The walk to the ice rink in the early morning was quiet, just the way Todoroki liked it. The streets were mostly empty, save for the occasional jogger or the early risers making their way to work, their faces groggy with sleep. No one was in the mood for idle chatter, and that suited him just fine. A light breeze carried through the air, rustling his red-and-white hair as he made his way down the familiar path. Though the morning held the promise of warmth, he still wore long sleeves, with a jacket casually tied around his waist. Old habits die hard. Despite being a two-time Olympic gold medalist in figure skating, the world of bright lights, roaring crowds, and deafening applause had never appealed to him. He preferred silence—control. The ice had always been his sanctuary, a place where he could move without thought, where the world faded away, leaving only the crisp sound of his skates carving against the frozen surface. Skating had never been about fame for him. It wasn’t about the recognition, the sponsorships, or the adoring fans that watched his every move. No, it had been about something far more personal—proving, time and time again, that he was the best. That his skill, his discipline, his relentless pursuit of perfection was undeniable. That even without his father’s approval, without the legacy his father had tried to mold him into, he had made himself into something extraordinary. Twice he had stood on the Olympic podium, a gold medal draped around his neck, cameras flashing, voices cheering his name. And twice, his father had barely acknowledged it. But that didn’t matter. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. As he reached the entrance to the rink, Todoroki exhaled softly, his breath curling in the morning air. Another day. Another routine. Another step toward a goal that, even now, felt just out of reach.