ENSLAVED TO HIM

'Zain's 𝓟𝓞𝓥 ~✧~

"𝕴𝖓 𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖊𝖙 𝖒𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖘, 𝖇𝖗𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖋𝖎𝖓𝖉𝖘 𝖎𝖙𝖘 𝖛𝖔𝖎𝖈𝖊."

*ȩ̩́›�̥̩̥*̩̩̙‧ƙ ✩*̩̩̥ƙ�›�̥̩̥*̩̩̙

I sat in the chilly, sterile meeting room of the Seoul-based newspaper firm, which appeared to have been built more for use than comfort. The chamber hummed with the subdued noises of the busy newsroom outside the glass walls, but I felt alone among the crowd, a shroud of loneliness.

My fingers twisted a pen anxiously as the projector sputtered to life, splattering hockey players over the screen. Each slide featured athletes wearing padding like armor, their faces hidden behind masks of anger and resolve. These were the hockey heroes of Seoul. Echoing the cold of the room, my heart pounded nervously against my ribs.

Our editor, a scathing lady whose penetrating stare frequently felt like it might unravel one's thoughts, declared, "This season, we're focusing on the personal stories behind the helmets." Perhaps sensing my uneasiness, she appeared to gaze straight through me as she talked.

Every frame of the athletes' images flashed across the screen, pulsing with the sport's unadulterated, physical intensity. I used to be a professional ice skater, so seeing the ice rink in the background of every picture brought back a lot of memories. I had once danced on comparable ice with my partner, whose laughter used to fill the air around us, while my skates made graceful, precise arcs in the spotlight. However, those times had come to an abrupt end when he fell ill, leaving me alone and without a way to fill the emptiness that skating could not. His breakdown and the consequent waning of our shared hopes marked the end of the bittersweet and ragged recollection of the day we won our largest competition.

The picture of San, the team's most mysterious player, took over the screen, interrupting my thoughts. Even in digital form, his presence was thrilling. San was a very charismatic and talented person who was well-known for his playboy antics off the rink as well as his adventures on it. The room was filled with a collective murmur of curiosity that brought me back to the here and now.

The editor's voice broke through the commotion with a harsh "Zain," pointing specifically at me. "You will cover San. It's a high-profile assignment; he's a favorite among fans and journalists alike."

As everyone's attention went to me, the pen I had been spinning dropped out of my hands and clattered loudly on the table. My cheeks were bright crimson as heat slowly made its way up my neck. Anxiety tightening my throat, I nodded softly. The challenge was intimidating not just because San was a notoriously unpredictable topic, but also because it drew me back into the realm of performance and ice, which I had abandoned in the darkness of loss and sadness.

With a sense of purpose and eagerness, my coworkers' conversation filled the air as they moved out as the meeting came to an end. I continued to sit there, holding onto the dropped pen while the assignment's burden weighed heavy on my shoulders. I felt as though the ice rink in the pictures was calling me back to a world I had left behind, a world that had previously been as essential as breathing.

I was deep in contemplation as I gently gathered my belongings when I felt a touch on my shoulder. One of my few companions in this hectic world of media was Pyo, a fellow reporter.

"Hey, you okay?" he said in a quiet, worried voice. He was somewhat aware of my background, the tidbits I had let to fall through the cracks during late-night editing sessions when the workplace was sufficiently silent to conceal secrets.

I managed to answer, "Yeah, just... it's a lot," with a faint smile that fell short of my eyes.

Pyo gave me a comforting shoulder squeeze. "San, huh? That's big. But you know, maybe it's a good thing, getting back to the ice, even if it's just from the sidelines."

Though not quite persuaded, I nodded. "It's just hard, you know? The ice... it's where everything ended. And now, it's where I have to start again. And with San? He's not exactly the easiest subject."

Pyo's quiet laugh reverberated quietly across the now-almost-empty room. "That's the understatement of the year. But think about this, Zain, maybe it's not about the ending or the starting over. Maybe it's about the middle, the story you're about to tell. You're a great journalist because you see the story behind the story. Just use that. San's just another chapter, albeit a challenging one."

His comments were supposed to reassure me, and they did, somewhere in the depths of my nervousness. Like a looping highlight reel, the pictures of the rink, the players, and most importantly, San, continued to play in my head as we left the conference room together.

I answered, "Thanks, Pyo. I'll try to think of it that way," with a little more realism.

Pyo nodded, then his face lit up with a cheeky smile. "And hey, if it gets too tough, just think about all the juicy details you'll have for your articles with San being the playboy of the ice. That'll sell papers for sure!"

"Or get me into a world of trouble," I answered, the laughter that erupted between us softening the edges of my nervousness.

As we made our way down the corridor, Pyo remarked gently, "Do you think you'll ever skate again?" His tone was cautious, as if he didn't want to put too much pressure on an old bruise.

My knuckles turned white as I tightened my hold on my bag's strap. Between us, the air felt thicker. "I-I don't know how... without him, you know?" I said in a voice that was just audible above a whisper, the type of silence you can only achieve when everything else is fighting to escape. "He was the one who never judged me for being who I am."

"What, because you're a virgin? And because you've never been in a relationship? That's not something others should judge you for," Pyo remarked softly, his tone direct but his words cautious. He paused his stride and looked at me, his brow furrowing. It was so stereotypically Pyo that I nearly laughed.

I responded, "It's not just that," as my steps stumbled a little. Focusing on the repetitive scuff of my shoes against the smooth floor tiles, I gazed down at them. My voice trembled just enough to make me feel embarrassed, and I tried to calm it by clearing my throat. "He felt like half of me. And we weren't even... together. That says a lot, doesn't it?" I said. "I don't think anyone could take that place. How do you move on from something like that?"

Pyo took a moment to respond, his quiet interrupted by the distant clatter of keyboards and the hum of the building's heating system. There was nothing for him to say. It was enough to ground me to hear his footfall next to mine. That was his style; he remained near until I was ready to stop talking or stop talking altogether, without pressuring or hurrying.

I felt the chill of winter as soon as we walked outdoors, along with the subtle aroma of snow. I halted just outside the door and stared up at the sky, my breath puffing out in a little cloud. Slowly and delicately, snow was falling, covering the earth in a way that seemed almost too gentle for a planet that had recently been so harsh.

Glancing up at the snow and then back at me, Pyo stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and said, "Maybe no one can take that place, and maybe they're not supposed to. But," pausing as he made his selection, "maybe someone else can make a new place. A different one."

I didn't respond. I doubted that I could. Once more, my throat felt constricted, as if a lump had lodged there and would not go away. Around us, the snow fell silently, landing on my shoulders and causing the chill to penetrate into my flesh. It seemed like a stop, a time when I could simply be without having to respond to that question, but it wasn't like a fresh start-not yet.

Silently, we stood there as the snowflakes settled on us, creating a silent blanket of white that covered our shoulders and the ground. The world appeared quiet and halted, as though to accommodate the seriousness of our discussion.

The stillness was finally broken by Pyo. He said in a gentle tone, without pressuring, "You know, when you're ready, maybe the ice can be part of your healing, not just a reminder of what's gone." The thought was like a beautiful snowflake hovering in the air between us.

I stared at him, thinking about what he had said. The concept of going back to the ice felt far away, even alien, but I hadn't previously given myself permission to think of it as a place of healing rather than suffering. After all, whether I realized it or not, it was a part of me, woven into every strand of my existence.

I eventually murmured, "Maybe," a little, uncertain word, but the most I had conceded in a long time. "But it's going to take a while. A lot of things need to align again inside me."

Pyo understood my need for time and nodded. Even though the road seemed lonely, his reassurance that "It's a process, Zain. And it's okay to take it one step at a time." served as a gentle reminder that I wasn't alone in this.

With our footsteps crunching on the new snow, we resumed our stroll. The silent night seemed to amplify the sounds. Every stride served as a reminder of the here and now, bringing me back from the edge of the past where I could easily fall.

Pyo went on, "Hey," as we made our way to the bus stop. "This assignment with San-it's not just about confronting your past with the ice. It's also a chance to redefine your relationship with it. You know, to create new memories, ones that aren't shadowed by loss."

As I thought about it, the camera's weight in my backpack started to seem less like a burden and more like a tool for change. With the journalist in me clinging to the comforting familiarity of narrative, I said, "I hope I can find a story there," "something that's worth telling."

"You will," Pyo told me, his faith in my skills stronger than mine at the moment. "And I'll be here, you know. For all the stories, the good ones and the tough ones."

The overhead light flicked on as we arrived at the bus stop, bathing us in a cozy glow. It was a palpable warmth against the cold, like a light in the night. Now that the streetlight was shining on the snow, I glanced up at it, each speck glimmering like a small star.

"Thanks, Pyo," I murmured, my voice as warm as the light overhead. "For listening. For walking me through the snow."

His breath formed a mist in the chilly air as he grinned. "Anytime, Zain. Anytime."

As the bus drew closer, its lights piercing the night, I experienced a slight but profound change within myself. The discussion, the snow, and Pyo's soft prodding were all a part of the complex process of progress. I might not be able to return to the ice today or tomorrow, but ultimately I might be able to do so on my own terms and write new chapters on my own initiative.

With a gentle hiss, the bus arrived, the doors opened, and we got on board, taking seats close to the rear. As we took our seats, the bus started its leisurely ride through Seoul's snow-covered streets, the warmth inside providing a sharp contrast to the freezing cold outside. A soothing background noise was produced by the engine's steady hum and the quiet chatter of other travelers.

Leaning my head against the glass, I saw the city as it passed beneath the snow and darkness. Pools of golden light from the streetlights swirled over the snowflakes, transforming them into brief bursts of brightness before vanishing into the darkness. It was stunning in a calm, stark sense, and I briefly lost myself in the scenery, allowing the tranquility it provided to permeate my being.

After taking out his phone and looking through something, Pyo turned to face me and said, "You know, San has a game this weekend. It might be good to go, see him in his element before you try to interview him. It could give you some context, help you find an angle for your story."

Taking his proposal into consideration, I turned away from the window. It was intimidating to consider entering an arena once more, experiencing the cold ice and hearing the scrape of skates. Nevertheless, there was an irresistible allure, a want to see San play and experience the charm and talent that made him so alluring both on and off the rink.

I said, "Maybe you're right," with a heavy yet sincere tone. "Seeing him there, in his world, might help me understand him better. And maybe it'll help me understand my own feelings about the ice again."

Pyo put his phone aside and nodded. "It's a step, Zain. Just take it as that. No pressure to figure everything out all at once."

The bus came to a halt once more, and when the doors opened to admit a few more people, a blast of chilly air reminded us of the outside world. I felt a tiny seed of resolve sprout inside of me as the doors shut and the warmth returned to our surroundings. Pyo was correct; this was about taking charge of my story and molding it in ways I hadn't let myself think about since my skating days ended, not simply about doing an assignment or even facing my history.

"I think I will go," I said out loud, more to convince myself than to let Pyo know. "It'll be good for the article. And maybe for me, too."

Pyo grinned, a sincere show of encouragement. "Good for you, Zain. And hey, if you need company, just say the word. I can make a pretty decent cheerleader when required."

I gave out a little, sincere laugh that felt fantastic. "I might take you up on that. Thanks, Pyo."

As the bus lurched over a bump in the road, Pyo drew forward, his voice fading to a conspiratorial whisper. "I heard Choi San is the best on ice-not just because of his skill, but because he's got this... fire, you know? And let's be real, the looks don't hurt either."

Not quite sure where he was heading with this, I nodded. "Yeah, I've read the articles about him. Everyone seems to think he's the whole package. But isn't he... kind of a playboy? I mean, I heard that much."

Pyo grinned, amusement glimmering in his eyes. I automatically leaned in to hear him say, "Oh, he's definitely a playboy. But apparently, he's not exactly... innocent." His voice lowered even further.

With a curious twist of my head, I said, "What do you mean?" Pyo's smile, which could only portend danger, became wider.

He dragged out the phrase "Rumors," as if it were a delicious bite he was enjoying. For dramatic effect, he paused and looked around to make sure no one was listening before continuing.

I pushed, my curiosity winning out. "What rumors?" I said.

Pyo's smile became blatantly malevolent. He spoke the phrase "BDSM," just above a whisper. He leaned back against the seat, obviously enjoying my response, his mischievous eyes sparkling.

I felt a heat crawl up my neck and blossom over my cheeks as my eyes widened in disbelief. "What?" I stumbled and spoke louder than I meant to. When a few individuals looked in our direction, I instantly bowed my head while fumbling with the hem of my coat.

Pyo giggled softly, trying to conceal his amusement as his shoulders trembled. "Relax, Zain. I didn't say I knew it for a fact. Just some rumors floating around. You know how people talk about these guys-they're larger than life, so the stories about them get even bigger."

Still attempting to take in what he had just said, I just gazed at him. "BDSM?" I said again, in a whisper this time. "Are you serious?"

"Completely," he responded, crossing his arms and smiling. He went on to say, "Don't look at me like that," raising his hands defensively as I gave him a wide-eyed glance. "Apparently, he's got a bit of a reputation off the ice. Dominant, intense-you know, the works." "I didn't make this up. Just saying what I've heard."

I tried to conceal my shame as I turned to face the window. Suddenly, the snow outside appeared far more fascinating than Pyo's arrogant look. I couldn't stop the pictures from racing through my head. Without this additional element of mystery, Choi San-the famous hockey player and the center of attention-was already frightening.

More to myself than to Pyo, I said under my breath, "Great," "That's exactly what I needed to hear before interviewing him."