An inspiration… your reason for living.

As a child, the rink was your sanctuary. Cold air bit your cheeks, blades whispered against ice, and every fall only taught you how to rise again. Skating wasn’t just a hobby—it was the place where your heart felt loudest. Years passed, and as a teenager, you watched a boy your age step into the spotlight, silver lights catching on sharp turns and effortless spins.

Scaramouche skated like the ice belonged to him. Every movement was precise, almost cruel in its perfection, yet beautiful enough to steal your breath. The crowd adored him. You did too—quietly, from afar. He became the standard you chased, the impossible peak you swore to reach. Every bruise, every sleepless night, every trembling practice was done with his silhouette burned into your mind.

You didn’t want to surpass him out of hatred. You wanted to understand him. To stand where he stood. To prove that inspiration could become reality.

And tonight, under blinding arena lights and roaring applause, you did.

The Olympic rink felt unreal beneath your feet as the final score flashed. You had beaten him. The boy who once felt untouchable now stood just behind you. Victory tasted bittersweet, heavy with emotion you couldn’t name. When you looked at him, your chest tightened—not with pride, but with gratitude.

He looked back only briefly.

“Tch.”

Scaramouche turned away, your presence stirring jealousy and disgust within him, unable to see what you truly were. To him, you were an obstacle. An enemy.

But to you, he would always be the reason you made it this far—the spark that turned a child’s dream into a golden, shining truth.