⸝⸝ Zanka Nijiku . !!

The Nijiku family had a reputation that stretched across the entire town.

Their name appeared on charity events, business buildings, scholarship programs, newspaper articles, and practically every important social gathering.

People knew the Nijikus.

And more importantly, people knew what was expected of a Nijiku.

Perfection.

Every single member of the family had been raised with the same expectations.

Their clothes had to be perfect.

Their grades had to be perfect.

Their manners had to be perfect.

Their achievements had to be impressive enough for other people to talk about them.

Even their mistakes had to be hidden before anyone outside the family could notice.

Zanka had learned that lesson particularly well.

He had spent his entire childhood being corrected.

"Fix your posture."

"Don't speak so casually."

"You should have performed better."

"Why can't you be more like Kyouka?"

"Look at Goka. He's already accomplished so much."

He'd heard it so many times that eventually, he stopped reacting.

At least, he stopped reacting where anyone could see.

Zanka never argued.

Never complained.

Never told his father that he was tired.

Never admitted that every compliment given to Kyouka or Goka made something bitter twist inside his chest.

He hated how easily they received affection.

He hated how everyone seemed to notice them.

He hated how relatives would smile proudly whenever they entered a room.

And most of all, he hated the small part of himself that desperately wished they would look at him the same way.

It wasn't as though Zanka hated his siblings themselves.

At least, he didn't think he did.

It was more complicated than that.

He hated what happened whenever they were around.

Kyouka could walk into a room and people immediately noticed.

Goka could accomplish something ordinary and somehow turn it into another reason for their parents to boast.

Zanka could spend weeks working himself half to death and still receive a simple nod.

Good.

Fine.

You could do better.

Those words had become so familiar that sometimes he wondered whether his parents even realized they were saying them.

Maybe they did.

Maybe they simply didn't care.

Zanka had learned not to ask.

He had learned to keep his mouth shut.

He had learned to smile when relatives complimented his siblings.

He had learned to clap when everyone else clapped.

He had learned to stand beside his family in photographs and look perfectly content.

And he had learned to hide the resentment building quietly inside him.

But Zanka had one thing that belonged entirely to him.

Ice skating.

It wasn't a family tradition.

It wasn't something his father had chosen for him.

It wasn't something that could improve the Nijiku family's reputation.

It was simply something Zanka loved.

He loved the cold.

He loved the sound of blades sliding over fresh ice.

He loved the feeling of pushing himself faster and faster until everything outside the rink disappeared.

Most of all, he loved the fact that nobody could tell him what he was supposed to feel while he was skating.

There were no rules about how a Nijiku was supposed to move.

No one cared about his posture.

No one compared him to his siblings.

No one asked whether his performance would impress some wealthy guest.

On the ice, Zanka could simply exist.

So naturally, his father hated it.

Apparently, skating was "a childish hobby."

Apparently, Zanka should be spending his evenings attending business dinners, networking with important people, or preparing for the future that had already been planned for him.

Apparently, there was no room in the Nijiku legacy for something as meaningless as skating.

Zanka pretended he didn't care.

He cared.

He cared more than he wanted to admit.

Tonight had been no different.

There had been a formal dinner at the Nijiku residence.

The kind where everyone sat around an enormous table beneath expensive chandeliers while relatives discussed achievements as though they were comparing trophies.

Kyouka had received another compliment.

Goka had apparently impressed one of the family's business associates.

Their parents had been glowing with pride.

Zanka had sat quietly at the other end of the table.

He had barely touched his food.

He'd listened.

He always listened.

His mother had praised Kyouka's recent accomplishments.

His father had talked about Goka's future.

An aunt had laughed and said the Nijiku children were all destined for greatness.

Zanka had smiled.

Of course he had.

He always smiled.

Then his father had looked at him.

"Zanka."

He'd immediately straightened.

"Yes?"

"You'll be accompanying us tomorrow evening."

Zanka already knew where this was going.

"Where?"

"The charity gala."

His father's voice was calm.

"You're old enough to start taking these things seriously."

Zanka stared at his plate.

"I have plans."

"What plans?"

Silence.

Zanka knew exactly what he wanted to say.

He wanted to tell his father that he had practice.

He wanted to say that skating was important to him.

He wanted to say that he didn't care about some ridiculous gala.

Instead, he swallowed everything.

"...Nothing."

"Good."

That one word had been enough.

Zanka pushed his chair back later that night.

He didn't say goodbye.

He simply grabbed his jacket and walked out of the house.

No one stopped him.

Maybe nobody noticed.

Maybe they were too busy talking about Kyouka and Goka.

That thought somehow hurt more.

An hour later, he found himself at the old municipal ice rink on the other side of town.

It wasn't glamorous.

The building was older than the Nijiku residence.

The benches were scratched.

The lights occasionally flickered.

The vending machines sometimes ate people's money.

And the heating system had been broken for months.

Zanka loved it.

Nobody here cared about the Nijiku name.

At least, that's what he believed.

He changed into his skates, stepped onto the ice, and immediately felt the tension leave his body.

His shoulders relaxed.

His breathing steadied.

For the first time all evening, he wasn't thinking about his father.

He wasn't thinking about the gala.

He wasn't thinking about Kyouka.

He wasn't thinking about Goka.

He was just skating.

He started slowly.

Then faster.

One turn became another.

He jumped.

Spun.

Landed.

Again.

Again.

Again.

His movements became faster.

Sharper.

More confident.

Every jump was an answer to something he couldn't say out loud.

Every spin was another moment where he could forget.

Until his lungs burned.

Until his hair stuck to his forehead.

Until his legs began to ache.

He didn't stop.

Because stopping meant thinking.

And thinking meant remembering.

Eventually, the rink announced that it would be closing.

Zanka ignored the announcement.

He kept skating.

The lights above him dimmed one section at a time.

The music had already been turned off.

The other skaters had gone home.

Yet Zanka remained.

He attempted another difficult jump.

Landed.

Then another.

Landed.

Then he pushed himself too hard.

His skate caught the edge of the ice.

His balance disappeared.

CRASH.

He hit the ground.

The sound echoed through the empty rink.

For several seconds, he didn't move.

Then he slowly sat up.

"...Ow."

He looked around.

There was nobody.

Good.

At least he thought there was nobody.

Until he heard footsteps.

Zanka's head snapped toward the sound.

You.

You had been helping the rink manager clean up after closing.

You had no idea the famous Nijiku family's youngest son was secretly using the rink after hours.

And Zanka clearly had no idea that anyone else was still inside.

Your eyes met.

Neither of you spoke.

Zanka's face immediately changed.

The embarrassment was almost painfully obvious.

"What?"

You pointed at him. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

He tried to stand. His ankle immediately buckled. "...Damn it."

You hurried closer.

"Don't move."

"I'm fine."

"You're clearly not."

"I said I'm—"

He stopped.

You were already kneeling beside him.

Zanka stared at you.

His expression was caught somewhere between irritation, embarrassment, and panic.

Then he looked away. "...Don't tell anyone."

You blinked. "About what?"

"My ankle."

His jaw tightened.

"If my father finds out, he'll use it as another excuse to stop me from skating."

His expression hardened.

"He already thinks it's a waste of time."

You looked at him.

There was something strange about seeing someone from the Nijiku family like this.

He wasn't dressed like the polished young man people saw at charity events.

His hair was messy.

His expensive jacket was thrown carelessly beside the rink.

His cheeks were flushed from skating.

One of his gloves was missing.

He looked exhausted.

And more importantly, he looked human.

Zanka noticed you staring.

"What?"

You didn't answer immediately.

He frowned.

"Stop looking at me like that."

You pointed toward his ankle. "Like what?"

"Like I'm pathetic." His voice became quieter. "I don't need you feeling sorry for me."

You shook your head.

Zanka looked confused.

You weren't pitying him.

You were worried, maybe ... It was obvious why. You were a worker after all!

That seemed to confuse him even more.

You carefully helped him sit against the rink wall.

Zanka winced. "Careful."

You gave him a look. "I know."

"...Right." He looked away again.

The rink had become completely silent.

No music.

No other skaters.

Just the faint hum of the lights and the occasional sound of ice settling beneath your feet.

Zanka stared at the empty rink.

"I shouldn't even be here."

You looked at him. "Then why are you?"

He didn't answer immediately.

His fingers slowly curled around the edge of his sleeve.

"Because tomorrow is the gala."

His voice was quieter.

"And if I go, I'll have to stand there for three hours while everyone talks about how perfect my family is."

He laughed bitterly.

"They'll talk about Kyouka."

"They'll talk about Goka."

"They'll praise my father."

"They'll praise my mother."

"They'll tell me how lucky I am."

His eyes lowered.

"And I'll smile."

You could hear how exhausted he was.

"I always smile."

Zanka took a slow breath. "Do you know what's funny?"

He looked at you. "Nobody ever asks what I want."

His expression became bitter.

"They just assume they already know."

He glanced toward his skates.

"I want this."

His voice was almost embarrassingly sincere.

"I want to skate."

He swallowed.

"I don't want to be the perfect son."

"I don't want to be someone's replacement for Kyouka or Goka."

"I don't want to spend my entire life trying to impress people who already decided I'm disappointing."

His voice cracked slightly.

He immediately looked away.

He hated that.

He hated sounding vulnerable.

He hated that a stranger had managed to hear the words he'd spent years refusing to say.

He rubbed his eyes with one hand.

"...Forget that."

He turned his head. "I shouldn't be telling you this." You remained beside him.

Zanka glanced at you from the corner of his eye. "You don't have to look at me like that." He frowned.

"Like you feel sorry for me." He paused. "...I don't need pity."

There was another silence.

He looked down. A tiny smile appeared.

It was probably the most genuine smile you'd seen from him all night.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Most people hear 'Nijiku' and suddenly start acting differently."

He looked at you again.

"But you just yelled at me for trying to stand on an injured ankle."

He let out a quiet laugh.

"I guess that's refreshing."

You noticed something.

The longer Zanka talked to you, the less guarded he became.

His shoulders weren't as tense.

His voice wasn't as carefully controlled.

He wasn't constantly checking whether he was behaving correctly.

It was almost as if he had forgotten that he was supposed to be a Nijiku.

Then the front doors of the rink suddenly rattled.

Zanka froze.

Someone was outside.

He immediately looked toward the entrance.

Footsteps approached.

Zanka's expression changed.

His face went pale. "No."

You looked at him. "What?"

"My father."

The doors opened.

But it wasn't his father.

It was one of the rink employees.

Zanka released a breath. "...Damn."

The employee looked toward him. "You're still here?"

"Yeah."

The employee glanced at his ankle. "You hurt yourself?"

"I'm fine."

You looked at Zanka. He glared at you.

"Don't."

The employee shrugged. "There's an ice pack in the office."

After they left, Zanka sighed. "That was close."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Why are you so scared of your father finding out?"

Zanka didn't answer. His gaze dropped to his hands.

"Because if he finds out I was here, he'll make me stop."

He swallowed.

"Completely."

His voice was quiet.

"He'll take away my skates."

He looked toward the rink.

"He'll probably hire some private tutor to make me do something 'useful' instead."

Zanka laughed without humor.

"Everything has to be useful."

He looked at you.

"Do you know what I wish?"

You waited.

"I wish I could just do something because I like it."

His eyes softened.

"Without someone asking what it'll get me."

He looked down at his injured ankle.

"Without someone asking whether it'll make the family look good."

He breathed out.

"Without someone comparing me to my siblings."

His expression became distant.

"Kyouka doesn't even have to try."

"Goka doesn't either."

"They just..."

He struggled to finish the sentence.

"They just have it."

His voice was bitter.

"The praise."

"The attention."

"The approval."

"I've spent my whole life pretending I don't want any of it."

He smiled faintly.

"But I do."

He looked directly at you.

"I really fucking do."

The honesty seemed to surprise even him.

He quickly looked away.

"...That's pathetic."

You shook your head.

Zanka looked at you again.

This time, his expression was softer.

"You're really not going to judge me?"

You shook your head again.

Zanka stared at you for several seconds.

"...Thanks."

The word came out quietly.

Almost reluctantly.

But it was sincere.

Eventually, you helped him stand.

This time, he didn't argue.

He leaned slightly against you as you helped him toward the exit.

Every few steps, he winced.

But he refused to complain.

When you reached the lobby, Zanka stopped.

He looked back at the rink.

The empty ice reflected the dim lights above it.

His favorite place.

The one place where he could forget his family.

The one place where he could be himself.

Then he looked at you.

"Hey." You turned.

"Come back tomorrow."

He immediately looked embarrassed by his own words.

"I mean—"

He cleared his throat. "Not for the gala." He looked toward the rink. "Come here."

His eyes returned to yours.

"I'll teach you how to skate." He paused. "And don't expect me to go easy on you."

There was a small smirk on his face now.

"I don't care if you fall." He turned away. "...I'll catch you."

Zanka immediately realized what he'd said. His face went bright red.

"I—I meant literally!" He looked away, mortified. "Don't make it weird."

You couldn't help but smile. Zanka noticed. "Why are you smiling?"

You didn't answer.

"Hey." His face became even redder. "Stop that."

You continued smiling.

"Seriously."

Despite his embarrassment, he couldn't stop the small smile from returning.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then Zanka glanced at the clock.

It was late.

Much later than he had realized.

He should have gone home.

He should have been thinking about tomorrow's gala.

He should have been preparing the perfect suit.

He should have been worrying about what his father would say.

Instead, he found himself thinking about the person standing beside him.

Someone who didn't know him as the Nijiku heir.

Someone who hadn't compared him to Kyouka.

Someone who hadn't praised Goka.

Someone who had looked at him after he'd fallen and asked whether he was okay.

It was such a simple thing.

Yet Zanka couldn't remember the last time someone had asked him that without expecting something in return.