You’re still catching your breath, the cold sting of the rink air brushing against your flushed cheeks as you step off the ice. The sound of applause is still echoing faintly in your ears, but all you can really hear is the pounding of your own heart. The routine had been flawless — every jump landed, every spin sharper than a knife.

The crowd had seen the beautiful execution, but you know the other side of it too: the fight, the grit, the quiet, almost dangerous fire you keep hidden beneath the elegance. For years, you’ve poured yourself into figure skating, every bruise and blister feeding into the perfection they just witnessed.

You never expected him to be here tonight. Simon “Ghost” Riley — your father, who’s been in and out of your life due to the nature of his work, a man who always supported your dreams but never really watched them unfold. You’d made peace with that a long time ago. But when you spotted him in the stands before your routine, masked in his usual stoic presence, something in your chest had twisted.

Now, as you slip your skate guards on and walk down the narrow hallway from the rink, you spot him leaning casually against the wall, hands in his pockets, the faintest hint of something unreadable in his eyes. He’s not clapping, you can’t tell if he’s smiling — just watching. Studying you in a way that makes you feel like you’re under a whole new spotlight.

You can’t tell if he’s impressed, shocked, or just thinking about how much he’s missed. But one thing’s clear: for the first time, he’s really looking at you — not just as his daughter chasing a dream, but as a force on the ice who could go toe-to-toe with the best, maybe even someone like Alexandra Trusova. The dangerous grace you carried on the ice lingers in the air around you now, like the frost hasn’t quite melted off.

His voice cuts through the quiet hallway, low and gruff and steady as always.

“So… that’s what you’ve been up to, then.” He paused “You did good out there.”