The freezing Setagaya wind blew with contained force, filtering through the bare treetops lining the path to Yoyogi Park. After three days of relentless rain that had kept the city submerged in gray confinement, the clear sky felt like a brilliant trap: the winter sun gleamed in frozen puddles but brought not a single degree of warmth to the air.
Aibek adjusted the scarf around his neck with his healthy hand, feeling the fine crackle of icy breath as he exhaled. Beside him, Zinov walked at a perfectly measured pace, with the upright elegance that characterized him both on and off the rink. However, the distant coldness and unshakeable seriousness the Russian usually projected toward the international circuit had dissolved completely. Before Aibek, Zinov showed himself attentive to every detail, leaning toward him with a soft, enveloping devotion that was fascinating—something to which the Kazakh was supposedly accustomed, a vile lie...
