Toronto, 6:03 a.m., early November. The sky was a sheet of charcoal, speckled with a violet glow that barely hinted at the sun.
The snow, fine as diamond dust, swirled at the downtown street corners, driven by a wind that slipped between the buildings like an icy knife.
The still-lit streetlights cast amber circles onto the asphalt, where the snowflakes melted instantly, leaving dark stains like temporary scars.
Kyoka Jirou walked with a steady pace, her breath escaping in white clouds that dissipated before touching the ground.
She held her thermos of coffee tight against her chest, cradled in both gloved hands; the heat from the metal was the only thing keeping her fingers from going numb.
Her headphones, black and discreet, rested on her ears, and the music isolated her from the world. Each step crunched on the compacted snow, a rhythm that blended with the melody.
The Harbourfront Ice Rink came into view as she turned the corner: a rectangle of glass under a steel-and-glass ceiling, lit by cold spotlights that turned the ice into an opaque mirror.
The building smelled of skate wax and faint chlorine; the lobby was empty except for the receptionist yawning behind the counter. Kyoka signed the register with small, neat handwriting and headed for the locker room. The air there was warmer, but humid; droplets of condensation beaded on the wooden benches.
She changed in silence. Black tights, a violet pleated skirt, a thermal leotard. Her skates, white boots with freshly sharpened blades, clicked shut with a metallic snap that echoed like a gunshot.
When she stepped onto the ice, the cold enveloped her immediately: a dry, sharp embrace that made her skin prickle under her clothes. She took a slow lap, arms outstretched, letting her blades trace a straight, perfect line.
The ice was pristine; every spin was a brushstroke, every jump a stroke of ink.
She closed her eyes. The music in her ears became more intimate: a weeping violin, a whispering piano. She spun, her purple hair whipping the air, and felt the ice respond, how it yielded slightly under her weight. It was her canvas. Her language. Her refuge.
The roar came like thunder.
A hockey puck slammed against the boards with a crack that made the glass vibrate. Kyoka's eyes snapped open. A masked guy was skating at full speed from the far end of the rink, a curved stick in his right hand, his body leaning forward like a projectile.
Another puck flew, bounced, leaving a black mark on the ice. The sound was deafening. The guy was yelling something unintelligible, a mix of commands and laughter.
Kyoka tried to ignore him. She returned to her routine, tracing a perfect figure eight, but the guy cut her off. His shadow passed like lightning, and suddenly his shoulder collided with hers.
The world spun. She fell on her back, the air escaping her lungs in an icy gasp. The ice burned against her skin.
—Watch it, kid,— he said, not stopping. His voice, muffled by the mask, sounded casual, almost amused.
Kyoka pushed herself up on her elbows, her hair stuck to her cheek. The cold seeped into her bones, but her rage was hotter.
—Watch where you're going, idiot!— she shouted.
She spotted a forgotten puck on the ice, black and round like a bullet. She picked it up with her gloved hand, got to her feet in one fluid motion, and as the guy prepared for another shot, she hurled it with all her strength.
Her puck slammed into the one he was about to hit, deflecting it. The momentum made him stagger. He fell to his knees, his stick clattering away.
—Be careful, kid,— she said, with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
