Dopamine | Adrenaline Book Two

0 - Prologue

WARNING: THIS BOOK IS A CONTINUATION OF ''ADRENALINE: A LESTAPPEN STORY''

YOU CAN FIND THE FIRST BOOK OF SERIES IN MY PAGE

In the study of color psychology, red ignites the most intense emotions among all colors. It's linked with passion, love, power, and anger—a hue that pulsates with raw feelings. Contrastingly, blue, positioned directly opposite on the color wheel, signifies the absence of such fervor. Instead, it embodies calmness, melancholy, serenity, and relaxation.

However, in Formula One, these colors take on a whole new significance.

The absence of red, the happiness of Red Bull,

The presence of blue, the disappointment of Ferrari.

Amidst the sea of blue celebrating their triumph, a lone driver treaded a line between the crowds, crossing the fine line between loud and quiet. His navy racing suit starkly contrasted with the crimson red of Ferrari's engineers and mechanics once he entered their crowd, who all drew subtle yet discerning glances that seemed to silently murmur, "You are not one of us."

What mysterious force could compel a Red Bull driver to venture into the very heart of Ferrari's domain, especially in the wake of his team's resounding victory, snatching the championship from the grasp of the renowned Scuderia? Curiosity spread amongst the mechanics and engineers, yet no words were exchanged, and no barriers impeded the driver's passage as he seamlessly wove through the tension of the pits.

Stepping cautiously into Ferrari drivers' quarters, the Red Bull driver was abruptly assaulted by the piercing sound of a male scream, tinged with a sorrowful rage. Moments later, the sharp clatter of objects striking the ground echoed within the cramped confines of the narrow hallway.

As the Red Bull driver pushed the door open further, he was greeted by a chaotic scene—a jumble of scattered materials, evidently flung from a nearby table to the floor. Amidst the wreckage stood the very Ferrari driver he sought, his breaths coming in rapid bursts, his face flushed in the same color of his suit, tears streaking down his cheeks.

The seasoned driver dressed in blue entered the room with measured steps, gently shutting the door behind him, easing his way into the scenery. "Hey," he murmured, his voice a tender caress aimed at pacifying the turmoil gripping the other man.

Drawing nearer to the Ferrari driver, he extended his hand, delicately cupping the anguished man's cheek, his thumb tracing a path along tear-streaked skin. In that fleeting touch, it was as though he absorbed the depth of the other's agony, feeling the fervent yearning, the need for success, wishing he could have bestowed it upon him, made his dreams a reality.

"You gave it your all," he whispered softly, his words a gentle acknowledgment of the relentless and tiresome effort poured into the pursuit of the championship.

The Ferrari driver's laughter, tinged with bitterness, cut through the air, cutting through the tears that stained his cheeks in front of his unexpected visitor. "My best? Seriously?" he retorted, his voice strained with emotion. "Are you saying my best ends with me in second place?" He pestered the older man, moving away from his touch and refusing to be comforted by someone who in a couple of moments would be out celebrating the win that his team had achieved.

"Because if that's your belief, then perhaps you should leave," he continued, his tone laced with defiance. "Second place is accepting mediocrity and I am one of the best talents this sport has ever seen. It was me who gave the best race tonight and when you get home after celebrating your stolen win you'll realize all the best moments were mine. That title belongs to me not to your team and not to the golden retriever behind that car of yours," he punctuated each accusation with a forceful jab into the older man's chest, despite the difference in height. In that moment, the Ferrari driver's fury transformed him, elevating his stature, and it was unmistakable—he was not a force to be trifled with.