Chapter Text
The scrape of blades cutting ice echoed through the empty rink, smooth and deliberate. Then, a sharp crunch bounced off the caverness walls before fading into silence.
A pause.
Then came a thud. The sound was final, like something hit the ice hard. The quiet that followed was stretched, broken only by the faint hum of the rink’s cooling system.
“Again.” The voice was low and firm, carrying an unmistakable warning.
Another pause.
Sebastian stayed there for a moment. His chest heaved as frost clinged to his breath in the frigid rink air. With a calming exhale, he placed his hands on the cool ice and pushed himself up onto his knees, his arms shaking slightly from the effort. The sting that shot through his hip settled into a dull, familiar ache.
He stood, his posture stiff before he assumed position.
“Begin.”
Sebastian nodded and took a deep breath, before stepping into a turn to gain momentum. His skates cut the ice hard and with a sturdy push, he leapt once more in an elegant spin. Perfect.
He landed smoothly, the bite of his blade strong and sturdy under his foot. For a second, he allowed himself to hope.
But as he looked up, his father’s face remained unchanged, save for the darkness in his eyes becoming more intense.
“Is this how you plan on failing your exam?”
“No, Father.”
With a snap of his fingers, Gustav ordered him over. Sebastian obeyed immediately, skating toward his father in measured, practiced strides. He stopped just short of his father and kept his head bowed, his gaze fixed on his feet.
“This display,” Gustav said, his voice as cold as the air around them, “is an embarrassment.”
Sebastian felt his jaw clench. He kept his breathing even, despite each word slicing through him. He felt like he should be used to this by now, or maybe with every new bruise came a new sense of emotional pain as well.
“The work I have put into you,” Gustav continued, staring down his son. “The lessons, the uniforms, the time —and this is how you repay me? Do you wish to dishonor yourself? Dishonor me?”
“No, Father, I won’t let you down.”
His father glanced at the clock on the far wall, and Sebastian’s eyes followed. It was almost ten. He'd been training for just under four hours.
A sharp sniff broke the silence, making him quickly look back at his father.
“That's enough for tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
They both skated toward the door of their family’s privately owned rink, their blades scraping softly over the ice. Gustav stepped off first, his movements precise and unhurried. Sebastian followed, stepping carefully onto the rubber before heading to the bench.
He sat down and bent over to untie his skates. The laces, stiff from the cold, resisted, and Sebastian exhaled a huff of annoyance.
That’s when he felt it—a shadow cast over him. He froze. His fingers paused mid-pull as he slowly looked up to meet his father’s eyes.
The slap came without warning, snapping his head to the side. The pain burned across his cheek. He refused to show a reaction. He sat perfectly still, now keeping his eyes fixed downward until Gustav spoke again.
“If you ever think of disrespecting me like that again,” Gustav said, “we will go until midnight. Is that understood?”
Sebastian swallowed hard. His eyes were wide and his throat tight.
“Yes, sir.”
The showers seemed to be the only place Sebastian could find solace. He stood motionless beneath the steady stream of hot water, letting the heat seep into his freezing limbs. The water ran over his bruised body, the aching seeming to melt away, at least until he stepped out. For now, he was content in letting his thoughts float around in the steam as he leaned his forehead against the cool tiles. Though that wasn’t enough to balm the humiliation of a slap. At least it wasn’t the ruler.
Even taking a deep inhale made his ribs and abdomen ache. Every muscle burned—a natural consequence of a sport that demanded the use of all of them. There seemed to be a lot in his life that was demanded of him.
Perfection. The word was tethered to the edges of Sebastian’s mind, uninvited but constant. He hated it, how it was shoved into everything he did, on and off the ice. Every mistake was scrutinized and dissected, like a bug pinned to a board. But hate didn’t matter. Perfection wasn’t a choice; it was the way things were. The way things had always been.
And the way they always would be.
It wasn’t something he questioned anymore. Perfection was his task, his duty, and his inheritance. Accepting it was the only way forward. Anything less was unthinkable.
Though, that didn’t stop his own creative pursuits. During moments of rest, in between school and lessons, he liked to draw. He was quite good at it too, and no one seemed to care if he made a mistake while creating. At least there was some freedom there, some outlet. Although that freedom had been taken away a few times as a result of “bad behavior.”
Figure skating, in his mind, was also an art. But where other forms of art were subjective, performances in figure skating were not. One wrong move, one miscalculation, and your entire routine could be ruined. There was no room for improvisation, no space to experiment with something new. Something inside him longed for more. What “more” was, he had no idea.
With that train of thought hitting a dead end, he decided to turn off the shower, the lack of aspiration settling back into his stomach. He stepped out and dried himself off, mindful of the tender bruises on his skin.
Damn, there were a lot this time. They never seemed to heal, either. Especially the ones on his wrists, elbows, and knees. The skin there has been discolored for what felt like forever now. Sebastian frowned as he examined them in the mirror. He shook his head, dismissing it as another part of his routine, and quickly dressed. Making his father wait any longer certainly wouldn’t help things.
With his long hair still damp, Sebastian opened the door back into the rink, only to find it empty. His father had already left. Was this a good thing, or a bad thing? Plenty of time to wonder on the walk home.
Not only was his father gone, but there was no car waiting for him to drive him home either. He sighed, pulled on his coat, and exited the rink. The November air bit into his face and ears. The streets were quiet—the sky darkening earlier this time of year, and the sound of his shoes crunching against the frozen ground was the only noise that accompanied him.
Another night, another walk.
By the time Sebastian arrived at the manor, the rest of his family had retired for the night. His hair was partially frozen, stiff strands tapping at his chilled cheeks, and his teeth chattered loudly. He banged his shoes on the steps before going inside. The last bits of snow and ice falling off on the intricately designed rug.
The house was quiet and dark. He liked it this way. No harsh reprimands for tracking snow onto the pristine floors, no looming presence of his father to make him feel shittier than he already did. His older sister, Lydia, who was also a figure skater, was overseas for training. His doting mother didn’t seem to wait for his arrival. Even their butler, Roft, seemed to have gone to bed early.
Sebastian let his shoulders relax as he exhaled in relief. Finally, a small bit of luck.
In his room, he wasted no time peeling off his damp clothes and changing into his sleepwear. Curling up beneath the covers, he burrowed himself into the warmth, willing his teeth to stop chattering. The ache in his body wasn't the only thing keeping him awake, despite his fatigue.
Anger simmered beneath his exhaustion, raw and directionless. This was a quiet fury that stirred when the rink was silent, or when the house was still, and he was left alone with his thoughts. He wasn't sure what to do with these feelings, or even what they were exactly. It wasn't something he was allowed to feel. But, despite his shivering body. the heat was there, persistent and refusing to be snuffed.
The warmth of the bed finally cascaded over him, dulling the edges of his anger until it blurred into nothing. The tension in his body eased as he fell into a dreamless sleep.
Morning skates were different. More relaxed than the grueling hours of training under his father’s watchful eye, they were for warming up, getting the blood flowing, and practicing basic skills.
Sebastian enjoyed these skates alone.
No father. No barking orders. No harsh criticism.
Sometimes a trainer would oversee his routines, but today, he was alone. He wondered if his father allowed him to practice alone to clear his mind. Or maybe it was the opposite—maybe his father wanted his thoughts to fester, to let the silence weigh on him until he came to his own conclusions about the punishment of failure.
He knew he’d get in. He had to. Maybe he’d even be the best. But knowing didn’t settle his nerves. His chest felt tight, his pulse too quick. He needed to calm down.
Planting his feet on the goal line, Sebastian took a steadying inhale. Then, with a few sharp strides on his toes, he pushed off. His blades bit into the ice as he sprinted to the far side of the rink, leaning into the curve as he rounded the edge and looped back to where he started. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out his thoughts as he coasted to a stop.
A calmness settled over him. The tension he was holding loosened just enough, the cold air sharp in his lungs now felt refreshing. A hard skate had helped clear his head, at least for now.
Perfect timing. It was time to leave.
The door to the private rink shut behind Sebastian with a soft thud. It’s colder than usual, he noticed, as he trudged forward, his skate bag bouncing slightly with each step. The chill of the late morning air crept under his jacket. He adjusted the strap of his skate bag on his shoulder, his gloved fingers brushing against the material. The rink where the exam was being held would be the one he would be training in for the rest of the school year, should he pass. It wasn’t far, but it was farther than the short walk from the rink to his family’s estate.
His mind was already racing, replaying every move he’s practiced for this exam. The exact rhythm of each sequence running like a metronome alongside his quick heartbeat. The short burst of adrenaline helped. It’s fine. It will be fine.
He checked his watch—still enough time, as long as he kept a steady pace.
As he passed between two buildings, a strange, rhythmic ripping sound broke through the relative quiet. Sebastian’s curiosity got the better of him and he slowed, his brows furrowing. Turning his head, he spotted the source: a kid—his age, maybe—bent over something. It looked like… a hockey stick?
The kid tore off a long strip of some sort of tape, sticking it onto the blade of his stick with practiced movements. Sebastian’s gaze lingered for a beat longer than he intended, enough to make the other boy look up. Their eyes locked for just a moment. And that was enough.
Sebastian tensed, quickly adjusting his grip on the strap of his bag and hurrying his steps.
He barely made it half a block before he realized the sound of footsteps behind him was getting closer. And fast. A quick glance behind him confirmed it: weird-kid had finished whatever he was doing and was now trailing him, a large bag slung over his own shoulder and the stick held in his opposite hand.
And he smelled. Sweat, maybe, or something equally unpleasant. Sebastian wrinkled his nose and sped up, but it was too late.
“Cool skate bag. You going to… uh, Fedorov Skating Academy too? Our tryouts must be on the same day,” said a raspy voice. Oh, swell, he had a stubby cigarette between his teeth, too.
Sebastian didn’t slow his pace, let alone look up.
“Alright, I guess I’m talking to myself,” the stranger muttered. Undeterred, he jogged a few feet to catch up. “My name’s–”
“Leave me alone,” Sebastian cut him off.
The boy didn’t falter, smirking as he rested his hockey stick over his shoulder. “You play hockey?”
Sebastian rolled his eyes and gestured vaguely at his bag. “Does it look like I do?”
“Hey, I don’t know,” the boy replied, unfazed. “I’ve seen some strange people out there. One time, there was a dude with green hair skating circles around everyone.”
He didn’t respond, his strides growing quicker as he headed for the arena doors. There were about a dozen other teens standing outside talking amongst each other. Most had figure skating bags, much like his own, and others had what he assumed to be speed skating bags. But two others had hockey bags, much like his current stalker.
“Fine!” Weird-Kid called after him, his tone light but teasing. “Guess you’re not a fan of friendly banter. That’s cool, mister tall, blonde and handsome figure skater! We’ll catch up after you pass your exam.”
Sebastian’s lips twitched into a frown and he sucked in a breath. Luckily, the boy didn’t follow him inside, but Sebastian turned to watch as he flicked the cigarette onto the sidewalk and stubbed it out with his shoe. How classy.
The large and pristine interior of the rink was crowded with groups of other teens, anxiously waiting for the assessment. No, not anxious, Sebastian noted—excited.
How could these athletes be this eager over this selection process, he wondered. Do they not realize only a third of them will be accepted into this elite skating academy? This development program only aimed to train the best of the best, and here these aspirants were milling about as if their life’s work wasn’t about to be picked apart.
Or maybe that was just him. Being around these people made him feel…. isolated. Lonely.
Sebastian shook off this feeling and made for the rink where figure skaters were gathered. No point in dwelling, he had a job to do.
The exam was over in a blur of ice and motion. Sebastian had felt it as he skated—every turn, every jump, every sprint. I wasn’t just good; it was flawless. He knew it in the burn of his legs, in the way the ice seemed to yield to his movements.
At the end of his routine, with the music stopping, he pulled his head up. The coaches conferred, nodding to each other with pleased expressions. He had done it. He knew he had done it.
Sebastian’s eyes scanned the crowd, looking for any others that might have been impressed as well. He couldn't glean anything from this distance, until he saw him.
Sebastian froze. What the hell is he doing here? It was the same boy from outside—the cigarette flicker, the sidewalk stomper. He’d clearly caught the end of the performance, but why? Sebastian’s pulse quickened, though not from the exertion of skating.
He blinked and looked away quickly, making his way off the ice and brushing past the trainers, into the crowd of other skaters. Not important, he told himself.
Finding the bench, he sat down to untie his skates but paused when he heard another pair of skates approaching him. He looked up and saw a tall and classy older woman—one of the judges. Sebastian straightened up and met her eyes, respectfully.
“You were exceptional,” she said in a crisp, straight-forward tone. “In all my years of training, I have never seen such a gifted skater. I would like to personally invite you to skate here in this academy.”
Sebastian nodded, a slight smile forming on his lips. She handed him his scorecard and turned to continue with exams.
8.9/10.
His grip on the card faltered a bit. 8.9. It was the highest score, he knew that. He didn't need anyone to tell him. But it wasn't perfect. Not even close.
His stomach churned, the faint sense of satisfaction slipping away. He’d been flawless. He knew he’d been flawless. How could this happen?
And he was suddenly reminded of his aching body. Huh.
Shoving the card deep into his pocket, he stalked toward the exit, his face pale, his jaw tight. As he passed through the doors, he glanced back at the stands once more.
The boy was still there, watching.
Sebastian packed up his gear and briskly left the rink. He needed to get away from the noise, the people, and the lingering thoughts about what his father would say when he saw the score. Pathetic. Abhorrent . Disgraceful-
“Amazing!”
A voice cut through his thoughts, making him flinch and whip his head around to meet the source, who was now walking beside him. It was him again, with that same ridiculous smile.
“Oh. It's you again,” Sebastian said flatly. “Look, I'm not interested in whatever you have to say. Please leave me alone.” The please was more of a command rather than a request.
Ignored once more, the boy continued. “I only caught the tail end of it, but your performance was insane. Like, genuinely nothing I’ve ever seen before.” He grinned wider. “I asked around—your name’s Sebastian, right?”
Seems like he wasn't getting rid of this guy any time soon. “...Yes.”
“Well, Sebastian~,” the boy said, changing his tone on his name, “looks like we’ll be in the same school together!”
That made him perk up. “You're already in? I didn't see the hockey tryouts.”
“Oh, they were right before yours on the other rink,” he explained. “All at once, too—everyone's on the ice together. You figure out real quick who's good and who’s getting cut. Skills competitions and scrimmages. You figure skaters go one at a time, which takes longer. Thought I'd come watch, which by the way, I have to say again—was incredible.”
Sebastian didn’t respond immediately. His shoulder sagged slightly, but he managed a quiet, “Thank you.”
“You know,” weird-kid continued, “if you ever wanna try hockey, I’d be more than willing to teach you. I think you’d be an amazing player, with your skating abilit-”
“Are you mocking me?” Sebastian cut in.
The boy blinked, looking genuinely confused. “What? No! Why would I mock you? I’m serious.” He frowned. “Wait, why? What was your score?”
Sebastian hesitated. There was no point in lying; if they were going to the same facility, this kid would find out eventually. “8.9.”
The boy’s face lit up. “No way ! That’s the highest score I’ve seen! Before you, the best was some girl who got a 7.8.”
Sebastian huffed, more to himself than the boy. “It’s not good enough.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, well,” he said, his grin returning, “it’s close enough to perfect for the rest of us!”
Sebastian glanced at him, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. The corner of his mouth twitching in what might have been the ghost of a smile—or maybe just resignation. “You’re really not going to leave me alone, are you?”
“Not a chance. I’m Ches, by the way.”
Sighing once more, Sebastian slowed his pace down. “Ches ?”
Ches waved his hand. “Nickname. Why are you so bummed about the score, anyway? I mean, 8.9 is wild.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened, and he glanced away. “High expectations,” he said curtly, the words feeling hollow even as they left his mouth. It was a carefully chosen phrase, vague enough to deflect further questions he didn't have the energy to answer. Really, he didn't even know what he could say.
Ches let out a low whistle, his breath puffing out in the crisp air. He stuffed his free hand into his jacket pocket while twisting the hand holding the stick in a circle. “Man, you are tightly wound, huh?”
Sebastian pursed his lips, his eyes fixed ahead.
“I've got a game tonight,” Ches said, casually switching gears. “Nine o’clock. You should come. It’s the perfect way to blow off steam.”
“I won’t make it in time.” He didn’t add that he didn’t want to go in the first place.
Ches shrugged. “Another time, then.” He glanced at Sebastian, that confident smirk reappearing. “I’m serious about hockey, though. You ever want to try something to free your mind, that’s the sport to do it. It’s fast, it’s rough, but it can be slow and intentional, too. Lotta improvisation involved. Being creative.”
Sebastian didn’t bother hiding his skepticism, but something about Ches’s earnestness stopped him from dismissing it outright. “Your appreciation for the sport is… interesting,” he said slowly.
Ches chuckled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes but didn’t correct him. For once, he felt no urge to argue.
“It’s not just a bunch of dumb jocks, you know,” Ches said, his tone was light but held an edge of pride. “Not everyone has what it takes to be great .”
Sebastian snorted and smirked. “And you do?”
“Damn right I do,” Ches shot back. “Why else would we be in the same training facility? It’s what separates the good from the great, after all.”
Sebastian hummed. It made sense, he supposed. He glanced at Ches, taking in the easy smile and the way his posture stayed relaxed, like nothing could weigh him down. Well, besides maybe the giant hockey bag thrown over his shoulder.
It was strange. He didn’t find many people interesting to talk to, but Ches… had something about him. A kind of energy that made him feel lighter just by being around it. Sebastian let himself listen, even if he didn’t quite believe in the world Ches described—one where passion and joy were enough to keep you afloat.
“How long have you been playing?” Sebastian asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. It surprised even him, but there was genuine curiosity behind it.
Ches beamed, clearly pleased to have the attention. “I started skating when I was around seven. Not long after that, I had a stick in my hands, and then I was off. It’s an expensive sport, though. I’m lucky I’m good—the team I play for let me in for free. How often does that happen, right? Talk about luck.” Warm and effortless. “What about you?”
Sebastian hesitated, his gaze drifting to the pavement as he considered how much to say. He was practically born with skates on his feet, his family’s legacy of professional figure skaters looming over him from the moment he could stand. A long history of awards, accolades, and expectations—all of which now rested squarely on his shoulders since Lydia was gone.
But he didn’t share any of that. Instead, he simply said, “I’ve been skating all my life.”
Ches let out a laugh. “What, you came out of the womb with skates on?”
Sebastian chuckled despite himself, the sound dry, but genuine. “Sure feels like it.”
Ches caught the tone, though, the resignation underneath the humor. His grin softened into something more thoughtful. “Man,” he said lightly, though his eyes lingered on Sebastian, “sounds like they had big plans for you before you even got a say in it.”
Sebastian tensed, but he didn’t respond, the comment hitting closer than he’d like. Ches seemed to notice. He didn’t push. He shrugged and filled the silence. “Anyway, it’s paying off. You’re insane out there.”
Sebastian nodded, unsure how to respond, but something about the conversation stuck with him as they continued walking.
“This is where we part ways,” Ches said with a lopsided smile, stopping at the edge of the street. “I’ll see you around! Hopefully, you’ll catch a game sometime soon. I’ll get a gino for ya tonight.” He winked, tossing a casual wave as he trotted across the street, heading toward a part of the city Sebastian barely recognized.
Sebastian’s father had always warned him about that area—called it the place where low-lives lived. But watching Ches disappear into the distance, Sebastian couldn’t see anything wrong with him. Well, aside from the obnoxiously smelly gear.
Also… Gino ?
The brief amusement faded quickly as the thought of his father crept back into his mind. Whatever happiness he’d been riding just moments ago evaporated.
He turned toward the opposite direction, his eyes landing on the familiar path that led to his own home. His feet felt heavier as he trudged closer.
Time to get this over with.
“How did your exam go, son?” His father’s voice sounded as soon as Sebastian closed the door behind him.
“Successfully. I passed first. The judges said I was exceptional.”
“Where is your scorecard?”
Sebastian tried his best not to show any hesitancy as he pulled the card from his pocket and handed it to his father, who approached slowly. He avoided his father’s stare, letting his eyes drop to the expensive rug beneath his feet, as chunks of snow melted away off his boots. What an odd color. It didn’t make sense—it clashed sharply with the drapes and the polished wood of the foyer.
“In my office,” his father barked, his voice becoming impatient.
The words barely registered. Sebastian stood frozen, his eyes tracing the ornate pattern of the rug. It wasn't just the color—it was everything about it. It might have worked in the vestibule, maybe even the lounge, but here? It didn't fit here. Here, in this lavish entryway, where every detail was meant to impress, it stood out like a mistake no one had cared to fix. How strange.
“Now.”
Sebastian’s stomach churned, but his feet remained rooted. Why hadn’t anyone done something about it? How could something so glaringly wrong just… stay that way?
“SEBASTIAN.”
The shout jolted him back to reality, the sound coming from the study on the opposite side of the vast hallway. His mother left the office in a hurry, just brushing past him. He tried to catch her eye but she purposefully kept her head down. No acknowledgment.
Sebastian crept into the room, shoulders drawn inward as though trying to make himself disappear. His father stood with his back turned, admiring the polished shelves lined with awards. Some gleamed with his father’s name, others bore the names of Sebastian and Lydia, his older sister. The trophies shone like fragments of an ideal life, one the public eagerly believed in.
The Schvagenbagen name was revered, tied to both the family’s billiard empire and their figure skating legacy. Sebastian and Lydia were well-known in skating circles, their skill and affluence making them stand out. But behind the closed doors of this house, beyond the wealth and the perfection on display, there was a silence no one dared to question. A carefully guarded facade.
Sebastian’s father was still staring at the awards when he finally spoke. “Come in.” His tone was calm, which somehow made it worse.
The air in the room felt heavy. As the firstborn son, Sebastian knew exactly what was expected of him. Ches was right—his future had been mapped out before he could even walk, and he bore the weight of it with every step. Lydia’s absence only made it heavier—her being away left him alone to uphold the family’s reputation. Every meeting in this room felt like standing before the gallows.
His wrist began to itch. A phantom pain crept along his skin, a reminder of what waited for him should this conversation go south. Instinctively, he clenched his fists at his sides, hoping to smother the sensation. But the dread remained, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Sebastian stood in the center of the room, his arms glued to his sides as his father finally turned around. The man’s face was unreadable—calm, almost disarmingly so.
“You’ve improved lately,” his father said, his tone even and measured. He gestured toward the shelves. “I’ve seen the effort you’ve put in. It’s showing. Getting into the academy is… good.”
Sebastian blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the near-praise. The knot in his chest loosened, unsure if it was a response or a reflex.
“But,” Gustav continued. He set the scorecard down on the desk with an almost imperceptible sigh. “I have to wonder—how much better could you have done?”
The knot tightened again, snapping back into place with double the force. Sebastian stared at the scorecard. He expected this. But hearing it, hearing that shift in tone, the almost dismissive way his father uttered “better,” still caught him like a fish in a lure.
“I…” he started, but the words stuck in his throat.
“An 8.9 is excellent." Gustav walked over to the window as if it were just a passing thought. “Truly, it’s one of the highest scores given in years.” He clasped his hands behind his back, staring out at the street below. “But it’s not a 10. Not even a 9.”
Sebastian’s breath involuntarily hitched, but his father didn’t look at him.
“Imagine what they would say if you’d gotten a perfect score. The kind of legacy that would build. The kind of example it would set.” He turned then, his eyes sharp and unwavering. “Don’t you think you owe it to your family to reach that level, Sebastian?”
He felt his face heat up, but he didn’t dare look away. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting, to keep his breathing steady.
“I tried my best,” he said finally. He hated how small his voice sounded.
“Your best,” his father repeated, like he was testing the words. “Yes, I’m sure you did. But there’s always room for improvement, isn’t there? It’s why you’re going to this academy, correct? Improvement. That’s what separates the good from the great.”
Sebastian’s eyes dropped to the rug again and oh. Apparently it followed him into this room too—still clashing. This mismatched, oddly out-of-place rug. It almost seemed ridiculous now, how much it stood out in this room full of perfect, curated surfaces. A flaw, right in the center of the room.
So focused on the rug, Sebastian failed to notice his father silently stepping toward him until the man’s shadow swallowed the last sliver of light in the room. The change was sudden, making Sebastian instantly look up.
The familiar feeling crept over him. Not just fear—terror. It wasn’t the kind of fear that made you flee; it was the kind that rooted you to the spot, locked every aching muscle in place.
He held his breath, his eyes flickering toward the desk. The ruler wasn’t in the cup where it usually sat. Preparing for the worst, he clenched his fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms.
“Hand,” his father said, the word cutting through like a freshly honed blade.
Sebastian complied and lifted up his sleeve, obediently exposing his wrist, and holding it out. It was not a pretty sight—the wrist of someone who’d given in too many times. What other choice did he have?
Taking another careful step forward, his father held the ruler in one hand, turning it slowly, examining it as though it were an instrument of precision.
“Disappointment… it’s an interesting feeling, isn’t it?”
Sebastian clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding so hard they ached—an ache that lingered long after occasions like this.
“We try oh so hard to be better. But trying is not enough.” His words had a sour bitterness to them, a lemon-rind sound. It grated and clawed at Sebastian’s ears like nails on a chalkboard. The tone was deceptively calm, but he knew better. He stood perfectly still, willing himself not to flinch, not to move. Any reaction would be the wrong one.
“You were such a good kid, Sebastian.” His father’s tone twisted the words into something venomous, stripping them of any praise. “But now… all you can get is an 8.9?!”
That’s when it happened.
SMACK
The ruler struck his wrist. Sebastian winced, his breath catching as the sharp sting tore through the layered numbness of the keloided scars. The force sent shivers down his spine like lightning.
SMACK
The second hit hurt worse than the first, and he could feel his scabs struggling to stay shut. His knees trembled, but he didn’t let them buckle. He couldn’t
SMACK
The third. This one felt like fire.
SMACK
The fourth, how long would this go on? Thoughts began slipping away, his mind retreating into a hazy fog of survival instincts. Freeze.
SMACK
Number five. Or was it number six now? Sebastian couldn’t tell anymore. His breaths quickened, shallow and uneven. He bit his lip.
SMACK
The sixth. Old wounds reopened under the pressure, and a thin, crimson line traced its way down his arm.
SMACK
Lucky number seven. But Sebastian had never been lucky. Good things didn’t come to him—they never had, and likely never would. For a fleeting moment, he dared to hope this might be the end.
SMACK
Eight. The hardest yet. It sent him quivering to his knees. He clutched his wrist instinctually, his trembling fingers brushing against the fresh cuts, where small beads of blood welled and spilled onto the rug.
His father stopped. The room fell deathly silent, save for his near hyperventilation.
There was a chill of unspoken hatred. Secrets loomed in that stillness—generational and ancient, forged from cold tradition and relentless perfection. This was not discipline. This was legacy.
Sebastian didn’t dare look up. Instead, he focused on the faint bloodstains on the mismatched rug, wondering how long it would be before they were replaced with something that fit.
“Your sister will be home in a week. Be sure to congratulate her, she won bronze in her competition.”
Or perhaps they never would. Maybe it wasn’t the rug that was misplaced. Maybe it was the house, the walls, the life within it. Something needed to break, to shift. There had to be something more—something sharp, fast, and wild enough to cut through haze. Something that felt like breathing. Something that felt like freedom.