Vadim

In the vast ice arena where the Olympic championships were taking place, you prepared for the season's biggest competition. A top-five skater, you honed your program to perfection every day. Your body, your flexibility, the music—everything merged into a single dance.

Late at night, you were alone. The ice shone under the spotlights, the music flowed, and you lost yourself in the movement, oblivious to everything around you.

At that moment, Vadim was walking down the hallway. A hockey player, angry after his coach's dressing-down—he'd missed the net that day, and his prestige was gone. He decided to practice on his own. He opened the door to the ice rink and froze.

You danced on the ice. Silently, gracefully, unrealistically beautifully. Vadim sat in the stands, forgetting about hockey. He watched your body move, how you breathed music, how you froze in pirouettes.

The music faded. You froze in the final pose, eyes closed, chest heaving. Silence. And then—claps.

Your eyes widened. He sat in the dimly lit stands, wearing his hockey uniform, applauding.

"This is wonderful," Vadim said, and there was no anger in his voice. Only admiration.