscles trembled with each rep, sweat dripping onto the padded floor.
But beneath the fatigue, he felt something else: clarity. Each push, each lift, was more than just training—it was a step closer to being the racer Haruka and the others believed he could be.
By the time they wrapped up, it was close to noon. Izamuri collapsed onto a bench, exhausted beyond words. Nikolai finally allowed himself the faintest hint of approval.
"Better," he said. "Tomorrow, we push harder."
Izamuri groaned, half-dreading, half-excited. "You're gonna kill me, aren't you?"
Nikolai smirked slightly. "Not before the race."
Meanwhile, across Kanagawa, another group had their own morning planned. Haruka was behind the wheel of his Corolla, a rare seriousness in his usually laid-back face. In the back seat sat Simon, his ever-present laptop bag balanced on his knees, while Walter and Daichi rode in the passenger seats of Daichi's 3000GT behind them. Their destination wasn't a racetrack this time, but something more symbolic, the Nissan Heritage Collection in Zama.
The convoy rolled out of Tokyo and into Kanagawa Prefecture, the roads gradually opening up as they approached the industrial edge of the city. Conversation filled the Corolla, with Simon occasionally asking questions about Haruka's workshop setup and Haruka doing his best to answer, though he often stumbled when Simon pressed too deeply.
When they arrived, the collection's wide, discreet facility loomed ahead. Guards checked them in, and moments later they stepped into the cavernous halls of the museum.
It was a shrine to decades of motorsport history. Rows of pristine Skylines lined the floor, each generation gleaming under the soft lights. The unmistakable boxy shape of the Hakosuka GT-R stood proudly near the entrance, followed by the sleek curves of the R32, R33, and R34. Nearby, rally-bred Pulsars and Le Mans prototypes sat in silence, their liveries preserved as if frozen in time.
Walter stopped first at the R390 GT1, his hand hovering near the smooth bodywork. "Beautiful," he murmured in German, his voice tinged with nostalgia.
Simon was equally absorbed, his analytical eyes scanning each machine. He bent closer to the suspension components of a Group C car, muttering calculations under his breath. "Brilliant engineering for the era," he noted.
Daichi, meanwhile, seemed almost wistful. His hands traced the fender of an R32 race car, memories flickering in his eyes. "I remember when this beast changed everything," he said softly. "Back then, it was untouchable."
Haruka, though younger than the rest, couldn't hide his awe. He snapped a few photos, his grin wide. "This is insane. I've seen pictures, but up close… it's like walking through history."
The four of them moved deeper into the hall, their footsteps echoing. Each car sparked a discussion, setups, gear ratios, aerodynamic philosophy, or the legacy of the drivers who once sat behind their wheels. It was more than just admiration; it was education, strategy, and inspiration rolled into one.
For Simon, it was data points. For Walter, reminders of precision. For Daichi, nostalgia of a career long past. And for Haruka, it was fuel for his determination to see Izamuri succeed.
By late morning, Haruka, Daichi, Walter, and Simon had only made it through half the exhibition hall. Every time they tried to move forward, something would catch one of their eyes—forcing them to stop and debate.
A pristine 240Z in rally trim stood as if it had just rolled off the stages of the 1971 Safari Rally. Walter crouched beside it, running a finger along the metal fender. "This… this was a real warrior," he murmured, a mix of reverence and professional curiosity in his voice. "Lightweight, rear-wheel drive, and pure mechanical grip. You can't get this feeling from modern cars anymore."
Simon smirked, leaning in to examine the suspension arms. "Primitive by today's standards, but effective. Look at the simplicity of the geometry, it's honest engineering. No overcomplication."
Walter stood in front of an R91CP Le Mans prototype, studying the sleek bodywork like he was back on the pit wall in the '90s. "I remember watching this run," he said, voice low, as though speaking too loudly might break the spell. "This car was faster than it had any right to be. Balanced, precise… and unforgiving if you made a mistake."
Daichi crouched to get a better look at the massive rear diffuser. "And yet it could eat tires like nothing else. You'd have to manage every lap."
Simon, meanwhile, hovered over a cutaway of the RB26 engine, tracing the lines of the intake with his fingers. "This engine's reputation is deserved," he muttered. "I'd love to pull one apart just to study the oil flow paths." His voice carried that analytical edge that meant his brain was already designing adjustments in his head.
Haruka, younger and less bound to nostalgia, moved from car to car, snapping photos and soaking it all in. The R34 GT500 race car stopped him dead in his tracks. "This one… this is the kind of thing that makes kids dream about racing," he said, shaking his head in awe.
The four men's pace slowed even more as they found a section dedicated to rare prototypes, odd, one-off Nissan concepts that never made it to production. One of them, a boxy mid-80s creation, made Simon chuckle. "Looks like something that could've been in a James Bond film," he said, shaking his head.
They eventually rounded back toward the entrance, the conversations lingering on setup philosophies and the lessons modern teams could learn from older designs. It wasn't just a sightseeing trip anymore, it was a brainstorming session, each man quietly drawing inspiration for the months ahead.
By the time they realized it was nearing noon, the museum's once-quiet halls had begun to fill with other visitors. Families, photographers, and enthusiasts slowly trickled in, the sound of footsteps and camera shutters replacing the hushed reverence of the early morning.
"Let's grab something to eat before heading back," Daichi suggested, checking his watch.
"Agreed," Walter said. "We've been here long enough that my stomach is starting to complain."
Simon gave the R390 GT1 one last glance before nodding toward the exit. "Lead the way."
The four of them walked out into the midday sun, their heads still buzzing with the echoes of automotive legends.
Meanwhile, back in Suginami, the morning had been far less glamorous. Izamuri stood in front of a small, weathered apartment block, a tool kit open at his feet. The faint smell of oil and old metal hung in the air, mixed with the distant scent of a food stall down the street. Parked half on the curb, half on the narrow road was Nikolai's pride and joy: a white 1977 Lada Niva.
The thing looked like it had rolled straight out of a Soviet winter and into Tokyo without changing clothes. The paint was faded in spots, with the faintest hints of surface rust along the edges. Its boxy, utilitarian shape was charming in an odd way, though the dents and scratches told stories of decades of use.
Nikolai was crouched at the front, sleeves rolled up, muttering in Russian as he worked at the stubborn bolts holding the front grille in place. He waved a hand without looking up. "You're holding the wrong wrench."
Izamuri glanced down. "This one?"
Nikolai grunted. "Da. Twelve millimeter. Now hold light here."
Izamuri knelt, holding a flashlight over the engine bay. The Niva's engine was a far cry from the smooth, modern motors he'd been around lately, it was a blocky, carbureted four-cylinder that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the Cold War. The engine bay still had original stickers in Cyrillic, and on the passenger seat, the worn owner's manual bore the unmistakable Soviet hammer and sickle crest.
"You've… had this since new?" Izamuri asked carefully.
"I bought this Niva in 1987. Brand new, straight from a dealership in Moscow. Back then, it was… well, not luxury, but it could go anywhere. Winter roads, mud, no problem. I kept it through my engineering years, through every job, every race team. Even when I had faster cars, this one stayed."
Izamuri wiped a smear of grease from his hand onto a rag. "So it's been with you for over thirty years?"
"Yes," Nikolai said, his voice dropping just slightly. "Even when… everything went wrong."
Izamuri knew what he meant—his arrest. He stayed quiet, letting the older man speak.
"In 2006, when they threw me in prison, the Niva stayed outside Moscow. A friend kept it on his land. It sat there for fourteen years. Cold winters, hot summers. Nobody cared for it. But when I was released in January this year…" Nikolai tightened a bolt with deliberate force, "…it was still there. Rusted in some places, stubborn to start, but alive. Like me."
Izamuri leaned on the fender, curious. "So… how'd you get it here?"
A rare, faint smile crossed Nikolai's face. "Daichi called me last week. Told me about the team, the car, the season ahead. I thought—if I am going to Japan, the Niva comes with me. So, I took a train from Irkutsk with it loaded onto the freight car. Three days across Siberia to Vladivostok. Then a ferry to Sakaiminato in Tottori Prefecture. From there, I drove it south—slowly—until I reached Shimonoseki. Another ferry from there took me straight to Tokyo Bay."
Izamuri blinked. "That's… insane. You basically took the long way around the world just to bring this thing here."
"It is not just a car," Nikolai said firmly, his tone making it clear this was the end of the matter. "It is part of my life. You will understand one day."
They worked in silence for a while, the sounds of clinking tools and the occasional cough from the old engine filling the still air. Every so often, a neighbor would pass by and glance at the foreign, boxy machine, their expressions somewhere between curiosity and disbelief.
Finally, with one last twist of the wrench, Nikolai stepped back. "Alright. Try it."
Izamuri climbed into the driver's seat, the interior smelling faintly of aged vinyl and gasoline. The dashboard was a simple sheet of black plastic with minimal gauges, and the steering wheel felt almost comically large. He turned the key, and after a stubborn cough and sputter, the old four-cylinder engine roared to life.
Nikolai's smile widened just slightly. "Still Soviet steel."
Izamuri grinned despite himself. "Still noisy as hell."
Nikolai shrugged. "That is part of the charm."
By the time noon rolled around, the sun was high overhead, and the Niva sat with its hood open, stubborn but alive. Izamuri wiped his brow with a rag, leaving a smear of grease across his cheek. "Well, I think that'll keep her running for now."
Nikolai nodded approvingly, closing the hood with a heavy clang. "Good. You learn fast. Maybe one day, you will understand why men like me keep things like this."
Izamuri smirked. "Maybe. Or maybe I'll just stick to cars that don't need to be bribed with a hammer to start."
Nikolai let out a rare laugh, deep and genuine, the sound startling in its warmth. "You are not wrong. But sometimes, hammer is best tool of all."
As the Niva idled, its exhaust puffing out small clouds, Izamuri found himself looking at it differently. It wasn't just a beat-up old off-roader—it was history, stubbornly clinging to the present. Much like its owner.
The two of them stood there for a moment, gazing at the weathered Niva parked proudly under the spring sun. For Izamuri, it was just another piece of Nikolai's mysterious past revealed, another puzzle piece that made the older man both intimidating and strangely human.
And as much as Izamuri hated to admit it, he was starting to see the lesson in Nikolai's stubborn old machine. Strength wasn't about shine or speed. Sometimes, it was about simply enduring.
that this little white Soviet relic might soon play a strange but important role in their own story.