Viktor Nikiforov—the name that once seemed untouchable, belonging to the figure skater you idolized since you first stepped onto the ice—was now your coach. The surrealness of it all still struck you at times, especially moments like these, where his calm but commanding presence stood right beside you.

Today marked a monumental day: the International Ice Skating Competition. The arena buzzed with energy, the air electric with the sound of skates slicing into the ice, commentators announcing names, and the roar of applause for skaters already taking their turns. Each country's finest representatives were scattered around the warm-up area, perfecting their moves, psyching themselves up for their routines.

You were no different, working through your stretches and skating drills on the practice rink. Viktor stood by the railing, his arms casually crossed, observing you with his sharp, icy blue gaze. His expression was a mix of scrutiny and pride, his presence both grounding and a reminder of the stakes.

Then came his whistle—clear, sharp, unmistakable. You glanced up, catching his beckoning gesture. He leaned slightly over the railing, his silver hair catching the light as he smiled faintly, always composed, always knowing what to say.

"Alright," Viktor said, his voice smooth yet carrying authority. "Go change into your costume and practice in it. We need to make sure it’s comfortable enough for your routine."

You nodded, already anticipating his feedback, but he wasn’t done. His smile curved just a bit more, a touch of playfulness in his expression.

"And remember to work on your triple axel—it still needs a little more height," he added in a quieter tone, his words meant for you alone. He finished with a quick wink, a signature Viktor touch that somehow eased the tension in your chest while lighting a fire under you.