Chapter 3: The Measure of Devotion
The nightmare wasn’t a fall. It was a silent, slow-motion unraveling. Ilia was on the ice, launching into a quadruple lutz, the crowd a blur of anticipation. But his body refused to coil. His muscles were soft, laggard. He hung in the air, suspended forever, counting the rotations: one, two… and then a sickening, gravitational surrender. He didn’t crash. He simply drifted down like a leaf, landing on two feet with a whisper, the judges' screens flashing a devastating, singular number: UNDER-ROTATED. The roar of the crowd twisted into a single, echoing word from a thousand mouths: heavy.
He woke with a gasp, drenched in a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. The hollow gnawing in his stomach was immediate and violent, a phantom echo of the previous night’s purge. It was a craving for emptiness, for the clean, scorched certainty of control.
Sunlight hadn't yet reached the clutter of the apartment. The space was bathed in a dull, pre-dawn grey. The only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and a soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap. Ilia turned his head on the pillow.
Mikhail was already there. Sitting in the chair he’d pulled beside the bed, dressed in a clean sweatshirt, sipping from a mug. He looked like he hadn’t slept. On the nightstand sat a tall shaker bottle, its contents a pale, creamy beige.
“You were talking in your sleep,” Mikhail said, his voice quiet but clear in the stillness. “Counting rotations.”
Ilia’s throat was tight. He said nothing. The demon was awake, whispering that the shake was just more weight, more betrayal, that the hollow feeling was the truest part of him.
Mikhail put his mug down. He picked up the shaker, gave it a few firm swirls, and unscrewed the lid. The smell was bland, inoffensive: vanilla protein, oat milk. He held it out. “Drink.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. It was the next step in the deal. Ilia pushed himself up, the sheets pooling at his waist. His hands felt tremulous as he reached for the bottle. Their fingers brushed. Mikhail’s were warm and steady.
The first sip was a battle. His throat constricted, a primal rebellion. He forced it down. Then another. It was thick, cloying. It felt like concrete settling inside the void.
Mikhail watched, his gaze unwavering. He didn’t offer encouragement or smile. This was a transaction. A necessary fueling. As Ilia swallowed, gulping now to get it over with, Mikhail’s hand moved. He reached out and took Ilia’s wrist, his fingers encircling the bony prominence. His thumb stroked over the thinned skin, a possessive, measuring gesture. His grip tightened, just for a second, not enough to hurt, but enough to imprint. A physical anchor.
“Good,” Mikhail murmured, as the last of the shake disappeared. “Good boy.”
The words sent a confusing shiver through Ilia—part shame, part profound relief. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the ghost of a different, bitter taste forever banished from this ritual.
Mikhail stood. “Now we weigh in.”
The dread was instant, a cold flood. “Misha…”
“The deal,” Mikhail said, already walking toward the bathroom. “You don’t look. I look. The number is my problem now. It’s just data. It tells me what to do next.”
Ilia followed, feeling like he was walking to the edge of a cliff. The digital scale sat like a monolith on the tile floor. He’d faced it every morning for months, letting its glowing digits dictate the tenor of his day, the worth of his being.
“Strip,” Mikhail said, his back turned as he rummaged in his bag for a small notebook.
Ilia did, mechanically. The air was cold on his skin. He looked at himself in the mirror, at the lines of his body that the media and his own brain had distorted. He still saw the boy they said was gone.
“Step on,” Mikhail commanded, turning around, his eyes sharp and clinical. He held his pen ready.
Ilia took a breath, closed his eyes, and stepped onto the cool glass. The digital display blinked to life. He heard the soft beep. He kept his eyes squeezed shut. He heard the scratch of Mikhail’s pen.
A long silence.
Then a low, thoughtful hum. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Ilia dared to ask, eyes still closed.
“Okay. It’s a number. It’s exactly what I thought it would be.” There was another rustle. “Step off.”
Ilia opened his eyes, finding Mikhail staring at the notebook, chewing on the end of his pen. There was no horror on his face. No disappointment. Just calculation. “What does it mean?”
“It means your body is clinging to everything you give it because you’ve been starving it. It means the extra two kilos Tatiana is screeching about is mostly inflammation and panic. It means we rebuild. Properly.” Mikhail looked up, meeting his eyes. “It means you are not broken. You are undersupplied.”
The words were so utterly devoid of drama, so practical, that they punctured the balloon of anxiety in Ilia’s chest. A number was just a number. It was in Mikhail’s notebook now. Not his problem.
Mikhail tossed him his sweatpants. “Get dressed. We’re going to the rink early.”
“She’ll be there,” Ilia said, pulling on the pants, the fabric soft and familiar.
“Tatiana? Of course she will.” Mikhail stuffed the notebook back in his bag. A faint, almost mischievous smile touched his lips. “But you won’t be skating your program. Not today.”
“What will I be doing?”
“You,” Mikhail said, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “will be relearning how to jump without hearing a crowd. You’ll be doing single axels. And you’ll be doing them after you eat the breakfast I packed, at ten-fifteen exactly.” He glanced at his watch. “Which gives us forty minutes. Move.”
As Ilia laced up his sneakers, the protein shake sat in his stomach, no longer a foreign invader but simply… fuel. The number was in a notebook. The hunger was on a schedule held in someone else’s hands.
The demon whispered, but it was fainter now, drowned out by the simple, daunting promise of a single axel and the firm, unyielding presence of the man waiting for him by the door.