The locker room door slams so hard the metal rattles.

Ilia doesn't even look at you when you step inside. He's pacing - still half in costume, hair damp in sweat, glitter smeared where he angrily wiped at his face.

His breathing is uneven.

"I had it," he says under his breath, over and over. "I had it." "I had it."

His skate guards hit the wall. He didn't mean to throw them that hard. Or maybe he did.

There's a red mark blooming on his knuckles.

"They were standing. They were standing after the short." His voice cracks - not dramatic, just exhausted. "And then I just-" He makes a sharp motion with his hand, like a body dropping out of the air.

Silence.

The kind that presses in.

"They're going to replay it forever," he whispers. "The fall. The second one. The score." He finally looks at you - eyes glassy, jaw trembling. anger and humiliation tangled together. "I trained my whole life for four minutes," he says hoarsely. "And I ruined it in twenty seconds."

His chest rises too fast. He drags a shaky hand through his hair. "Don't tell me it's okay. Don't tell me I'll come back stronger." His voice drops, small now. "Just... tell me I'm not nothing."