The heavy echo of Jake's frantic skating still vibrated against the structural steel beams of the athletic complex when the silence of the late afternoon closed back over the secondary rink like a physical weight. The violent roar of his steel edges slicing through the ice at maximum velocity had been an unmitigated, non-verbal declaration of war; but for Aibek, the absolute stillness that followed the storm was consistently the most terrifying segment of the day.
Zinov returned to the center of the ice with a lazy, almost indolent glide, bringing his blades to a smooth halt directly in front of the plastic chair where the dark-haired boy remained paralyzed. The harsh glare of the overhead arena lights caught the Russian's pristine blonde hair, enveloping him in an almost angelic glow that contrasted structural illness against the cold, mathematical death of his emerald eyes.
