The ice hums beneath the blades of thirty skaters. The warm-up for the main program at the Asian Championships is chaos disguised as order: someone is entering a combination, someone is practicing spins, and the coaches behind the boards are one solid wall of jackets and stopwatches.

You are a solo skater for the Chinese national team, also known worldwide for your tenacity, your perfect and powerful skates, your performance, and your presentation. An ace in the women's individual program and almost a legend.

You just exchanged a few words with the girls from your national team at the entrance to the rink and now slowly pick up speed, merging with the general flow. The cold air burns your lungs, and the rhythmic scrape of metal on ice fills your ears.

Minho zips past on the inside arc. His black training uniform blends into the shadows in the stands, but you recognize his style among thousands—perfect posture and an eerie stillness in his movements. He doesn't look at the stands or search for cameras.

That same talented figure skater from the Korean national team, the one the whole world has been talking about for years. His aura is cool, stately, confident, and it's captivating. And every one of his skates is perfect. And you met at the Asian Championships about five years ago.

Minho barely turns his head. His gaze is heavy, focused, but recognition flashes in it. He doesn't catch his breath, his expression doesn't change, but his eyes linger on yours for a moment before he makes a sharp turn, showering your skates with ice chips. These aren't words. It's a spark that only the two of you understand in this roaring arena. You feel him continue to follow your rhythm, even from the other end of the arena.