Ice skates forward, regardless of east or west.

1

Two o'clock in the morning.

A villa atop Monte Carlo.

Music was playing from the main hall.

The string quartet was replaced by a piano solo, Chopin's Nocturne, with notes flowing slowly.

Ling Wuwen stood in the corridor outside the study.

She didn't know how long she had been standing there.

After Volkov left, she didn't move. The door closed behind him, and she stood there, staring at it.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. I don't know.

Footsteps came from the end of the corridor.

housekeeper.

He walked up to her.

"Miss Anna, Mr. Volkov invites you to dance."

She looked at him.

"Now?"

"Now."

He turned to the side, gesturing for her to follow.

She took a step.

My legs felt heavy. Every step felt like walking through deep snow.

Walk through the corridor.

Pass through the second hall.

We've arrived at the main hall.

The piano sound is clearer. Chopin's Nocturne in D-flat major.

The guests stood in twos and threes, some sitting on the sofas, and some leaning against the windows.

The Mediterranean Sea outside the floor-to-ceiling windows was dark and gloomy, with moonlight spreading a narrow path across its surface.

Volkov was in a wheelchair.

He was in the center of the main hall.

A circular area was left empty around it.

He watched her walk in.

Raise your hand.

"Miss Anna."

She walked over.

Stand in front of him.

He stretched out his hand.

Palms up.

"Dance."

2

She placed her hand in his palm.

His fingers closed.

It was very cool. Dry. The joints were clearly defined.

He pulled gently.

She took a step forward.

Standing in front of his wheelchair.

He looked up at her.

His gray-blue eyes were cold under the light, but the corners of his mouth were slightly curved.

"Can you dance?"

She nodded.

"I know a little bit of waltz and tango."

He smiled.

"Then let's try the wheelchair waltz."

He held her hand with his right hand, and gripped the wheelchair armrest with his left.

"Please push."

She froze for a moment.

"push?"

"Yes. You're pushing me around. You're the guide."

She looked into his eyes.

three seconds.

She gripped the wheelchair handle.

Begin moving.

Very slowly. One step, two steps, three steps.

The wheelchair glided across the floor almost silently. The piano music continued to flow, Chopin's Nocturnes echoing in the main hall at night.

She pushed him around in circles.

One lap. Two laps. Three laps.

The guests watched them. Some smiled, some whispered, and some took out their phones to take pictures.

She didn't look at them.

She looked at the back of his head.

His silver hair was neatly combed. The skin on the back of his neck was loose and had age spots. But he sat very upright, like a steel nail driven into a wheelchair.

"Your muscle memory is very special."

He spoke.

The sound wasn't loud, but it was clearly audible within the music.

Russian.

She didn't say anything.

The wheelchair continued to glide.

a circle.

"It's not the way you normally generate energy in ballroom dancing."

Two laps.

"That's how figure skaters generate power."

Three laps.

She stopped.

3

The wheelchair was parked in the center of the main hall.

The surrounding guests were still talking; some noticed the brief pause, while others did not.

The piano music continued to flow, Chopin's notes filling every inch of space.

Volkov didn't turn around.

He looked ahead.

The Mediterranean Sea outside the floor-to-ceiling windows is a deep, dark black.

"1980."

He spoke.

Russian.

Lake Placid. Winter Olympics.

She stood behind him.

His hand was still gripping the wheelchair handle.

"I was supposed to be on the ice. The Soviet men's singles team. I was twenty years old that year, the best year of my career."

He paused.

"Three days before the game, the team doctor gave me an injection."

The wheelchair moved slightly.

It's very light.

She didn't know if it was him who moved it, or if her hand was shaking.

"He said it was a nutritional injection. Vitamins. Amino acids. For relieving fatigue."

He rolled up his left trouser leg.

Lower legs are exposed.

His skin was pale, his muscles atrophied, and he was as thin as a withered twig. He was completely disproportionate to his upper body.

"This is the price of 'winning glory for the country'."

She looked at the leg.

long time.

4

"What kind of needle?"

She asked.

Russian.

He smiled.

"Now it's called a 'blocker.' Back then, it didn't have a name. All we knew was that after taking it, our muscles wouldn't get tired, sore, or injured."

He rolled down his trouser leg.

"But no one told me about the side effects."

The wheelchair continued to move.

She pushed it.

very slow.

a circle.

"After returning to China, my left leg started to atrophy. The team doctor said it was due to overtraining. He said rest would fix it. I rested for three months, but it didn't get better. A year, still no better. Three years, still no better."

Two laps.

"I later learned that the needle blocked not only fatigue signals, but also nerve conduction. Without the signals, the muscles slowly died."

He paused.

"Twenty years old. A lifetime."

She didn't say anything.

The piano piece was changed.

Still Chopin. Nocturne in C-sharp minor.

---

5

Do you hate it?

She asked.

The wheelchair was parked in front of the floor-to-ceiling window.

He looked out the window.

The narrow path of moonlight spreading across the sea was half-obscured by clouds.

"I hated it."

He answered.

"I hate the team doctor. I hate the coach. I hate the sports committee. I hate the leader who gave me the injection."

He paused.

"I stopped hating him later."

She waited for him to continue.

"Because I've discovered that hatred is useless. It won't change that leg."

He turned his head.

Look at her.

So I tried a different approach.

There was no warmth in his gray-blue eyes.

"I made myself into someone who controls others."

She looked into his eyes.

three seconds.

"Those athletes, referees, officials... you gave them injections?"

He smiled.

"No. I don't give injections. I give them money. Incriminations. Temptations. They choose for themselves."

He turned back.

Looking out the window.

"Everyone pays their own price. I'm just helping them see that price."

6

"Your brother."

He spoke.

Her hands tightened.

"Ling Wufeng".

He pronounced the name.

The Russian syllables were pronounced very accurately.

"In 2017, I sent someone to see him. Not to get him to give me the injection. To get him to cooperate."

He paused.

"I said, if you help me, I'll make you a world champion. No injections, no drugs, just a little 'cooperation' in a few key matches."

She didn't say anything.

The wheelchair handle dug into my palm.

He refused.

Volkov's voice was calm.

He said the champion should be clean.

He turned his head.

Look at her.

"Your brother is a good person."

She looked into his eyes.

"Then why did you kill him?"

He shook his head.

"I didn't kill him. I just... didn't stop it."

He paused.

"That surgery was arranged by Ye Shen. He told me after he found out. I said, 'I know,' and didn't say anything else."

She gripped the wheelchair handles tightly.

The knuckles are turning white.

"You know he's going to die."

Volkov looked at her.

"I know."

three seconds.

Five seconds.

ten seconds.

"You can kill me now," he said. "The wheelchair is here. There's no security. You can strangle me with those hands."

He smiled.

"But you won't."

7

She didn't move.

Stand behind him.

He was holding the wheelchair handle.

He had his back to her.

The moonlight outside the window brightened a little more. The clouds moved away, and the narrow silver path was once again laid out on the sea.

Why are you telling me this?

She asked.

He was silent.

long time.

"Because I want you to see it."

"What do you see?"

"See me when I was twenty."

He looked down at his left leg.

The trouser leg covered that withered calf. But it couldn't hide the memories.

"Just like your brother. Clean. Believes in sports. Believes that hard work pays off."

He looked up.

Looking out at the sea.

"Later we discovered there was no reward, only a cost."

She didn't say anything.

The piano music stopped.

The main hall was silent for a few seconds.

Then applause broke out. The guests clapped politely, and the pianist stood up and bowed.

Volkov raised his hand.

I patted it lightly twice.

The silver ring glittered under the light.

8

"Gu Xidong".

He spoke.

Her heart tightened.

"He's in Malaysia. Ye Shen is waiting for him."

He turned his head.

Look at her.

Do you want to save him?

She looked at him.

"condition?"

He smiled.

"clever."

He reached into the side pocket of his wheelchair and took something out.

Black. Very small. Exactly the same as the previous USB drive.

"This is the key."

He handed it to her.

She didn't answer.

"What are the conditions?"

He looked at her.

three seconds.

"Dance this dance with me."

She froze for a moment.

"What?"

He pointed to the main hall.

The pianist has sat down again. A new piece begins. It's Chopin again. Waltz in A-flat major.

"Finish this dance. Then you leave. Here's the key. I'll also give you information about Gu Xidong."

She looked into his eyes.

It was grayish-blue and had no temperature.

But something was moving deep inside.

It's very light.

9

She gripped the wheelchair handle.

Continue moving.

One step. Two steps. Three steps.

The wheelchair glided across the floor.

He had his back to her.

She pushed him around in circles.

One lap. Two laps. Three laps.

Music flows.

Chopin's waltz, its triple meter rhythm echoing through the night.

She pushed him through the main hall.

Moonlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Passing through the polite smiles of the guests.

Through those gazes she couldn't see.

He sat very upright.

Like a steel nail driven into a wheelchair.

But she could feel his shoulders trembling slightly.

It's very light.

Only the person supporting his wheelchair could feel it.

10

The music stopped.

She stopped her wheelchair.

Standing in the center of the main hall.

The surrounding guests began to applaud. Someone came over, wanting to speak to Volkov.

He raised his hand.

He gestured for them to wait a moment.

He turned his head.

Look at her.

"Gu Xidong is still alive."

He said.

Her heart skipped a beat.

"At four in the morning, they stormed into the plantation. Ye Shen ran away. Gu Xidong chased him into the jungle."

He paused.

"We don't know the outcome yet."

She looked at him.

"Key".

He handed her the black USB drive.

She took it.

Hold it in your palm.

"The password is six zeros," he said. "I never change the default password."

She looked at him.

Why?

He smiled.

It's very light.

"Because nobody expected me to be this stupid."

He turned back.

Looking out at the sea.

"Let's go. Before I change my mind."

She turned around.

I walked towards the door.

I took three steps.

stop.

Look back.

He sat in his wheelchair, his back to her. The moonlight streaming through the window cast a cold glow on his silver hair.

"Volkov".

He didn't turn around.

Do you hate it?

He was silent.

long time.

"every day."

11

Three o'clock in the morning.

Safe house.

Ling Wuwen pushed open the door.

The raven looked up from in front of the computer.

Look at her.

"Did you get it?"

She held up the USB drive in her hand.

He nodded.

Where is Gu Xidong?

She walked to the window.

The lights of Monte Carlo are still twinkling outside the window. Casinos, yachts, hotels, villas.

"Still alive."

The raven stood up.

Walk up to her.

"You believe him?"

She looked out the window.

long time.

"have no idea."

My phone vibrated.

A message.

Unknown number.

She clicked on it.

It's a photo.

In the jungle. Dawn was breaking. Gu Xidong stood under a palm tree, bloodstains on his face, a gun clutched in his hand. He was alive.

With text:

"He's fine. Continue."

She looked at the photo.

long time.

She pressed her phone against her chest.

Outside the window, it was almost dawn.