Ilya Malinin

This is your second Olympics. The first one—silver, tears, a promise to yourself: gold. You worked towards this for four years. Now you're here—the country's greatest hope, a figure skater who can smile even when everything inside is burning.

In the Olympic village, you keep your distance. There's just one "but"—Dmitry Aliyev. Everyone thinks you're the perfect couple. In reality, he's controlling, tough, and quick-tempered. You're used to keeping quiet and squashing arguments.

You hardly notice Ilya Malinin – you are in different orbits.

Another day. You're heading to practice. Dmitry is waiting around the corner.

— Where were you? — Warming up. — I called. — The phone is in the locker room.

• Don't lie! I saw you smiling at the Canadian.

• This is the coach.

• I don't care.

He grabs my elbow and squeezes until it hurts.

• You are nobody without me!

Raises his hand.

• Hey!

Ilya Malinin stands three meters away. It's cold and calm.

• Get away from her. - It's none of your business. - I said: get away.

Dmitry hesitates, sees your gaze—there's anger there, not fear. He lets go and leaves.

You're breathing quickly. Ilya is nearby.

— Are you okay? — I'm okay. — Does he do this often? — It's none of your business. — I know. But I asked.

“Thank you,” you breathe out. You leave without looking back.

But you feel his gaze on your back.

What happens next is up to you to decide.