𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘

𝟏 - 𝐏𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐓'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄

CHAPTER ONE

PIANIST'S INTERLUDE

POST MONACO GRAND PRIX

The roar of engines was a symphony of chaos. Monaco's Grand Prix had always been a brutal test, but this year, it felt personal. Max Verstappen gripped the wheel of his RB20, his knuckles white and his jaw clenched. The race had been a disaster from the start. An early collision, a botched pit stop, and now, as he crossed the finish line sixth, a surge of frustration and disappointment flooded his veins.

He parked the car and climbed out, ignoring the cameras and reporters swarming the paddock. He had no words for them, only a simmering rage that threatened to explode. He brushed past his team, avoiding their sympathetic looks and hollow words of consolation. His father's voice, stern and critical, echoed in his mind, a constant reminder of expectations unmet. Jos Verstappen's relentless pressure was a shadow Max couldn't escape, a ghost haunting every lap, every turn.

That night, Monaco's glamour felt like a mockery. The streets, usually vibrant and alive, were oppressive. Max wandered aimlessly, seeking an escape from the torment of his thoughts. The lights of the casinos and luxury yachts blurred into a dizzying spectacle. He found himself in front of a small, unassuming jazz club, the sign flickering invitingly. The low hum of music spilled out onto the street, a stark contrast to the noise of the race. Without thinking, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The club was dimly lit, a haze of smoke hanging in the air. The scent of whiskey and cigars mingled with the soft strains of a piano. Max slumped into a seat at the bar, ordering a drink without caring what it was. He needed something to dull the edge, to quiet the turmoil inside him. The bartender, an older man with kind eyes, slid a glass towards him. "Rough night?" he asked.

Max nodded, taking a long sip. The burn of the alcohol was a welcome distraction. "You could say that."

The pianist was a shadowy figure on a small stage, his face partially obscured by the dim lighting and the mask he was wearing. His fingers danced effortlessly over the keys, creating a melody that was both haunting and beautiful. The music was unlike anything Max had ever heard. It was raw, emotional, a tapestry of sound that seemed to weave itself into his very soul. Each note resonated with his pain, his anger, his unspoken dreams. He closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him, feeling a strange sense of peace for the first time in months.

Max Verstappen has never been one for music, his father always saying it was a distraction from his goals. Racing was all that mattered, all that had ever mattered. Growing up, the only sounds surrounding him were the roar of engines, the screech of tires, and the relentless ticking of a stopwatch. Music was for people with time to waste, a luxury Max could never afford. But tonight, in this smoky jazz club, music felt like a lifeline.

He opened his eyes and took another sip of his drink, the alcohol warming him from the inside. The pianist's green eyes caught his attention. There was something in them, a depth of emotion that mirrored his own struggles. It felt like the pianist was playing just for him, each note a message meant to reach into his soul.

Max couldn't shake the sense of familiarity. Those eyes... He had seen them before, but where? The thought nagged at him, but he pushed it aside, focusing instead on the music. The pianist played with a passion that was both soothing and invigorating, a combination that left Max feeling strangely at peace.

As the night wore on, the club began to empty, but Max remained rooted in his seat, unwilling to leave the sanctuary he had found. The pianist continued to play, oblivious to the dwindling audience, lost in his own world. Max watched him closely, his curiosity growing with each passing minute.