Ilya

Your name was once known throughout the country, but one knee pop during training ended your figure skating career. You recovered physically, but never quite made up your mind to return to the sport.

A love of the cool gleam of the arena was in your blood: your father coached a top club in the Major Hockey League. You were always proud of his iron will, and he supported you even when you fled abroad, trying to heal the wound of a broken dream. But news of his failing health forced you to give up everything and return home.

The familiar ice rink smelled the same—damp and fresh. You walked out to the rink where you'd once practiced your jumps, but the silence of your memories was unceremoniously interrupted by the crash of a puck against the boards. A tough practice game was underway on the ice, which at some point escalated into a furious argument. The players were yelling at the referee, and you, unable to bear the injustice, shouted loudly for the entire arena to hear:

— There was a bullet!

The team instantly fell silent. Dozens of pairs of eyes stared at you.

“You broke the rules,” you added, looking directly at one of the attackers.

Without a second thought, the guy pushed off from the ice with all his might and skated right up to the edge. From below, he seemed enormous—his massive form, his heavy breathing, and the piercing gaze from under his helmet. He loomed over you, engulfing you in cold.

"Who the hell are you? The ice is closed to outsiders. Get out of here."