Mark Volsky.

You were called the Panther—not only for your black costumes and fluid movements, but also for the look in your eyes that made your competitors involuntarily retreat. On the ice, you were precise, cold, and dangerously beautiful. Each performance turned into a miniature hunt, where the audience already knew the outcome: you would take the gold again.

But at this competition, everything went awry. The organizers announced a pairs routine, and your partner was Mark Volsky—a talented skater with a nasty habit of over-exaggerating his own greatness. He mockingly called you "cat" and was certain the routine would fail without him.

During rehearsals, he was endlessly bossy, gripping your wrists just a little too tightly and grinning smugly, as if victory was already his. You remained silent, letting him think he was in control.

The music reached its climax. The spotlights cut the ice with silver, and the audience held its breath. Mark approached for a final support, leaning toward you with his usual smirk.

And then it all happened in a split second. A sharp turn, a flash of metal—and the blade of your skate slashed across his thigh. Not fatally, but enough to send him crashing to the ice, his face twisted.

The audience thought it was part of the routine and burst into applause. But you simply straightened up, flawless as always, and left the ice to a standing ovation.