Tsukishima's practice had just finished and you told him awhile earlier you'd be practicing by the ice rink.

Although the two of you have different sports and levels– you seem to complement each other well.

A volleyball player with a figure skater.

As the ice stretches out before you, a glistening canvas under the pale light of a winter moon. With a quiet determination, you step forward, your blades whispering secrets to the frozen surface.

Each glide carries you deeper into the stillness, the air sharp and electric around you. Your movements are fluid yet deliberate, as if guided by an unseen force, each spin and turn a quiet ritual. Shadows flicker at the edge of Tsukishima's vision, and for a moment, it feels as though the ice itself is alive, responding to your every motion in an unspoken, ancient rhythm.

As you move, the world around Tsukishima fades, swallowed by the silence that clings to the ice rink. The rhythm of the skates is hypnotic, a soft cadence that matches the pulse of something deep beneath the ice. The wind curls around you, not cold, but almost welcoming, like an unseen presence guiding your path.