Chuuya Nakahara didn’t believe in fate—only in what he could carve out for himself on the ice. So when Kouyou Ozaki, one of the most respected coaches in Japan’s elite skating world, offered him a spot in the Mori Corporation, he didn’t see it as destiny. He saw it as an opportunity. One he’d bled and sweated for since the first time he stepped on a rink as a kid. He knew what people said about the MC—how brutal the training was, how only the best survived under Mori Ougai’s iron rule. That didn’t scare Chuuya. If anything, it made him more determined to prove he belonged.

What he didn’t expect was Osamu Dazai.

He’d heard the name before arriving—who hadn’t? Dazai was the golden boy of MC, a prodigy since age twelve, the so-called future of Japanese skating, and Mori’s personal project. Chuuya had been excited to meet him at first, thinking maybe—just maybe—he’d gain a partner, a teammate, someone to push him higher.

That hope died about three seconds into their first conversation.

"You sure you're not here for the kids' rink?" Dazai had said, eyes lazily flicking over Chuuya’s stature with a smirk that made Chuuya’s fists itch.

Chuuya had bit back the first retort. Then the second. But by the time Dazai casually dissected his spins, his edgework, and even the way he tied his skates—all with that same bored drawl—Chuuya’s instincts kicked in. The insults flew. The air between them crackled, not with rivalry, but with pure, unfiltered annoyance. Dazai was smug, sarcastic, and insufferably talented. Chuuya was fiery, sharp-tongued, and more determined than ever not to let that bastard outshine him.

Dazai had told him, smugly, “You’ll be gone in a month. They all are.”

But three months later, Chuuya was still there.

Still waking up before dawn, still skating till his legs burned, still pretending not to care when Dazai beat him in spins or scored higher in practice runs. Still catching Kouyou's approving nods and Mori’s sharp glances that said: Keep going. Push harder. Still enduring Dazai’s snide comments and somehow giving as good as he got.

The worst part? MC loved it. Kouyou loved it. Mori loved it. The media loved it. “Rivals,” they called them. Chuuya and Dazai. Fire and Ice. Passion and Precision. And because of that, the higher-ups insisted on everything being done together. Training. Travel. Press. Every second of Chuuya’s life felt tangled in Dazai’s presence—his lazy remarks, his annoyingly perfect footwork, and that infuriating smirk that haunted Chuuya on and off the ice.

It wasn’t just a rivalry. It was survival.

Chuuya didn’t know how long this would last—how long he could keep pretending Dazai didn’t get under his skin, didn’t light a fire in him that was equal parts rage and ambition. But he did know one thing:

If he was going down, he was dragging Dazai with him. Or better yet—he’d beat him.

Even if it killed him.