My father's words – "We'll leave right away, if you want" – echoed in my ears, making my heart leap. Right away? Right now? Excitement mingled with an almost paralyzing nervousness. I had barely had time to process the news of the inheritance, and already I was supposed to confront the secret of my Uncle Kenji.

  "Y-yes. Yes, let's go," I stammered, jumping up from the sofa as if afraid my father might change his mind. The rusty key still felt heavy and significant in my hand.

  "Good," my father said, standing up as well. "Put your jacket on. It's a bit of a drive, out to the old industrial district."

  As I slipped into my shoes and threw on my light jacket, I tried to gather my thoughts. A garage. A car. From my uncle, the race car driver. What awaited me? A dusty shed? A high-tech workshop? And the car – was it an old wreck, an unfinished project, or perhaps even something… special? Images of sleek sports cars, like the Civic Type R or the models Daiki mentioned, flashed through my mind, even as I tried to temper my expectations. Just yesterday I was worried about a Kei car, I thought incredulously. And now this?

  The drive in my father's inconspicuous family station wagon was silent. I stared out the window as the familiar residential areas passed by, gradually replaced by warehouses, small factories, and workshops. The area became grayer, more functional. The glamour of the city center was far behind us.

  My father concentrated on the road, his face unreadable. Did he know more than he let on? Or was he just as curious as I was? "We're almost there," my father finally said, breaking the silence. He turned off the main road into a labyrinth of narrower paths, lined with high fences, corrugated iron facades, and weathered signs. It smelled of metal, oil, and exhaust fumes here – completely different from our clean residential area.

  After a few more turns, my father stopped in front of a row of unremarkable, identical-looking garages made of gray concrete with rusty metal doors. They looked old and neglected. The number 17 was painted in faded letters above one of the doors. "This is it," my father said, turning off the engine.

  I got out and looked at the garage. It looked… ordinary. Disappointingly ordinary. No hint of the secrets it was supposed to hold. The plaster was crumbling in places, the door covered in rust spots.

  My father stepped beside me. "Go on. Your inheritance awaits."

  With a pounding heart, I approached the door. The key slid heavily into the lock. I turned it, heard a scraping sound, then a soft click. I hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and then pulled the heavy rolling door upwards with both hands. It squeaked and groaned in protest as it slowly opened, revealing the dark interior.

  A wave of cool, heavy air hit me, mixed with the unmistakable smell of old oil, gasoline, and cold metal – the smell I vaguely associated with my uncle. My footsteps echoed softly in the sudden silence of the room.

  I stepped inside, my eyes needing a moment to adjust to the dim light filtering only through the open door and a few dirty skylights. My father followed me slowly, a soft sigh escaping him as he looked around. I saw my father's gaze linger briefly on a yellowed poster of the Suzuka Circuit, a hint of nostalgia and perhaps sadness in it.

  The garage was larger than it had appeared from the outside. Along the right wall ran a long, massive workbench, laden with toolboxes, vices, and countless small containers. Above it hung wrenches, pliers, and special tools on a pegboard – all surprisingly clean and meticulously organized. To the left stood shelves full of spare parts, canisters, and stacks of tires. Posters of racetracks, tuning companies, and iconic Japanese sports cars adorned the walls.

  In the center of the room stood a professional car lift, and upon it, as if on a throne, rested the unmistakable silhouette of a car under a dusty, gray cover. Behind it, in a corner, I discovered a worn-out couch, a small refrigerator, and an old tube television – a real little tinkerer's den, a sanctuary.

  "You can take the cover off," my father said quietly, pulling me from my observations. "This is all yours now."

  I hesitated. My heart was pounding in my throat. This was the moment. I gave my father a brief nod, walked to the lift, and grasped the edge of the dusty cover. The fabric felt rough and cool. With a jerk, I pulled it back.

  Underneath, a car was revealed that took my breath away. A Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution IX. In brilliant white. The car looked brutal. Aggressive. It sat low on the lift, the wide tires filling the wheel arches perfectly, mounted on multi-spoke, dark alloy wheels. The huge rear wing perched above the trunk lid, the angular front with its large air intakes seemed just waiting to devour air. It was immaculately clean, as if someone had polished it just yesterday before covering it.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  I stood rooted to the spot. An Evo IX. I knew this car from countless racing games, had spent hours virtually chasing it around tracks. But this… this was real. The cool smoothness of the paint under my fingertips, the sharp edges, the presence of the car in the room – it was so much more intense than any screen. A rally legend, a dream car for any JDM fan. A car with infinite tuning potential, known for its all-wheel drive and powerful turbocharged engine. A car light years away from anything I could ever afford.

  "So? What do you think?" my father asked gently.

  I couldn't utter a word. I could only stare. Awe, disbelief, and an overwhelming wave of excitement washed over me. I slowly walked around the car, letting my hand glide over the perfectly smooth, cool paint. It was real. This beast belonged to me now. It was… awesome. Just awesome.

  Finally, I found my voice again. "Dad… this is… this is insane! An Evo Nine! I can't believe Uncle Kenji… that he had something like this! I never would have dreamed!" I turned to my father, my eyes shining. "This is an icon! The 4G63 engine, the all-wheel drive… these things are legendary on the street and in rallying!"

  My father smiled, this time wider and more relaxed. He stepped closer and put a hand on my shoulder. "I know what this is, Yuki," he said, kindly interrupting my torrent of words. "Believe me, I sat next to Kenji in this thing often enough when he was testing some new setting. I even drove it myself once on the old mountain pass when Kenji persuaded me." A wistful sparkle entered his eyes. "He loved this car." He squeezed my shoulder lightly. "I'm really glad to see how happy you are. It confirms to me that Kenji made the right decision leaving all this to you. He wanted it to go to someone who would appreciate it."

  I nodded eagerly, excitement bubbling out of me. "Can we… can we drive it right now? Just a short lap? Will you come with me?"

  My father shook his head slightly, but his smile remained. "Not so fast, my boy. Remember what Kenji wrote in the letter. Before we even lower the car from the lift, we need to check a few things. Tires, tire pressure, oil level, coolant, brake fluid… Better safe than sorry. The car has been sitting for a while." He gestured to the car. "And after that, we'll drive straight over to Tanaka-san's. I called him this morning and told him we'd probably stop by. He's looking forward to meeting you – and is surely curious about Kenji's nephew."

  My father put his hand on my shoulder again. "Tanaka was a really close friend of Kenji's. The two of them spent countless hours working on this car together. So if you ever have questions, need help, or just want someone to talk shop with – Tanaka is your man. He probably knows the Evo better than anyone except Kenji himself."

  I nodded understandingly, even though impatience gnawed at me. My father went to the front of the car and unlatched the hood. Together we lifted it, revealing the legendary 4G63T engine. Here too, everything was spotlessly clean.

  "Okay, Yuki, pull out the dipstick," my father instructed me. I did as I was told, wiped the stick on a rag my father handed me, put it back in, and pulled it out again. "See the markings? The oil level is perfect, right between Min and Max. And the color is good too, nice light brown." He pointed to the coolant reservoir. "Same here, everything in the green zone. Looks good," he murmured appreciatively. "Kenji always took good care of his treasures." He briefly explained why the right oil was so important for a turbocharged engine. "Engines like these are sensitive, Yuki. They need attention and care, otherwise they cause problems."

  After we had also checked the tire pressure – which was surprisingly still correct – my father suggested: "Okay, let's try starting it. Get in."

  With trembling knees, I opened the driver's door and sank into the bucket seat. The interior smelled of a mixture of high-quality plastic, leather, and a very slight, not unpleasant hint of gasoline. The seat enveloped me firmly. I grasped the grippy sports steering wheel, inserted the key into the ignition, turned it – the warning lights came to life. I took a deep breath and turned the key all the way.

  The starter turned briefly, then the engine roared to life with a deep, hoarse growl that filled the entire garage and sent a palpable vibration through the seat and steering wheel. The sound was raw, aggressive, and unmistakably powerful. A wide grin spread across my face. I let the engine idle briefly, listening to the uneven burble from the thick exhaust pipe.

  I got out again, while my father stood before the open hood with a critical eye and pricked ears, listening for suspicious noises. After a while, he seemed satisfied. He closed the hood and gave me an encouraging nod. "Looks good, sounds good. Everything fits. Kenji and Tanaka did a great job."

  My father went to his own car. "Okay, I'll drive ahead. Just follow me. But take it slow, okay? The engine is still cold, and you need to get used to the car first. Don't give it too much gas."

  I nodded, got back behind the wheel of the Evo, and buckled up. I carefully rolled the car off the lift. The clutch engaged directly, the steering wheel felt heavier and more precise than in the driving school car. I drove slowly out of the garage and waited until my father had closed the door again. Then I followed my father's station wagon out of the labyrinth of the industrial area. Every tiny press of the accelerator was immediately converted into forward motion, and I concentrated hard on driving smoothly and maintaining a safe distance. This car was a different caliber.

  Tanaka-san's workshop was indeed only a few minutes away. We turned onto a slightly wider street, and I already saw the sign: "Tanaka Motors". The hiss of pneumatic tools and the clanging of metal drifted from the open workshop bay. It smelled of lubricating oil and hot rubber. My father drove into a yard that looked more like a shrine for JDM enthusiasts. Cars that made my heart beat faster were everywhere: a deep red Mazda RX-7 FD with shiny wheels, a classic Honda NSX that looked like new, another heavily modified Civic, a white Nissan Silvia S15, and even an older Skyline GT-R. It was heaven for car fans. I felt the fascination grip me. I was definitely becoming one of them.