Inside the Nairobi International Sports Center's Sanda — Chinese kickboxing — arena, the air was thick with the smell of sweat, plastic flooring, and sparse yet loud cheers from the stands. Lin Yan stood in the corner of the ring, beads of sweat rolling down his jawline and splattering on his boxing gloves, leaving small damp spots. He had just won the semi-finals by points against the host player, advancing to the men's 75kg final—only one more fight stood between him and his dream of an Olympic gold medal. Before leaving, he had specially bought a plane ticket for his girlfriend Su Qing, inviting her to witness his glory in person. He had even planned in his mind to propose to her after winning the championship. Lately, though, Su Qing had been distant: her calls had grown shorter, her texts slower to reply, and she'd brushed off his excited rants about the Olympics with a tired "I know, be careful"—a faint shadow that lingered in Lin Yan's mind, but one he'd pushed aside, chalking it up to her busy work. The last time they'd spoken, he'd sworn he heard a man's low chuckle in the background, but she'd waved it off, saying it was "a colleague watching a funny video." He'd almost pressed her for more details, a flicker of doubt creeping in, but he'd quickly shaken it off—he didn't want to be the jealous, distrustful boyfriend, so he told himself it must have been his imagination, and let the topic drop.
As the core player of China's Sanda team, Lin Yan was no stranger to the intense pressure of the arena. Unlike his opponent, who screamed and roared to vent his frustration, he only lowered his eyes slightly, flexed his wrists, and let out soft cracks from his knuckles. Sanda emphasized skill and calmness; impetuosity was a fatal flaw. It was a principle etched into his bones since he started practicing martial arts as a teenager—no matter how strong the opponent, no matter how far from home he was, only absolute calm could let him take control of the situation. He occasionally looked up at the stands, instinctively searching for Su Qing's figure. He remembered their agreed spot, in the middle of the east stands.
The referee signaled a break. Lin Yan walked to the edge of the ring, where his coach handed him a bottle of warm water and a towel, urging quickly, "Stick to your rhythm. Don't trade with him. Wear him down." Lin Yan nodded, took the water bottle, and didn't chug it—he only took two small sips to moisten his chapped lips. With his other hand, he gently wiped the sweat from his forehead and neck with the towel. His gaze swept the east stands again, still not seeing Su Qing. A faint doubt crossed his mind, sharpened by her recent coldness, but he brushed it off, thinking she might have been delayed on the way or blocked by the crowd. He then refocused, silently recalling the flaws in Voronov's moves from the semi-finals.
He wore a red Sanda uniform, light and breathable, clinging to his body to outline the smooth muscle lines forged by years of training—not exaggerated blocky muscles, but tight, well-proportioned ones full of explosive power. Every inch was honed to perfection, a perfect combination of speed and strength. At this moment, his core goals were not only the gold medal, but also the person he eagerly awaited in the stands.
The break ended. Lin Yan stood up, stretched his ankles, put on his boxing gloves, and walked step by step onto the ring. The stage lights focused on him, the harsh glare making him squint slightly, but his eyes remained calm, without the slightest ripple. His opponent Voronov was tall and muscular; as he stepped onto the ring, he deliberately patted his chest, making a dull thud, trying to intimidate him with his aura. Lin Yan was unmoved, standing in his position with his hands in a defensive posture, his gaze locked tightly on his opponent, his breathing steady and even. Only occasionally did he glance involuntarily at the east stands.
The whistle blew, and the match began. True to expectations, Voronov struck first, a straight punch hurtling toward Lin Yan's face with a gust of wind, full of brute force. Lin Yan dodged nimbly to the side, then followed up with a low sweep kick to his opponent's calf, his movements clean and crisp, without the slightest hesitation. Voronov stumbled slightly, then launched a counterattack, throwing punches and kicks in a fierce offensive. Lin Yan remained calm, evading continuously with his agile footwork, and occasionally seizing opportunities to strike back—each hit landed precisely on his opponent's weak points, not wasting an ounce of strength. After several rounds, Voronov grew clearly exhausted, his face covered in sweat and bruises, his movements slowing down. Frustration gnawed at him; he'd trained for years to reach the Olympics, and he refused to lose to a foreigner, especially one who seemed so effortless. Lin Yan led by a large margin, the situation completely under his control, and the cheers from the stands grew louder and louder.
Cheers echoed back and forth in the stands—some for Voronov, others from Chinese expats. Lin Yan tuned them all out; the entire world seemed to shrink to just him and his opponent, the "bang bang" of fists and feet colliding, and his own steady breathing. He could clearly feel the changes in his opponent's breath, could predict every move he would make. It was an instinct formed by years of training, the reason he stood on the Olympic semi-final stage. Just as he was about to launch the final blow to defeat his opponent completely, the corner of his eye accidentally glanced at that spot in the east stands.
It was the spot he had agreed on with Su Qing. Su Qing was indeed there, but with a strange man beside her. The man was wearing a casual suit, his arm affectionately around Su Qing's shoulders, while Su Qing tilted her head back slightly, closed her eyes, and kissed the man passionately—their intimate gestures glaringly obvious. Lin Yan's gaze froze instantly. He even made out the smudged trace of Su Qing's lipstick on the man's chin. The two paid no attention to the noise around them, still lost in their intimacy. All the faint doubts about her recent coldness clicked into place, a sharp, cruel realization that cut deeper than any punch.
At that moment, Lin Yan's blood seemed to freeze completely. His tensed body stiffened abruptly, the calm on his face vanishing without a trace, replaced by unbelievable shock and confusion. He could never have imagined that the girlfriend he had eagerly invited to witness his glory would cheat on him, bring another man to the scene, and act so intimately in the stands. He thought back to before he left, when Su Qing had smiled and said, "I'll definitely come to cheer you on." He thought of the gift he had stayed up late to prepare for her, the proposal he had planned after winning the championship. All his expectations and visions shattered into pieces at that moment.
He stopped moving completely, his defensive posture slackening unconsciously. His eyes stared blankly at the two in the stands, as if he had been frozen in place, his mind going completely blank. The cheers, the sound of fists and feet colliding—all disappeared without a trace in an instant. He forgot he was still in the ring, forgot the ferocious opponent in front of him, forgot his coach's instructions, forgot his dream of a gold medal. Only that glaring scene replayed repeatedly in his mind.
Voronov, already driven back repeatedly by Lin Yan, was filled with anger and resentment but had never found a chance to counterattack. Now, seeing Lin Yan suddenly zone out, standing motionless and defenseless, a fierce glint flashed in his eyes—this was his only chance, a last-ditch effort to salvage his pride and his Olympic dream. He didn't hesitate, didn't think about sportsmanship; in that moment, all he cared about was winning. Seizing this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, he gathered his remaining strength abruptly, pushed off the ground with his legs, leaped into the air, and delivered a sharp flying roundhouse kick, howling through the air, slamming hard into Lin Yan's carotid triangle—a vulnerable spot on the human body, where a heavy blow could easily knock someone unconscious.
Lin Yan didn't notice the approaching danger at all, still trapped in the blow of his girlfriend's betrayal. It wasn't until a sharp pain surged from his neck that he snapped back to his senses, but it was already too late. The intense pain from his neck spread throughout his body in an instant, his brain was starved of oxygen, the scene in front of him spun wildly, and his body fell backward uncontrollably.
With a dull "thud," Lin Yan's head hit the metal railing at the edge of the ring—hard, unyielding metal. The impact was so powerful that under the secondary trauma, his already blurred consciousness slipped into complete darkness in an instant. His boxing gloves fell from his hands, his body crashed heavily onto the ring floor, motionless except for the faint rise and fall of his chest.
The venue fell silent for a second, then erupted into loud commotion. The referee rushed over first, squatted beside Lin Yan, and signaled no one to move, while urgently calling for the medical team. His coach ran onto the ring like a madman, only to be stopped by the referee, forced to shout anxiously for his name from the side, his voice filled with panic. The medical staff quickly rushed onto the ring with a stretcher and neck brace, carefully secured Lin Yan's neck with the brace to avoid secondary damage, then lifted him steadily onto the stretcher and hurried him to a nearby hospital. No one noticed that Su Qing and the strange man had already disappeared into the crowd, as if they had never been there.
When Lin Yan regained consciousness, a faint smell of disinfectant lingered in his nostrils. A thick quilt covered him, warmth wrapping around him—completely different from the cold of the arena he remembered. He opened his eyes slowly, his vision blurry, and every movement sent a sharp, throbbing pain through his neck and skull, as if his head was filled with broken glass. After adjusting for a moment, he realized he was in a small ward, surrounded by complete silence except for faint sounds coming from outside the window. He struggled to sit up, his arms shaking with weakness, the pain in his neck and head still sharp. He tried to grasp the fragments of memories before he fainted, but his mind was a jumble—only the image of Su Qing kissing that strange man played on a loop, vivid and cruel, weaving together with the physical pain to form a suffocating torture.
He lifted the quilt and walked to the window. Before he could reach for the curtains, fragments of a vague conversation came back to him—when he'd first stirred awake, a nurse had leaned over and told him, in a soft, guarded tone, that he'd been in a coma for exactly three months. She hadn't said anything else, no explanation, no updates, just a quick, uneasy smile, her eyes darting to the door as if she was afraid of being overheard, before hurrying away. He vaguely remembered the name tag on her uniform—something like "Lina"—a small detail that lingered in his mind for no reason. Heavy blackout curtains completely blocked the light from outside, and an inexplicable sense of unease welled up in his heart. He reached out and pulled back a corner of the curtain; a harsh white light rushed in instantly, making him squint involuntarily. When his eyes adjusted, the scene before him made his whole body tremble and freeze completely—outside the window, there were no familiar streets or trees, no passing crowds, only an endless expanse of frozen snow and ice. Cold wind howled, carrying snowflakes, and distant buildings were covered in thick ice, only vague outlines remaining. The entire world seemed to be completely frozen. Three months. The world had become unrecognizable to him. And he was no longer the Lin Yan he had been three months ago. Three months… what on earth had happened while he was unconscious? Something catastrophic, something that had turned a bustling city into a frozen wasteland in such a short time—whatever it was, it was far beyond his imagination.