"Did you see that?"
"Han Shaoqi just snapped at the opponent!"
"What the hell happened out there?"
The noise rose like a wave through the Frostline Arena. Thousands of voices echoed across the ice, some cheering, some gasping, all caught in the same stunned moment.
Han Shaoqi stood at the center of it. His chest heaved beneath the dark blue jersey of the Yunhai Stormhawks, his hands still gripping the front of his opponent's uniform. A trail of melted ice glimmered under his skates, and the referee's whistle cut sharply through the air.
The other player's eyes were wide with disbelief. They hadn't expected him to actually react. It was only a joke—an offhand taunt about how "even the Ice Devil can't win without violence." But Shaoqi's patience had been thin that night. And with one shove, the arena erupted.
Whistles, shouting, chaos. Coaches yelling, sticks clattering. Somewhere behind him, his captain was swearing under his breath.
Shaoqi's helmet lay abandoned by the goalpost. Under the harsh arena lights, his face was a mix of cold fury and something heavier—something he couldn't quite name.
"Penalty," the referee announced. "Han Shaoqi—two-week suspension for unsportsmanlike conduct."
The crowd's roar swelled again. Cameras flashed.
Shaoqi didn't respond. He only exhaled slowly, fog blooming in the frozen air before him. Then, for the briefest moment, he smiled—a sharp, tired curve of his lips that never reached his eyes. Because maybe they were right. Maybe he really was the Ice Devil.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The locker room was heavy with silence. Metal benches clanged as players tossed their gear aside, and the smell of sweat and melting ice lingered in the air. Han Shaoqi sat hunched over, still in half his gear, his skates tapping faintly against the floor. His gloves lay beside him, one split open where his knuckles had bled.
"Two weeks," Liu Cheng muttered from across the room. "Coach Zhang's furious. He said the press is already calling you unhinged again." Shaoqi let out a humorless laugh. "Then at least they're consistent."
"Come on, man. You've got to stop proving them right."
He didn't answer. The sound of dripping water from the ice melt filled the quiet space. His reflection stared back at him from the puddle below—tired eyes, clenched jaw, a storm that refused to calm.
The door opened.
Heels clicked against tile, soft but firm.
"Han Shaoqi," a bright, familiar voice called.
Heads turned. Lin Qian stood in the doorway, dressed neatly in her press jacket, a notebook clutched against her chest. Her expression was a mixture of concern and curiosity—the perfect look for a headline.
"Big scene out there," she said, stepping in, her tone light but edged. "The internet's exploding. You're trending again."
Liu Cheng groaned. "That's not good news, Qian." She ignored him and crouched slightly to meet Shaoqi's gaze. "You okay?"
He didn't lift his head. "Do I look okay?"
"You look like someone who needs a break," she said softly, lips curving. "Coach Zhang's still arguing with the officials. Maybe you should get some air." Her gaze flicked to his bruised hand, and for a second, she reached out—but he stood abruptly, grabbing his duffel bag.
"I don't need air," he muttered. "I need quiet." He brushed past her, the scent of mint and cold sweat clinging to him. "Shaoqi!" she called after him. "Where are you going?"
"Somewhere no one knows my name."
The heavy door slammed shut behind him.
Lin Qian stayed where she was, the echoes fading. Her hand fell to her side, fingers tightening slightly around her pen.
"You'll talk to me eventually," she murmured. "You always do."
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Morning sunlight spilled across the ice at Aurora Edge Academy, turning it into a sheet of liquid silver.
"Yuchen, did you see this?" Wei Lan's voice cut through the quiet. She skated toward Li Yuchen, phone in hand, her ponytail bouncing with each glide. Yuchen looked up from where he was tightening his laces, his hair falling softly over his eyes. "See what?"
"This!" She shoved her phone toward him. "Han Shaoqi—he completely lost it during last night's match! He's suspended for two weeks." Yuchen blinked. "During the game?"
"During an argument, actually," she said, lowering her voice as if it were a scandalous secret. "He's the Stormhawks' star player, you know. Everyone calls him the Ice Devil."
He smiled faintly. "Fitting."
Wei Lan huffed. "You're impossible to impress. If you ask me, I think he just needs to chill out."
"Maybe," Yuchen murmured, standing and gliding a lazy circle around the rink. "Or maybe people just like watching him fall."
She tilted her head. "You sound like you've been there."
"Maybe I have."
The rink fell quiet again, the only sound the whisper of his blades across the ice. Aurora Edge was a world of discipline and grace, far removed from the violence of hockey. Here, movement was art, not aggression.
Wei Lan scrolled again, freezing on a photo. "Here, look—he's kind of scary, but also… wow." Yuchen looked. The screen showed Han Shaoqi mid-game, helmet off, eyes sharp and intense beneath the floodlights. For some reason, Yuchen didn't look away immediately.
Two weeks, Wei Lan had said.
Two...
Weeks...