Ice skates forward, regardless of east or west.

1

Beijing.

January 30th. 7 PM.

The area outside the Capital Indoor Stadium was filled with broadcast vans.

CCTV. BBC. NBC. Eurosport. More than forty media outlets and over two hundred reporters.

Cameras were set up to form a human wall, and lights illuminated the night sky as if it were daytime.

Audience members began entering at 5 p.m.

Twenty thousand people. Every seat was taken.

Some people held up light boards that read "Gu Xidong." Some held up candles. Some held up photos of Ling Wufeng. Some held up banners with black and white lettering that read, "The truth will not melt away."

At the entrance of the stadium, an elderly man leaned on a cane and slowly walked up the steps.

He wore a handwritten sign around his neck that read: "My son was an athlete who retired in 1998. He also received injections."

No one stopped him.

The staff stepped aside.

2

7:30 p.m.

The lights inside the stadium dimmed.

The audience was quiet.

A ring of candlelight illuminated the center of the ice surface. Three hundred and sixty-five white candles.

Each one represents an injured athlete.

Some died. Some were crippled. Some have silently lived on until now.

There were no judges' stands around the ice.

There were only cameras. More than thirty of them. Aimed at that pristine white expanse from every angle.

The host came out.

Standing at the edge of the ice rink.

He held the microphone to his mouth.

No scores tonight.

The sound traveled through every corner in the silence.

"Only truth and memory."

applause.

It's very light.

3

The entrance lights came on.

Gu Xidong stood there.

He was wearing a black training uniform. There were no sponsor logos.

There was no national flag. No labels. Only a thick white bandage wrapped around his left knee, from his thigh to his calf.

He was using a cane with his right hand.

His left hand hung down at his side.

He looked at the ice surface.

Three hundred and sixty-five candles burned on the ice. The candlelight reflected in the ice, like countless stars sinking into the white depths.

He walked forward.

He landed on his left knee, using his crutches for support.

One step. Two steps. Three steps.

The audience was quiet.

Twenty thousand people watched him walk down that short road.

The edge of the ice rink.

He stopped.

Lean the cane against the barrier.

Look down at your left leg.

The bandage is wrapped very tightly. That's what the doctor said. It can hold for fifteen minutes. After fifteen minutes, you must get off.

He took a deep breath.

Hold the baffle up.

Go inside.

A sharp pain shot through his left knee the moment it hit the ground. He gritted his teeth.

Stand firm.

The ice was beneath my feet. Cold. Smooth. Familiar.

He stood in the middle of that candlelight.

4

Someone in the audience stood up.

One. Two. Ten. One hundred.

All 20,000 people stood up.

No one spoke.

Just standing there.

He looked at those people.

The elderly. The young. The children.

A man in a suit. A woman in an evening gown. A girl holding a light stick. A boy holding a photograph.

He lowered his head.

Look at the ice under your feet.

The candlelight flickered on his face.

He remembered what she had said.

"Dance more beautifully."

He looked up.

Take a deep breath.

Start skating.

5

First lap.

It was very slow. Every step he took hurt his left leg. He adjusted his weight, putting more weight on his right leg.

The ice skates sliced ​​across the ice, leaving long, thin marks.

The candlelight swept past me.

One. Two. Ten. Three hundred and sixty-five.

He thought of those people.

Ling Wufeng. Twenty-one died on the operating table. Thirty-nine survived but were still being hunted.

Silent. Afraid to speak. Because no one would believe them if they did.

He sped up.

His left knee was throbbing with pain. He gritted his teeth.

Second lap.

Third lap.

Fourth lap.

Speed ​​up. The wind rushes past your ears. The candlelight forms a flowing river.

He jumped.

Left leg pushes off the ice. Right leg swings. Body takes off.

One week. Two weeks. Three weeks.

Ice falling.

The moment his left knee hit the ground, a sharp pain shot from his knee to the back of his head. He swayed.

Stand firm.

Keep gliding.

6

Someone in the audience was crying.

A middle-aged woman. Clutching Ling Wufeng's photo in her hand. Tears streamed down her face, but she didn't wipe them away.

The person next to her handed her a tissue.

She took it.

His eyes never left the ice.

On the ice rink, Gu Xidong was still skating.

Blood seeped from the bandage on my left knee. The white bandage turned pink. The pink bandage turned red.

He didn't stop.

carry on.

Fifth lap. Sixth lap. Seventh lap.

Another jump.

Axel for three weeks.

Spinning in the air. One circle. Two circles. Three circles.

Ice falling.

He fell the moment his left leg touched the ground.

Lying on the ice.

An exclamation went up from the audience. Some stood up. Some covered their mouths.

He lay there.

three seconds.

Hold on.

He knelt on one knee on the ice.

Blood seeped from the bandages and dripped onto the ice. One drop. Two drops. Three drops.

He looked up.

Looking at that candlelight.

Three hundred and sixty-five candles are still burning.

He stood up.

Keep gliding.

7

Eighth lap.

Ninth lap.

The tenth lap.

He slowed down.

It's not that I'm weak. It's that my left leg can't support me anymore. My knee screams with every step.

He skated to the center of the ice rink.

stop.

Standing in the middle of that circle of candlelight.

Hands hanging down at the sides.

look up.

Look at the audience seats.

Twenty thousand people stood there. No one sat down. No one spoke. No one took pictures.

He spoke.

The voice wasn't loud. But the entire room was silent, and every word reached the last row.

"This dance—"

He paused.

"Dedicated to all those who have been silenced."

He lowered his head.

Look at the ice under your feet.

Blood dripped where he stood. Red. Starkly bright against the white ice.

He closed his eyes.

three seconds.

Open your eyes.

Turn around.

Slide towards the exit.

8

Baffle edge.

Ling Wuwen stood there.

She was wearing a white down jacket, the hood pulled low. Her face was pale. Her hands were trembling. But she stood there, motionless.

He slid down to her.

Holding up the barrier.

Look at her.

She reached out her hand.

He grasped it.

Her hands were cold. He gripped them tightly.

She stood on tiptoe.

He lowered his head.

Their lips touched.

three seconds.

The audience erupted in applause.

The applause was polite, but it came from the depths of their hearts. Twenty thousand people clapped simultaneously.

Some people shouted. Some people cried. Some people held up light boards and waved them.

He didn't hear it.

He just looked at her.

She looked at him.

long time.

She spoke.

"I'm done dancing."

He nodded.

"I'm done dancing."

she laughs.

Tears streamed down my face.

9

A raven came over.

Stand next to them.

Looking at that stretch of ice, three hundred and sixty-five candles were still burning.

He looked down at his phone. The screen displayed global trending topics.

"Gu Xidong's performance" topped the list.

"Truth and Reconciliation" Part 2.

"Ling Wufeng" is third.

"Chimera Experiment" Part 4.

He put his phone back in his pocket.

Look up at them.

"it's over."

Gu Xidong shook his head.

"It's not over yet."

The raven looked at him.

"What?"

Gu Xidong looked at the ice surface.

"Those who are alive. Thirty-nine. And those who haven't been discovered yet. They're still hiding. Still afraid. Still waiting."

He turned to look at Ling Wuwen.

She looked at him.

He spoke.

"Let's go find them."

She didn't say anything.

Just hold his hand tightly.

10

early morning.

Outside the stadium.

The crowd slowly dispersed. The light boards went out. The candles were taken down. The broadcast vans drove away one by one.

Gu Xidong sat on the steps.

The left leg is straight. The bandage has been changed. The bleeding has stopped.

Ling Wuwen sat down next to him.

She leaned against him.

She looked at the distant sky. In Beijing's January nights, a few stars could be seen.

"Gu Xidong".

"Um."

"You mean those people? Thirty-nine of them. Can you find them?"

He looked at the starry sky.

"have no idea."

She didn't say anything.

He continued.

"But we have to find it."

She nodded.

"I'll stay with you."

He looked down at her.

She looked up at him.

He kissed her forehead.

She closed her eyes.

11

Footsteps could be heard in the distance.

A person walked over.

He was in his sixties. His hair was gray. He walked with a slight limp.

Wearing an old down jacket, with a handwritten sign hanging around his neck: "My son is an athlete who retired in 1998."

He stopped in front of Gu Xidong.

Look at him.

three seconds.

Open up.

"Thank you."

Gu Xidong stood up.

He felt a sharp pain in his left knee and leaned against the wall for support.

Looking at that old man.

Where is your son?

The old man remained silent.

long time.

"Dead. In 2015."

Gu Xidong remained silent.

The old man took a photo out of his pocket.

Hand it to him.

The photo shows a young man, in his early twenties, wearing sportswear and smiling broadly.

"His name was Zhang Lei. He was a gymnast. He was selected for the 'Nutritional Injection' program in 1998. He retired in 2003. He committed suicide in 2015."

Gu Xidong looked at the photo.

long time.

Give the photo back to him.

"I will add his name."

The old man took the photo.

Look at him.

three seconds.

bow.

Turn around.

Step into the night.

Gu Xidong stood still.

Ling Wuwen walked over.

Stand next to him.

He looked in the direction the old man had disappeared.

long time.

She took his hand.

He gripped it tightly.

In the distance, the lights in the stadium went out one by one.

The ice rink was plunged into darkness.

But those candles used to be there.

Three hundred and sixty-five.

It has been burned.