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Chapter Text

"Jinu! Higher!"

"You're already flying, Rumi!"

“Catch me, Jinu!”

“You’re always asking me to catch you, Rumi!” he laughed, skating faster to match her energy.

She glanced over her shoulder, grinning mischievously, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Because you always do!”

Rumi launched into the air, spinning effortlessly before landing softly in Jinu’s waiting arms. Around them, the rink glittered like a secret stage. They were only eight years old, but even then, they understood something magical was happening.

Their laughter echoed around the rink, mingling with the crisp scrape of blades on ice.

“See?” she giggled breathlessly, her face flushed from joy rather than effort. “We’re perfect.”

Jinu smiled softly, adjusting his grip around her waist. “Yeah. Perfect.”

"Again!" Rumi demanded, her breath puffing visibly in the cool air, cheeks flushed with joy and exertion. Jinu took her hand without hesitation, spinning her effortlessly into another lift. She soared, arms open wide, trusting him completely to catch her again. And he did—every time.

They skated together with a rhythm and ease that made their parents beam with pride from the rinkside. Jinu’s parents, once international ice-dancing stars themselves, exchanged knowing smiles as Rumi’s mother, a former dance instructor, waved affectionately from the sidelines.

“You think they’re serious?” Jinu’s father asked, squeezing his wife’s hand gently.

She chuckled, eyes following their son’s smooth turns. “Look at them. They’ve already found their other halves.”

"They're inseparable," his father said proudly. "If anyone can make it to the Olympics someday, it's them."

Nearby, Rumi’s father—a former national singles champion—watched quietly, a shadow of worry passing briefly over his face. “As long as skating brings them joy, it's enough.”

The years glided by swiftly, each season deepening their bond and sharpening their technique. By ten, almost eleven, Jinu and Rumi were junior champions, their harmony on the ice becoming legendary even in their youth. They were stars at the Junior Nationals, each performance outshining the last, each movement more daring, more breathtaking.

When they completed their final performance that night, applause thundered through the arena, a standing ovation echoing in their ears. Breathless, medals glittering, Rumi clutched Jinu’s hand, whispering, "Promise me," she said urgently, eyes fierce with emotion, "no matter what happens, we'll always skate together. Until we retire."

Jinu squeezed her hands, his young heart brimming. 

“Always,” he answered immediately, smiling down at her. “Always, Rumi.”

Their promise lasted exactly seven days.

The call came late at night, shattering sleep and dreams, and Jinu’s life had become icy darkness. A car accident. His parents, gone in an instant. Jinu woke to a house full of muffled sobs and whispered condolences. It was final. Irreversible. 

The funeral was a blur, filled with quiet sobs and suffocating sympathy. Jinu felt numb, clutching his younger sister’s small hand tightly, desperate to protect what was left.

And then, amidst that cold blur, a chilling presence emerged: Grandpa Gwi-Ma.

Tall and severe, he had been a distant figure in Jinu's life, a legendary former champion whose presence alone commanded fearful respect. His tall frame cast long shadows over Jinu’s shattered family. Within days, Gwi-Ma claimed absolute authority, making decisions with swift, ruthless certainty.

Days after the funeral, Gwi-Ma summoned Jinu into his cold study room. "Jinu," he spoke softly, his tone brittle as ice. "Your talent cannot be wasted."

"I'm not wasting anything," Jinu protested weakly. "Rumi and I—"

"Enough," Gwi-Ma snapped. "You will not skate with the girl anymore," Gwi-Ma declared coldly, his words sharp as blades.

"I can't leave Rumi," Jinu whispered desperately. "We made a promise. Rumi is—"

“Impure.” Gwi-Ma’s voice was an icy hiss, his disdain dripping from every syllable. “Her skating lacks artistry. She’ll ruin you, contaminate your potential with sentiment and mediocrity. Our family’s lineage demands better.”

“I don’t understand,” Jinu stammered, heart pounding with dread. “She’s my partner, my friend.”

Gwi-Ma stepped closer, voice dropping to a harsh, menacing whisper, dark eyes narrowed dangerously. "If you refuse, your sister will leave for relatives abroad. Alone. You will lose her, just as you lost your parents. Is that what you want?"

Jinu felt something deep inside him fracture. The threat crushed Jinu’s resistance instantly. His sister was all he had left; he couldn’t lose her, too. He shook his head slowly, defeated. "No."

"Good." Gwi-Ma straightened, expression emotionless. "Then end it.."

The next evening, under pale rink lights, Jinu waited for Rumi, dread curdling his stomach. When she saw him, her smile was radiant, unaware of the heartbreak he was about to deliver.

“Hey! Why so serious?” she teased, skating toward him, breath misting in the chilly air.

Rumi stood waiting, confusion etched into her bright features. "Jinu? What's wrong?"

"I—I can't skate with you anymore," he forced himself to say, voice cracking.

Her smile faltered, confusion clouding her expression. "What?" Her voice cracked with disbelief. "We promised! We’re champions. Together. Jinu, you can't—"

He shook his head, looking away to avoid her pleading eyes. "I have to," he said sharply, pain twisting his words. "Things changed."

She reached out desperately, gripping his hand tightly. “No! Tell me why, Jinu. What happened?” She said fiercely, reaching out to grip his sleeve. "Not us. We never change."

Jinu's eyes brimmed with tears he refused to shed. He looked away. “I’m sorry, Rumi.” He couldn’t explain. Couldn’t risk her getting involved, couldn’t risk his sister’s safety. “Promises break.”

Her eyes filled with tears, betrayal etched deep into her young features. “Please, don’t do this. You promised me always.”

The silence between them was crushing, colder than the ice beneath their skates. With a final, painful glance, he pulled his hand away, skating backwards and leaving her standing alone at the rink’s centre.

"Jinu—!" Rumi's voice broke, despair clear in her tone. He heard her collapse onto the ice behind him, quiet sobs echoing painfully in the empty rink. But he kept walking, every step heavier than the last, leaving the shattered pieces of their golden promise frozen on the ice.

But just as he was about to go out of the rink, Rumi’s voice trembled with a sudden fierceness, stronger than her tears. “One day, Jinu, you’ll regret this. I promise.”

He stopped briefly, startled by the steel in her voice, the raw determination in her eyes. Something stirred within him—hope, sadness, an aching wish that things were different. But he said nothing, only turned and skated away, leaving her behind.

Gwi-Ma watched silently from the shadows, a cold satisfaction flickering in his gaze.

The ice held memories like a vault. Jinu and Rumi, now in their early twenties, were global ice-dance icons. Untouchable, unbeatable, yet forever separated by history and betrayal. Jinu watched Rumi obsessively from afar, dissecting every performance, every score. Their paths had yet to cross in competition, but he knew it was inevitable.

Jinu drew a tight breath. The familiar arena buzzed with anticipation for the Grand Prix Series, but his gaze was locked on a familiar figure gliding gracefully at the far end of the rink.

Rumi.

She moved like liquid silver, stronger and even more mesmerising than he remembered. But this time, it wasn’t him lifting her.

It was Abby—precise, polished, impossibly in sync with Rumi as they glided through their warm-up. Abby’s movements were sharp where his had been fluid, technical where his had been instinctive. And yet… it worked. Too well.

Jinu’s chest tightened as he watched Abby place a steadying hand on Rumi’s waist— his place, their old rhythm now carried by someone else. Every turn, every lift, mirrored something familiar yet entirely foreign, like watching someone else live out a memory that once belonged to him.

He couldn’t look away.

She smiled mid-spin, radiant and effortless, and for a second, it gutted him. Because that smile—once reserved for him at the end of every routine—now belonged to someone else.

Mira stood beside him, arms crossed, her irritation palpable.

"You can stop staring," his partner snapped, interrupting his thoughts. "Or do you wish you'd never left her?"

He didn't answer, eyes fixed stubbornly forward. But deep down, he already knew the truth: his heart had never truly left the ice with Rumi. And now, fate had finally brought them back together—to compete, to fight.

"Maybe if you stare hard enough, she’ll skate right back into your arms.”

Jinu tore his gaze from Rumi’s graceful warm-up spins, jaw tightening. “Leave it, Mira. It’s been years.”

“And yet, you're still skating like it’s yesterday.” Her voice was cutting, layered with sarcasm and a hint of genuine disdain. “But hey, if dramatic longing is what wins us gold, by all means, keep pining.”

Jinu shot her a glare, frustration rising. “We’re here to win. Can we just focus?”

Mira gave a humourless laugh, eyes glittering. “Oh, now you remember why we’re here. How thoughtful.”

She moved closer, dropping her voice, the sarcasm fading into something sharper, rawer. “Listen carefully, partner. I didn’t train every damn day of my life under Gwi-Ma’s tyranny just to lose to your emotional baggage. I’m stuck here too, remember? I didn’t exactly choose this either.”

Something flickered in Jinu’s expression—a reluctant acknowledgement of their shared chains, the legacy that bound them both unwillingly.

“I know,” he said quietly, voice tempered with rare sincerity. “You don’t have to remind me.”

Mira sighed, irritation briefly replaced by weary acceptance. “Then skate like you do. For once, leave Rumi off the ice.”

They skated out together, the crowd erupting as they took their positions. Jinu inhaled slowly, struggling to ground himself. Mira tightened her grip on his hand, sharp but oddly reassuring.

“Look,” she muttered softly, voice low and tense. “Rumi’s my best friend. I hate that she got hurt, and trust me, I hate you plenty for it. But today, right now, I care about winning more.”

Jinu glanced at Mira, startled by the open admission. Her face was resolute, eyes fixed forward. He’d always seen her as distant, calculating—never considering that Mira, too, bore scars from their tangled history.

“Then let's win,” he answered firmly, pushing aside every lingering doubt, every ache in his chest.

Their music swelled, drowning the noise around them. Every practised step, every precise turn carried the weight of their forced partnership, their bitter bond.

Yet even as they moved flawlessly together, an undeniable truth surged within Jinu’s heart: the applause, the victories, Mira’s icy brilliance—they’d never replace the warmth he’d lost the day he’d broken Rumi’s promise.

Across the rink, Rumi watched silently, her expression unreadable except for the brief flicker of pain that only Mira saw clearly. Mira’s heart twisted uncomfortably, caught between friendship and ambition, knowing too well the cost of both.

We’re all just pawns in someone else’s game, Mira thought bitterly, her feet gliding gracefully over the ice.

But if that’s the game I have to play, then I'll win it—no matter who gets hurt.

Chapter Text

The NHK Trophy in Tokyo pulsed with excitement. The final Grand Prix qualifier of the season always carried a special kind of electricity—but this year, it was on fire.

After nearly a decade of skating on parallel tracks, Jinu and Rumi were both poised to qualify for the Grand Prix Final. For the first time, there was no dodging each other. No separate heats. No carefully avoided scheduling. Just the world’s best, on the same ice, fighting for one of the most coveted spots in competitive figure skating.

The media had been waiting for this.

Fans who had dissected every fleeting glance, every silent interview, every shaky translation of Korean sports articles for years were finally about to witness it: not just another competition, but the collision course that had been ten years in the making.

The arena buzzed with energy. Banners waving, press crowded at every rink entrance, whispers of old history flaring louder than the music blaring over the loudspeakers.

Jinu adjusted his collar beneath the crisp lines of his team jacket as a camera crew passed. His face remained blank, focused, but his pulse betrayed him. Somewhere in this very building, Rumi was lacing her skates, tightening her braid, stepping into a routine they used to dream about together.

But that was then.

Now, only one Grand Prix Final spot remained for a Korean pair, and it would go to him and Mira, or Rumi and Abby.

“Remind me why we’re doing interviews,” Mira muttered beside him, tugging her laces tighter. “Did we not make it clear that we skate, we leave, and we do not speak to anyone unless bribed with coffee?”

Jinu didn’t answer.

Because across the room—tall, poised, glowing—was Rumi. And next to her, hand casually on her lower back as they laughed with a volunteer, was Abby. Calm, grounded, utterly unbothered.

Jinu’s stomach twisted.

Rumi turned slightly, catching sight of him. Their eyes didn’t meet. Not really. But the glance felt like a slap and a lifeline all at once.

Mira didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh good,” she said under her breath, standing. “It’s time for your annual silent breakdown.”

He gave her a sideways glance.

“You two gonna do that thing again where you refuse to acknowledge each other’s existence until one of you skates angry and the other wins out of spite?”

Jinu exhaled through his nose. “Mira.”

“What?” She grabbed her jacket. “I’m just saying, if we lose gold because you’re busy reliving your first heartbreak in HD, I’ll strangle you with your own blade guards.”

Before he could reply, Gwi-Ma approached.

His presence still demanded silence—an old-school terror in an immaculate suit. “Jinu. Mira. Ready.”

It wasn’t a question.

Gwi-Ma didn’t glance at Rumi, didn’t need to. His focus was sharp and cold, boring into Jinu like a drill.

Mira rolled her eyes once he walked past. “God forbid we feel anything.”

The room was all lights and lenses. Cameras lined the back, microphones cluttered the front, and the air conditioning barely touched the collective heat still radiating from the ice.

Three pairs, one long table.

Mira dropped into her seat beside Jinu, arms folded, jaw set like a lock. Her expression read: this is beneath me and you better behave . Jinu sat rigid, expression carefully neutral.

Rumi arrived a moment later, quiet as snowfall, slipping into the chair beside Abby, who greeted her with his usual calm presence and then offered a polite nod to Jinu. Jinu returned it stiffly, avoiding Rumi’s eyes entirely.

Last to arrive were Zoey and Mystery—a.k.a. Misty—the American bronze medalists, late only because Zoey had been stealing mochi from the catering table.

“God,” Zoey whispered as they sat, eyeing the tension across the table, “the drama here could sharpen skates.”

“Mmhm,” Misty muttered, chin in one hand. “If anyone cries, I vote Jinu. His jaw’s already twitching.”

The moderator finally stepped up to the podium, clearing his throat. “Good evening, everyone. First, a massive congratulations to our top three pairs—Team Korea, making history again with two teams qualifying for the Grand Prix Final. What an electric night.”

Polite applause. The click of cameras.

“Let’s begin with our gold medalists—Jinu and Mira. Your Rhythm Dance was described as ‘surgical,’ your Free Dance as ‘precise and ruthless.’ Thoughts heading into the Final?”

Mira leaned forward, utterly deadpan. “Tired. Hungry. Resisting the urge to roll my eyes on international livestream.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the press. Jinu almost— almost —smiled.

The moderator turned to him. “And you, Jinu?”

He cleared his throat. “We skated with control and intention. Our goal was consistency, and I think we delivered.”

Next to him, Mira not-so-subtly yawned.

The moderator moved on. “Rumi, Abby—your Free Dance was an emotional standout. Some are calling it the most moving routine of the series. How does it feel, knowing you’re headed to the Final?”

Rumi’s smile was quiet, but genuine. “We’re really proud of the story we told. Connecting with the audience matters more to us than anything else.”

Abby leaned into the mic with a half-smile. “And next time, we’re upping the drama. I’m talking tears. Maybe pyrotechnics.”

Laughter again—louder this time. Even Mira cracked a grin.

The moderator smiled, sensing the opening. “It’s been said that some of you haven’t shared a press table in, what… a decade?”

Tension, sharp and immediate, cut through the laughter.

Jinu straightened slightly. Mira’s fingers twitched near her water bottle like she was weighing her options.

Abby glanced sideways at Rumi with a teasing lift of his brows but didn’t speak.

Rumi paused. “We’ve all grown. That’s what time does. It moves us forward—ready or not.”

Her gaze briefly flicked to Jinu. A beat too long.

He still said nothing.

The pause dragged.

“Jinu?” the moderator prompted. “Anything to add?”

Mira didn’t miss a beat. “He’s just shy. Or allergic to public vulnerability.”

Zoey coughed into her hand. “No, no—he’s just repressing in HD. It’s his brand.”

Misty looked over, deadpan. “You good, man? You blinked like… three times in two minutes.”

A burst of laughter rippled through the room again. Rumi looked down, hiding a smirk.

Jinu shifted slightly in his seat. Abby placed a casual, steadying hand on Rumi’s back—barely there, but grounding.

Mira nudged Jinu’s knee under the table, her voice low through a tight, PR-friendly smile. “Relax. You’re not fooling anyone.”

The press room emptied slowly, a blur of handlers, translators, and camera crews packing up. As the last mic clicked off, Mira made a beeline out the side exit without looking back.

Zoey followed casually, peeling an NHK-branded banana from the snack table. “Do you think if I fake a sprain, I can skip drug testing?”

Rumi, who’d just untied one skate, sighed. “They’d test your other leg.”

“Rude,” Zoey muttered. “Mira, wait up. We’re gossiping.”

Mira slowed reluctantly, but only because there were no more reporters in earshot. She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms, her brows already arched in warning. “If this is about Jinu, I’m leaving.”

“Why would it be?” Zoey asked innocently. “This is about you. And me. And Rumi. Three beautiful women at the top of their game. You know. Us. ”

Rumi finally caught up, tugging her jacket closed as she moved beside Mira. “She’s lying. It’s absolutely about Jinu.”

Zoey grinned. “Obviously.”

Mira let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh, rubbing her temples. “You two are insufferable.”

“But pretty,” Zoey said.

“And deadly,” Rumi added.

“Exactly. Charlie’s Angels.” Zoey winked. “Even if our boyband nemeses are the least fun versions of themselves.”

Mira didn’t respond, but her silence was familiar. Heavy. Loyal.

Zoey, sensing the shift, dropped the act a notch. “Hey. You were incredible tonight. Both of you.”

Mira shrugged. “You were robbed of silver.”

Rumi nudged her. “Let us have this one.”

Zoey raised her banana like a trophy. “Justice for drama skaters.”

They stood like that for a beat—three women carved by the same world, shaped by pressure and performance, bound by something much harder to define. In the mirror-lined silence of the green room, the noise faded, but the connection didn’t.

Mira eventually said, quieter, “He watched your entire program, you know. Didn’t blink.”

Rumi didn’t look up. “I didn’t ask.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

Zoey popped another bite of banana. “Anyway, if this ends in one of you slow dancing with him in a dark hallway, I call maid of honour.”

“I’m kicking you out of the wedding,” Rumi muttered, cheeks warm.

“Too late. I’m designing the dress code.”

Mira rolled her eyes, but the edge in her voice softened. “You’re all ridiculous.”

But she didn’t leave.

The Seoul Olympic Ice Rink gleamed under harsh overhead lights, colder and quieter than Tokyo had been. The air buzzed with preparation—coaches barking corrections in multiple languages, skaters weaving through shared ice like threads in a tight, perfect tapestry.

This wasn’t a qualifier anymore.

This was the Final.

Jinu stood at the edge of the rink, rolling out his shoulders in tight, mechanical movements. Mira was lacing up beside him, hair slicked back, already in warmup gear that matched his own.

“You’re grinding your teeth again,” she said without looking up.

“Didn’t realise,” he muttered.

“Are we doing the emotionally constipated rival routine again? Or are you planning to win this?”

He glanced at her, and for a second, something cracked—weariness, maybe. But then it was gone. “We’re here to win.”

Mira shrugged. “Good. Because I do plan to win. And if you self-sabotage mid-program, I will step out of frame and let the cameras catch your downfall in 4K.”

Across the rink, Rumi spun out of a deep edge, arms sweeping like wind. Abby caught her mid-glide, their movement as natural as breath. She was smiling.

Jinu’s chest ached.

Abby noticed them watching, of course. He always did. He skated backwards with casual ease until Rumi was adjusting her laces, then glided up behind Jinu with the most annoying grin in international sport.

“You ready?” Abby asked, clapping a hand to Jinu’s shoulder.

Jinu flinched slightly. “What do you want?”

“Just checking in. You look... tight.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? Because from here it looks like you’re skating on emotional drywall.”

Mira snorted. Abby offered her a high five. She took it without hesitation.

“Rumi looks good,” Abby added lightly. “Better than ever.”

Jinu said nothing.

“Not that I’m biased,” Abby continued, spinning his skate lazily into a tight loop. “But you do realise she’s not skating for you anymore, right? She’s skating against you.”

“I know that.”

“Good.” Abby patted him on the back again. “Because she’s coming for gold.”

He glided away before Jinu could respond—if there had been a response.

Mira raised an eyebrow. “I like him.”

Jinu scowled.

“Don’t be petty. He’s the most stable man on this ice. I’d switch partners with Rumi if he wasn’t so… cheerful.”

She tugged him toward the boards. “Come on. Gwi-Ma wants to see the death lift sequence again. Let’s give him something to critique us about.”

The meeting room smelled like stale coffee and cold steel—the kind of place where decisions were made, not questioned.

Celine sat at the end of the long table, composed in the way only someone used to being underestimated could be. Across from her, a man stood like an institution carved into marble: Gwi-Ma, arms behind his back, presence more weapon than posture.

“You’re really pushing that double Salchow into rotational lift again,” he said casually, though his voice cut like wire. “Ambitious. Or naive.”

Celine didn’t flinch. “Ambitious and earned.”

“For someone like her?” he asked. “You’re risking injury.”

“For someone like Rumi,” she corrected, “I’m building a legacy.”

Gwi-Ma’s mouth twitched, but not into a smile. “PCS tricks and emotional theatrics aren’t legacy. They’re... distractions. My skaters don’t need to cry to win.”

“Your skaters don’t need to feel, either,” Celine replied, her tone sharpening. “But you’ve trained them to mistake silence for strength.”

Around them, a few coaches looked up from their notes. The temperature shifted.

“I won’t have your philosophy poisoning my skater’s focus,” Gwi-Ma said coolly. “You’ve already cost one of them everything.”

Celine leaned in. “He cost himself the moment he chose fear over fight.”

The room fell into weighted quiet.

Neither of them noticed the hallway door, cracked just enough for Rumi to hear.

Just enough for Jinu, on the other side of the corridor, to do the same.

Training had been relentless after that.

Celine hadn’t spoken about the confrontation, but her drills had been razor-sharp—more correction than coaching. Rumi had taken it. Absorbed it. Owned it. But by the end of the third hour, her chest felt tight, her throat dry from holding back everything that couldn’t be said during press interviews or under a judge’s eye.

She needed to move. To breathe. To skate without choreography, without music. Just ice and the ache.

She laced up and returned to the Olympic rink just past midnight.

The rink was dark save for the overhead strip lighting—a soft, humming glow against white ice.

She stepped out, alone.

Until she wasn’t.

Jinu was already there.

Of course, he was.

He stood near the centre, unmoving, blades silent. He didn’t speak as she stepped on the ice, didn’t acknowledge her presence, but the air cracked with awareness.

Rumi didn’t hesitate. She didn’t warm up. She just skated—hard, fast, furious. Cross-cuts into a full spin. A lift simulation by herself. Movements that mimicked choreography but held nothing elegant.

Just exhaustion. And rage.

When she finally stopped, her breathing ragged, she turned to him like a storm.

“You always do this.”

Jinu blinked, startled.

“You show up. You watch. You say nothing,” she spat, voice low and shaking.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said quietly.

“Bullshit,” she snapped.

He didn’t deny it.

“You haunt me,” she went on, skating closer. “Like some ghost of something you chose to leave behind. You don’t get to do that.”

He said nothing.

“You think your silence makes you noble? It doesn’t. It makes you a coward.”

He still didn’t speak.

“And now you skate like you’ve erased me. Like none of it mattered.”

His voice finally cracked through. “It did matter.”

Her breath hitched, fury and hurt tangled together. “Then why didn’t you say anything? Ten years, Jinu. Ten. You didn’t write. Didn’t explain. You just—left.”

“I couldn’t,” he said.

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?” she hissed.

He looked down. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” she said. “Because I waited .”

That silence between them was louder than any music.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“You ruined everything.”

“I know.”

“And I still want you to win. Isn’t that fucked?”

He looked up then, really looked at her.

“Because if you don’t,” her voice trembled, “he wins. Gwi-Ma wins. Again.”

Jinu’s mouth parted slightly. But he said nothing.

“I don’t need you to fix it,” she said. “I just need you to remember what we were. What we did.”

“I do,” he said.

Her eyes watered, but she didn’t wipe them away this time.

She turned and skated past him. Didn’t look back.

He watched her disappear into the tunnel, silent once more.

She didn’t forgive him. Not yet.

But she hadn’t stopped skating either.

And that... was still hope.

Chapter Text

The Grand Prix Final in Barcelona pulsed with the kind of electricity only a gold-laced rivalry could generate. Outside, the winter sun filtered through the Catalan skyline, bright against the crisp air. But inside the Centre de Convencions, it was all ice, breath, and tension.

Backstage, the skaters moved like chess pieces—deliberate, quiet, sharpening. There was no room for chaos here, only precision. Sequins whispered as athletes adjusted their costumes, blades hissed across the warm-up rink, and coaches murmured in clipped, urgent tones. This wasn’t just another competition. This was the final. One slip could end a season.

The air hung thick with something heavier than nerves. Not quite excitement. Not quite fear. More like the entire arena had inhaled—and forgotten how to exhale.

Everyone knew what today was about. The Rhythm Dance showdown. Two programs are at the heart of it. One clinical, technically impossible to fault. The other? All fire and feeling.

And the skaters?

They knew it too.

Up in the stands, Zoey perched on the edge of her seat like a cat with a secret. She’d traded her Team USA jacket for something oversized and fur-lined, but her nerves still buzzed through her boots. “If Rumi makes me cry again mid-event,” she whispered, eyes fixed on the rink, “I’m invoicing her and ISU for emotional damages.”

Next to her, Misty lounged like he had nothing to prove—wool coat draped over his knees, phone in hand. “You said that at NHK. Then tipped the rink DJ and cried in your protein bar.”

“Yeah, because Abby dipped her like they were closing out a K-drama. It was criminally romantic. I’m not made of steel.”

Just across the VIP zone, Team Korea’s Baby and Romance had staked out their own corner of the bleachers, both dressed in the too-bright jackets of Team Korea’s men’s singles contingent. Baby spun his accreditation pass around his fingers, gaze sharp beneath a beanie. “They’re second to skate?”

Romance nodded without looking up. “Mira and Jinu. First blood.”

Baby raised a brow. “You think they’ll smile this time?”

“Not unless someone edits it in post.”

The music crew gave the two-minute call. Below the stands, behind the kiss-and-cry zone, Jinu and Mira stood in silence.

She adjusted her gloves with surgeon-like precision, lips pressed tight. He was still, posture perfect, a blade of focus. Their costumes glittered in the warm-up lights—neon cobalt and citrus yellow. Playful. Bold. Marketable.

It looked like joy. It wasn’t.

“Remind me,” Mira muttered under her breath as they approached the boards, “why we’re performing to a song called Soda Pop when neither of us has smiled in five years?”

Jinu didn’t answer. He never did.

From the stands, Zoey let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of rhinestones for two people who look like they’d rather be at a funeral.”

Misty sipped his iced coffee, unbothered. “They look like Stepford skaters. Watch Mira’s triple twizzle though. It’s filth.”

The program began. Soda Pop burst through the speakers, bubbly and infectious—one of those retro throwbacks with sharp horns and irreverent lyrics. The kind of number that begged for cheeky charisma.

Zoey tilted her head, unimpressed. “This feels like Barbie’s nightmare wedding reception.”

“…Okay, but the footwork is illegal levels of clean,” Misty murmured, squinting.

“They’re smiling like someone’s holding a tax auditor just off-camera,” Zoey added. “Mira’s eating it, though. Full-on CEO of the rink.”

Mira delivered it. Every step was textbook. Every flick of her wrist had rhythm. 

In the other section, Baby blinked. “Jinu looks like he’s been trapped in a bubblegum ad since 2016.”

“Did he blink yet?” Romance asked, quietly.

“No,” Baby muttered, “and I think his soul’s buffering.”

Romance watched more carefully. “That transition into the split edge, though? Disgustingly good. Almost too good.”

Jinu matched her in form, not in feeling. He moved like a machine—flawless, detached, dangerous.

The crowd cheered. The judges leaned forward. The technical panel didn’t blink.

But backstage, Celine watched from a monitor and crossed her arms.

“This isn’t skating,” she said to no one. “It’s surgery.”

Across the warm-up hall, Rumi sat with one knee hugged to her chest, watching the screen like it owed her answers.

She didn’t need to hear the music. She knew every beat by heart. Jinu had once danced for her like that. Before Gwi-Ma. Before silence. Before that empty rink, and the promise left bleeding in the cold.

Now, she barely recognised the boy she once chased medals with. Only the precision remained—the body remembered what the soul had tried to forget.

They hit their final pose with mathematical precision—her arm draped behind his neck, his hand at her waist, their heads tilted back in a frozen laugh neither of them felt.

Applause thundered. Not wild. Not raucous. Just… impressed.

The kind of clapping that said yes, we see your brilliance. Yes, we recognise the discipline. But no one jumped to their feet.

From the Team Korea box, Gwi-Ma nodded once, arms folded. Approval, sharpened into a threat.

Mira exhaled as they skated off the ice, offering the cameras a controlled smile. As they stepped into the Kiss and Cry, Mira yanked off her gloves and leaned toward Jinu, voice low and flat.

“We hit every element.”

Jinu nodded. “Yeah.”

“And I feel absolutely nothing,” she added, voice sharper.

Jinu didn’t reply.

Later, when the scoreboard announced their total—86.79, clean and untouchable.

“We hit every cue. Landed every beat. Why does it feel like I just finished a test I didn’t care about passing?”

Jinu kept his silence. His eyes were already drifting toward the hallway monitor, where Rumi and Abby’s names lit up the screen.

Backstage, Rumi stood at the edge of the tunnel with Celine and Abby beside her. She rolled her neck once. Flexed her fingers. But her eyes were locked on the replay of Mira’s closing pose.

“That was… perfect,” Abby said, carefully neutral. “Sterile, but perfect.”

Celine didn’t blink. “Let them have sterile. We have soul.”

Abby turned to Rumi. “Hey. Don’t match them. Don’t beat them. Just remind everyone why they care.”

She met his gaze, something fiery flickering behind her calm. “I wasn’t planning on doing anything less.”

Their names were called. The lights shifted. The crowd buzzed.

From the stands, Misty leaned forward. “Okay. Time for actual feelings.”

Zoey took a deep breath. “Time for gold.”

The lights softened to a haze of rose gold and silver, like morning breaking open. The crowd, still murmuring from Jinu and Mira’s clean skate, settled once more.

Rumi and Abby stood at centre ice. No flashy pose. No dramatics. Just stillness. Then—

The opening line dropped, low and raw.

I tried to hide but something broke…

Rumi’s fingertips brushed Abby’s as they stepped into the opening pose—nothing dramatic, just a subtle reach. A choice. A memory of trust.

She didn’t skate like she was performing. She skated like she was remembering how to feel. And it showed.

Her first turn melted into a smooth edge as Abby matched her effortlessly, every step paced like a heartbeat sync. No tricks. No overkill. Just precision wrapped in vulnerability.

The song moved through her like breath. As if every lyric had been waiting years to echo against the boards.

But here with you, I can finally breathe…

Rumi leaned into Abby’s arms for a rotational lift that spun wider, slower, deeper than any she’d done all season. Her fingertips traced the air like she was writing a letter no one else would read.

Rumi’s arms unfolded in slow motion, like breaking out of a cage. Abby’s hands found her waist—not possessive, not commanding, just steady. They didn’t explode into motion. They grew into it.

From the stands, Misty’s mouth parted slightly. “She’s not skating for the judges.”

“No,” Zoey whispered, fingers tightening around the railing. “She’s skating for him.”

In the Kiss and Cry, Mira watched with a stony face, one knee crossed over the other. “Here we go,” she muttered.

Jinu didn’t answer. His eyes didn’t leave the ice. Every inch of his body tensed as Rumi leapt into Abby’s arms again, the “dark side” lyric hitting just as her gaze passed over where Jinu stood, like she knew.

I tried to sing, couldn’t hit the notes…

Rumi’s glide curved like a breath exhaled after years underwater. Each step traced an old ache, each lift echoed that frozen moment from ten years ago—the broken promise, the silence, the severed rhythm. But this time, Abby caught her. Anchored her. Moved with her, not over her.

Celine didn’t move in the box. But her eyes shimmered, her lips pressed together in something like prayer.

The camera panned out. Onscreen, Rumi and Abby spiralled in mirrored turns—his hand on her back, hers on her chest.

We can’t fix it if we never face it

It felt like the whole arena was listening to a secret sent by Rumi but not meant for them. Abby didn’t steal Rumi's focus. He anchored her. Gave her space to crack open, to emote, to reclaim the girl who once wept on ice and turned that grief into grace.

From the seats above, Zoey had tears in her eyes before the halfway mark. “She’s letting herself be seen, ” she whispered.

Misty was dead quiet, arms folded. “That’s not skating,” he said finally. “That’s forgiveness.”

Down below, Baby muttered, “God. This is gonna ruin Jinu.”

Next to him, Romance only nodded. “Already is.”

On the ice, the music swelled.

We could be free…

Rumi hit the final sequence with a fire that came from nowhere and everywhere. Her eyes were glassy. Her body was sure.

And when she leaned back into Abby’s closing hold—arms wide, vulnerable, open—she didn’t look broken.

She looked brave.

The final note faded.

The crowd didn’t scream. They didn’t cheer. They stood. Quietly. As if afraid that sound might shatter what they'd just witnessed.

In the Kiss and Cry, Jinu still hadn’t blinked. His fingers were clenched around his knee.

Mira noticed. Said nothing.

Zoey was openly weeping. “She’s insane for doing that to me in public. Again.”

“You’re in danger,” Misty said, deadpan, patting her back.

Even the technical judges looked momentarily moved. Celine pressed both hands to her chest, blinking fast.

When their scores came in—85.92, just a breath behind Jinu and Mira—there was a sharp intake of breath in the room. They hadn’t won the Rhythm Dance. But they had the highest PCS of the night.

As Rumi and Abby exited the rink, Mira passed by in the hallway, arms folded, face unreadable.

“You should’ve won,” she said simply, as they passed.

Rumi looked at her, quiet. “You too.”

They didn’t smile. But something passed between them—something like recognition. Like release.

Jinu stood by the boards, frozen. The applause still echoed around him, but it all felt distant, muted, like he was underwater. He didn’t say anything as Rumi walked past him.

She didn’t look back.

Something inside him twisted sharply, like muscle memory aching to move.

He stepped back from the boards, chest hollow, eyes burning. And before anyone could call his name, he turned and walked away. Past the tech staff. Past the locker bays. Through a back corridor, alone. His blades silent against the concrete.

He didn’t stop walking until he was sure no one could see.

Not even her.

Backstage, Rumi sat beside Abby on the bench near the changing rooms, her hands still trembling.

“That was insane,” Abby said gently, passing her a water bottle. “You didn’t just skate that. You survived it.”

She let out a breath that cracked at the edges. “I felt like I was breathing for the first time in ten years.”

Abby smiled, quiet. “You always say I’m too supportive, but... you have no idea what you just did out there.”

“I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” she whispered, half to herself. “I just… wanted to remember what it felt like.”

Abby bumped his shoulder against hers. “You didn’t need to win the Rhythm Dance, Rumi. You won the room.”

Rumi didn’t answer. Her eyes drifted toward the hallway where Jinu had stood minutes before.

He was gone now. Of course he was.

But she still felt it — the weight he left behind.

Later, when the programs replayed online and fans dissected every lift and every lyric, one moment kept getting clipped and looped, again and again.

Just before Rumi struck her final pose, just before the spotlight cut to black, she whispered something. No mic caught it. But on her lips, millions swore they saw it.

“Let the past be the past ‘til it’s weightless.”

And for the first time in ten years, the world wondered—maybe she wasn’t skating to forget anymore.

Maybe she was finally skating to be free.