Ice skates forward, regardless of east or west.

1

The microphone emitted a piercing long beep.

The ISU press officer lowered the microphone stand by five centimeters, his fingers still trembling.

He stepped back, giving up the center of the podium.

That spot was empty for three seconds.

Within three seconds, the sound of camera shutters erupted from every corner of the press area.

Lomax came out.

The chairman of the International Skating Union's Disciplinary Committee, with a 40-year professional career, has dealt with doping, referee bribery, and age falsification.

His tie was tied too tightly today, leaving a red mark above his Adam's apple.

He braced himself on the edge of the podium with both hands.

"The International Skating Union," he paused, flipping through the paper between his fingers, "has decided to establish an independent investigation team."

There was no applause from the audience.

The only sound was the scratching of the pen tip across the notebook.

"The investigation covers all World Championships, Grand Prix, and Winter Olympic Games events between 2015 and 2023. This includes, but is not limited to, irregularities in referee scoring, financial transactions by event officials, and changes in athlete eligibility..."

He finished reading the last word and looked up.

The press box was quiet.

Someone pushed the recorder forward.

The metal base scraped against the wooden tabletop, the sound carrying to the last row.

Lomax did not answer the question. He turned and walked faster than when he had come out.

They disappeared behind the side curtain.

2

The police car did not sound its siren.

Three black sedans drove into the venue through the staff entrance, their tires running over the puddles and splashing water onto the floor that the cleaners had just mopped.

When Chen Guodong was brought out, the lace on his left shoe came undone.

He glanced down, and as he tried to bend down, the handcuffs grabbed his wrists.

The escorting police officer held his elbow to prevent him from bending over.

He dragged his loose shoes along the last twenty meters.

The ends of the shoelaces left long, wet streaks on the ground.

Zhou Wentao walked behind.

He was missing his glasses and squinted to adjust to the flickering of the corridor lights.

He stopped half a step as he passed the door of Gu Xidong's lounge.

The door was open. No one was inside.

The ice skates were half-empty, and there was a wad of medical bandages on the ground, with blood seeping from the edges and already dried to a dark brown.

The officer gently pushed him from behind.

He continued walking.

At the bottom of the steps, special police officers holding riot shields stood by the door of a black minivan.

When Zhou Wentao stepped on the pedal, his right foot suddenly froze in mid-air.

He turned his head.

He glanced back at the press box and cameras every now and then. He looked towards the window at the end of the corridor.

The view from the window is towards the ice rink. No ice is visible, only the white membrane structure on the roof of the venue, undulating slightly against the leaden sky.

He was helped into the car.

The car door slid shut.

The engines started with a low rumble, and the convoy bypassed the group of reporters, disappearing into the evening rush hour traffic.

The taillights left intermittent red trails on the wet asphalt road.

The reporters packed up their equipment.

Some people glanced at the time, while others dictated short messages to their phones.

On the steps where Zhou Wentao had sat, there was something that had slipped out of his pocket when he bent over—

Half a sachet of stomach medicine, its aluminum foil packaging warmed by body heat, was pressed against the cold concrete surface.

The wind blew by.

The edges of the aluminum foil curled up slightly.

3

The door to the secret passage behind the scenes was ajar.

The emergency exit indicator light was broken; the green light was off, and only a red backup light strip extended along the baseboard.

The light strip broke at the 47-meter mark, scattering pieces of plastic.

Ye Shen stood at the corner of the emergency exit.

He held the walkie-talkie to his lips and pressed the call button.

"The game isn't over yet."

The sound came from the walkie-talkie speaker, and was repeatedly refracted by the walls in the empty corridor, making it difficult to sense direction.

See you in Scandinavia.

He released the button.

The walkie-talkie slipped from his palm, the rope wrapped around his little finger, and it swayed twice in mid-air.

He removed the rope, and the walkie-talkie fell into the trash can. The cotton lining absorbed the sound of the fall, making almost no impact.

He pushed open the fire door.

Outside the door is the third basement level of the underground parking garage, which has been idle for many years, with construction waste piled up on the ground.

A black SUV without license plates was parked next to a pool of water caused by a leaking water pipe.

He got in the car, started the engine, and the headlights illuminated three meters ahead.

A stray cat crouched on a drain cover, its pupils contracting into slits in the light.

It didn't run away; it watched as he turned the steering wheel fully, and the car headed towards the exit ramp.

The taillights disappeared at the end of the ramp.

The stray cat lowered its head and licked its front paws.

4

Gu Xidong did not hear the convoy leave.

He sat by the ice rink barrier, with his back against the acrylic plate and his left leg stretched out on the ice.

The temperature of the ice travels from the blade to the sole of the shoe, and then seeps into the Achilles tendon.

He didn't move.

The venue's spotlights have been turned off, leaving only basic lighting.

The ice surface loses its stage presence and reverts to its essence as a building material: water in its solidified form, below zero degrees Celsius, with moderate hardness, capable of supporting the weight of a human body.

The stands were empty.

A program sheet, an empty mineral water bottle, and a gray cashmere scarf were scattered on the chair.

A cleaning worker pushed a large garbage bag through the aisle, bent down to pick up the scarf, shook it, and draped it over the back of a chair.

Footsteps came from the passageway.

It's urgent.

The ice skates made short, muffled thuds as they stepped over the plastic mat.

Not the athlete's pace and rhythm—

Landing on your heels first, your center of gravity leans forward too quickly, and every step feels like you're about to fall.

Gu Xidong turned his head.

Ling Wuwen ran out of the passageway.

She wasn't wearing ice skates.

Her sneakers slipped on the rubber edge of the ice rink, so she reached out and braced herself against the barrier to steady herself.

The movement of her left shoulder aggravated her wound, causing her brow to furrow briefly, but she didn't stop.

She flipped over the barrier.

If you lose your footing when landing, your ice skates are not suitable for regular sports shoes.

She stepped onto the ice, but her shoes had no grip, and she slid forward.

Gu Xidong caught her.

His left knee was still in excruciating pain, and he almost lost his balance the moment he stood up.

He braced himself against the edge of the barrier, and put his other arm around her lower back.

She pressed her forehead against his collarbone.

His chin rested on the top of her head.

The ice rink was left with only the basic white overhead lighting.

No one speaks.

The cleaning staff stopped what they were doing, and the black garbage bag in their hands drooped to the ground.

Two security guards stood at the entrance, but did not approach.

There were still three people in the press box who hadn't left.

A cameraman, his camera still on, the red light flashing steadily in the dark.

A middle-aged journalist, his notebook spread out on his lap, pen resting on the paper, not yet falling.

An intern assistant was switching the lens from 70mm to 135mm, his fingers turning the focus ring, making a very faint friction sound.

No one pressed the shutter.

5

Seventeen seconds.

The temperature control system in the center of the venue completes a routine cycle during this period.

Cold air is forced in through the air inlet, passes over the ice surface, carries away the heat emitted by the human body, and returns to the unit through the air outlet.

The bandage on Ling Wuwen's left shoulder was loosened during the fight.

Blood seeped from the edge of the dressing, spreading into a dark circular stain about five centimeters in diameter on the surface of the gray sweatshirt.

Gu Xidong's left hand covered it.

His palm pressed against her wound, not to stop the bleeding, but simply to cover it.

She could feel the lines on his palm; they were very hot.

Her right hand gripped the fabric of his performance costume at his waist.

Most of the silver feathers had fallen off in the previous battle, and the few remaining ones were curled and broken.

She pinched one of the remaining feathers between her fingers and rubbed it.

The down fibers spread out in my palm.

She remembered seeing him on television for the first time seventeen years ago.

Seventeen years ago, he was seventeen years old and skated in the last group of the junior Grand Prix free skate.

She was also seventeen years old. She would put her earphones in her blankets in the dormitory and turn the screen brightness down to the lowest setting to avoid the flashlights of the teachers checking the dormitories.

He was doing a triple Axel at the time.

The ice landing was perfect.

She clutched the corner of the blanket tightly in the darkness, separated by a screen, a seven-year time difference, and an emotion she hadn't yet learned to name.

The time is up in seventeen seconds.

She loosened her grip on his waist.

He removed his hand from her shoulder.

The two separated by half a step.

The overhead lights of the ice rink cast a narrow, sharp line between them.

Ling Wuwen lowered his head.

On the ice beside her right foot lay a silver feather that had fallen from his costume.

She bent down to pick it up; the base of the feather still carried the warmth of her body.

She didn't look at him.

"The child is asleep."

"Um."

"He saw you jump."

"You said that."

Her fingers tightened around the feather. The rachis bent, making a soft snapping sound.

I'm afraid he'll forget.

Gu Xidong did not answer.

He reached out, pulled the broken feather from between her fingers, and put it in his pocket.

"Won't."

He turned around, braced himself against the barrier, and flipped himself off the ice.

He stumbled when his left knee hit the ground, but he grabbed the door frame and didn't stop.

Ling Wuwen stood still.

The coldness of the ice seeped into my shoes, and my toes gradually went numb.

She looked down and saw that she was standing at the exact spot where Gu Xidong landed after completing his quadruple Axel jump.

The four arcs are still there.

On the inside of the arc, where his ice blade struck, there were two very shallow drag marks—

Those were correction marks left on the ice by the tail of his blade when his left knee couldn't support him as he fell.

She squatted down.

My fingertips touched the edge of that drag mark.

The temperature of ice is zero degrees Celsius.

6

A cleaner pushed an ice-pouring cart out of the passageway.

The machine hummed softly as hot water sprayed onto the surface of the old ice, dissolving blade marks, bloodstains, fallen silver down feathers, and dents left by knees from falls.

The ice resurfacing truck was pushed across the center of the ice rink.

The four arcs disappeared beneath the warm water.

The new ice layer slowly solidified under the light, its surface as smooth as a mirror, without a single scratch.

Ling Wuwen stood up.

She had the broken silver feather in her pocket; its shaft was broken into three pieces, and the barbs were scattered. She held it down through the fabric.

Gu Xidong's figure had already disappeared at the end of the corridor.

The cleaner turned off the ice-sprinkling truck, took out a thermos from his pocket, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip of hot water.

He saw Ling Wuwen still standing by the ice.

"Girl," he said, "there's a match tomorrow."

She nodded.

She tucked the feather deeper into her pocket.

He turned and headed towards the exit.

The corridor lights went out one by one behind her.

The ice rink was plunged into darkness, with only the green light of the emergency exit indicator reflected on the freshly poured ice.

It was very quiet.

The silence was like the few seconds of blank space after a witness takes their oath and before they give their statement.