Whoosh—!
The rolling shutter door was pulled up by Han, and as it slowly retracted to the very top, the shadows of Zhang Jie and Han, standing at the entrance, were cast onto the ground by the light emanating from inside, gradually shortening.
Then, a complex scent immediately hit them: a strong gasoline smell formed the base, beneath which lay a pungent antifreeze odor, the faint metallic tang of new rubber, and a hint of… fried food oil?
It permeated this vast space, seemingly composed of steel and shadows.
The lighting was peculiar.
The rest of the area was dim, relying entirely on the swaying work lights suspended from the ceiling beams to barely illuminate the small patches below.
Visible motes of dust danced and swirled in the light beams, like miniature galaxies.
The cables of the work lights were tangled like giant vines, dropping from the roof, entwined around rusty pipes and beams.
Undoubtedly, the most eye-catching features were the several steel-bodied vehicles hoisted onto hydraulic lifts.
Most of them were only half-finished, their exposed chassis, open hoods, complex piping, and shimmering metallic parts crudely displayed.
As far as the eye could see, the vehicles here were a flowing gallery of personalities.
Parked in the center was Han's signature car, an orange Mazda RX-7 (FD3S).
It was so low it seemed to hug the ground, and its wide Veilside Fortune body kit gave it exaggerated, muscular lines that looked ready to burst at any moment.
The massive GT wing angled upwards, exuding an undeniable arrogance. The carbon fiber weave on the aero kit reflected dimly in the gloom. Its hood was open, revealing the powerful modified rotary engine, with oil lines and air lines wrapped around it.
Next to it lay a few half-eaten sandwich wrappers and a crumpled plastic bag with an anime character on it, Han's characteristic snacks always coexisting strangely with meticulous machinery.
In the corner, an earlier model Mazda RX-7 (FC3S) wore a low-key matte silver armor.
Its body lines were clean and sharp, the massive front lip almost touching the ground, and the wheels were vintage Watanabe 'octopus' style, matte black, like sunken eye sockets.
It was silent, yet it exuded the cool aura of an old-school bosozoku. There were also some oil stains on the engine hood, clearly waiting to be given new life.
On the other side, a dark blue Nissan GT-R R33 crouched. Beneath the massive carbon fiber hood, complex turbo piping was faintly visible, and the wheels were exaggerated deep-dish Work Meisters, gleaming with a cold, hard metallic luster.
The wide-body modification made its wheel arches almost swallow the huge tires, and at the rear were massive quad exhaust pipes. It was like a sleeping mechanical beast, its power almost overflowing from its static posture.
A white Honda S2000 was half-raised by a lift, its bright green chassis reinforcement bars clearly visible.
The rear wheel positions had already been replaced, awaiting a brand new set of suspension components tuned for drifting.
The interior was stripped down to a racing state, leaving only a cold roll cage, bucket seat, and racing steering wheel.
In the darkest corner, an old black Toyota Hiace van, out of place in this drift sanctuary, was parked.
It had rust and a few shallow white scratches on its body, looking as ordinary as a sushi shop's delivery van. But its excessively low stance and the unusually robust chassis reinforcement parts underneath betrayed its disguised identity.
Their gaze then shifted around.
The walls were no longer just walls but covered with tools, wrenches neatly arranged, a satisfying sight. Air gun hoses coiled like pythons, and huge air filters and oil drums were stacked haphazardly.
In a corner, an industrial air compressor's cylinder hissed rhythmically. A Subaru Impreza, stripped down to its frame, was just a steel skeleton, with oil-stained parts scattered on the floor next to it.
A greasy, stained workbench occupied another space, cluttered with torque wrenches resting on a stack of old magazines (mostly featuring cars and beautiful women), and several chipped mugs that might contain overnight coffee or cola?
An open can of Pocky biscuit sticks stood alone, and there was a small plastic box filled with countless colorful paperclips and screws.
Most prominent was an ancient car stereo head unit with huge knobs, a few exposed wires connecting it to a power source nearby—this was Han's sound testing corner.
The air was filled with a taut whisper, the 'drip-drip' of oil falling onto a metal tray, the faint 'hum' of electronic devices on standby in some corner, and the distant, indistinct roar of engines from the highway, like background drumming.
And at the core of all these sounds, everything seemed to converge on the old jukebox in that corner, where the soothing melody of the blues flowed amidst the steel and gasoline, softening the hardcore edge of the place.
This was more than just a shop; it was a kingdom Han had built with steel, speed, gasoline, and a few random snacks.
Every seemingly dormant car was an unfinished work of art or a weapon about to enter battle; every oil stain and part told a story of speed and money, danger and survival.
Entering here was like pushing open the cold yet alluring iron gate to Tokyo's underground drift world.
After surveying everything in the shop, Zhang Jie turned to Han and said, "I like the atmosphere here."
"Really, I like it more than you do."
Then he walked in first. Pointing to one of the cars, he said, "There's an underground drift race tomorrow. If you're interested, perhaps you could participate, provided your driving skills are good enough."
Zhang Jie nodded, then asked, "Where are the things Veronica asked me to get?"
Han casually picked up a bag of potato chips from the workbench, leaned against the counter, tore open the packaging, and ate a chip, "You can only get them after that underground drift race tomorrow."
It seemed everything would have to wait until tomorrow, so Zhang Jie felt he should rest for a while now.
As if knowing Zhang Jie's thoughts, Han pointed to the back, "There's a bed in the warehouse back there; you can go rest."
As he reached the back door, Zhang Jie turned back to Han and said, "Oh, and you need to provide me with some firearms. After all, that's my specialty."
Saying this, Zhang Jie raised his right hand and made a trigger-pulling motion.
Han, still eating his potato chips, paused, glanced at Zhang Jie's right hand, then chuckled, "Owning firearms in Tokyo is illegal. We prefer to settle things with racing."
Zhang Jie shrugged noncommittally, "Those rules are for you. I don't need to follow them. Without a gun, I don't feel safe at all."
Then, Zhang Jie walked into the small warehouse, seeing the bed casually placed in the corner, and the various parts and maintenance tools that met his eyes.
"Sure enough, for a customization fanatic, this is the best resting space, isn't it?"
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Stopping here would be such a waste… The next chapter is waiting for you on Patreon! [patreon.com/TripleCrown07]