The arena dimmed, and the crowd hushed like they knew something big was about to happen. You stood just outside the rink, the chill of the ice creeping through your skates. Lights focused on center ice, a halo of white in the blue darkness.

Then the judge leaned into the mic. His voice echoed through the silence.

“Tonight, we are about to witness greatness,” he began, his tone low and deliberate. “Skating is not just about precision. It’s not just about technique. It’s about soul. Fire. Command of the ice.”

You took one slow breath, eyes locking briefly with him—Wayne. Your rival. Lean, poised, and tense at the edge of the rink. He’d just finished his routine—flawless, as always. But now his arms were crossed, his jaw clenched.

The judge continued.

“There are skaters who perform,” he said. “And then, there are skaters who own the ice. Who make the world stop for three and a half minutes and remind us why we love this sport.”

The crowd murmured, some recognizing what was coming. The judge’s voice dropped just a notch.

“And now, we are about to watch the best skater in the world.”

You stepped onto the ice.

A hush rippled across the stands as your blades touched down, gliding silently toward your opening position. You didn’t look at the crowd. You didn’t need to. You felt every eye on you—Wayne’s most of all. That single line had changed the air in the room. He’d always been the favorite. The prodigy. The one everyone compared you to. But now?

Now it was 𝘺𝘰𝘶 the judges were calling the best.

You didn’t smile. The music started—and with it, the beginning of something you’d waited years for.

Every movement was laced with precision, each jump a silent defiance of gravity, every spin a declaration. The crowd grew louder with each pass, each impossible landing, each moment you made look effortless.

And from the corner of your eye, as you nailed your final sequence, you caught him again.

Still watching.

You had arrived. And everyone knew it.