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."

Pyo burst out laughing once more, this time without shame. "Don't worry, Zain. Just stick to your questions and try not to think about it too much. Or, you know, at all."

"Not helpful," I yelled back, but my shame caused the corners of my mouth to twitch upward. Even when I wanted to hide under a rock, Pyo had a way of making things more fun.

I inhaled deeply as the bus came to a halt and more people piled in, attempting to gather my thoughts. Any rumors that were spread about Choi San were simply that-rumors. I wasn't going to get sidetracked by idle rumors since I had work to accomplish. But I couldn't help but wonder as I gazed out at the snow falling. Really, who was Choi San? Was he only the well-liked hockey player, or was there additional going on here that I wasn't prepared to discover?

Pyo's countenance softened as he noticed my change in concentration, as if he could sense my ongoing trepidation. "Hey, forget the gossip for a second. Let's talk hockey. You want to know what to expect from San on the ice, right?"

I nodded, appreciating the shift in subject. "Yeah, I need to understand his playing style. Anything you can tell me would help, especially since I'm supposed to capture more than just his stats. I need the story behind the player."

Pyo leaned back, his eyes brightening with sincere curiosity. "San is phenomenal on the ice. It's not just his skill level but his presence. He's like a conductor with the puck, orchestrating plays that seem impossible until he makes them happen. His speed is one thing, but his agility is what sets him apart. He can weave through defenses like they're standing still."

I said, "That sounds impressive," attempting to visualize the images that Pyo had recounted. Even though I had seen a lot of sports, it was difficult to comprehend the subtleties of a player's approach while thinking about how to write about them in an engaging way.

Pyo went on, "It's not just impressive; it's almost like an art form," "He's got this intensity, too. When he's in the game, he's completely focused, like nothing else exists. But there's also a playfulness to his style that makes him a fan favorite. He's known for his unexpected moves, little flashes of flair that can turn a routine play into something highlight-worthy."

As he talked, I jotted down notes, the picture of San on the ice growing more vivid and captivating with each word. Knowing how those around him would view him would give my article more depth, I asked, "How do the fans and his teammates see him?"

"The fans adore him. You'll hear them cheering loudest for San, especially the younger crowd. They love his energy and charisma. As for his teammates, they respect him a lot. He's not just a show-off; he makes plays that help the whole team shine. Sure, he's got an ego, but he backs it up with real skill and a knack for teamwork when it counts."

I gave this information some thought, valuing the more complex picture of San that went beyond the gossip and his public image. Knowing that this information would give me a better picture of his personality going into the interview, I asked, "And off the ice? During practices or just around the arena?"

"That's where you might catch more of his playful side. He's a joker, always lightening the mood, but he takes his training seriously. You'll see him putting in extra time after official practices, working on his shots or discussing strategies with the coach. He's dedicated, no doubt about it," Pyo said.

I had an increasing feeling of eagerness as the bus rolled approached the stop, along with a renewed respect for my topic. Pyo characterized the San as a multifaceted person who contributed both personality and technique to the ice. I needed this depth to convey not just the athlete but also the person below the helmet in order to frame my tale.

I responded, "Thanks, Pyo. This helps a lot. It gives me a good starting point for understanding who San really is," feeling better prepared for the task at hand.

"No problem, Zain. Just remember to watch him closely at the game. You'll get a real sense of what makes him stand out. It's one thing to hear about it; it's another to see it in action," Pyo told me as I was getting off the train.

I inhaled deeply as I descended into the snow-covered pavement, the icy air stinging my lungs. The star on the ice, San, was more than a myth or a story. I was going to enter his life, and he was a genuine, complicated person. The idea was both intimidating and thrilling. I felt prepared to capture the spirit of Choi San, both on and off the ice, with my notepad brimming with insights and the snow softly falling all around me.

The following day broke bright and clear, with sunshine slicing through Seoul's frozen streets, causing the snow to glitter like diamond dust. Pyo welcomed me with a smile at the metro station, his breath obscuring the air. In stark contrast to the butterflies in my gut, he appeared vivacious and positive. As we started the short walk to the hockey rink, I tightened my hold on my bag strap.

A building with a curving roof that looked like a huge wave that was about to crash loomed front of us. The thumping in my chest grew stronger as we approached. The air around the stadium had a distinct bite, a cold that wasn't simply caused by the weather; it was also infused with nostalgia, a smell of ice and adrenaline that simultaneously brought back a hundred memories.

Pyo nudged me with his elbow as if he could sense the faint sway in my gait. His eyes were searching me for weaknesses, yet his voice was casual as he inquired, "You good?"

I mustered a grin and swallowed hard. "I think so. Just... strange being back, you know?"

Despite the fact that his experiences differed from mine, he nodded knowingly. "You'll be fine. It's just another story, right?"

But not to me, it wasn't. It wasn't just any old hockey arena. It was a specter of my former self as a skater, a person who previously felt unstoppable when gliding across a surface that now made me feel afraid. I came here to confront the ruins of my own life, not only to cover Choi San's.

The familiar coolness of an arena enveloped me like an old, torn cloak as we entered through the enormous glass doors. Deeper within, the faint sound of blades cutting into ice mixed with the occasional coach's yelled commands. I shuddered because of the need that awoke within of me as much as the cold. Since I hadn't been close to a rink in years, the burden of all I had left behind weighed heavily on me now.

Leading the way to the administrative offices was Pyo, who was always the professional. The sound of our footsteps clicking on the tiled floor filled the quiet hallways. When we got to Coach Kim's office, the walls were covered in glossy pictures of the team's biggest triumphs, with players raising trophies, celebrating wins, and immortalized in their moments of glory. The rink's glaring sheen drew me in and teased the boundaries of my resolve as my gaze lingered on the ice in those photos.

Coach Kim gave us a stern handshake and a piercing, evaluative look. He was a leader in every way-the type of man whose presence dominated a room even when he wasn't talking. He motioned for us to sit, and as we settled into his chair, he leaned back.

"So," he said in a firm, commanding tone. "You're here to learn about San. What exactly do you want to know?"

The tension in the room was reduced by Pyo's confidence as he leaped in first. "We're looking for insight into San's journey as a player-how he's developed under your mentorship, what sets him apart from others on the team."

Coach Kim gave a nod, his expression softening a bit as he thought about the query. "San's been with us for five years now. When he joined, he was all raw talent, unpolished but relentless. Over time, he's turned into one of the most dynamic players I've ever coached. He's got speed, agility, and a sense for the game that's almost instinctual. You can't teach what San has-it's innate."

I frantically scrawled in my notepad, attempting to get down every word. As the coach talked, I began to visualize San: a guy who transformed the rink's pandemonium into his playground, with fire in his veins and precise motions.

Coach Kim went on, "But it's not just his skill," "San has a way of commanding attention. His confidence on the ice-hell, even off it-it's magnetic. He's got a knack for making the impossible look easy, and the fans eat it up. But what I respect most about him is his work ethic. People see the flash, but they don't see the hours he puts in after practice, perfecting every detail."

Intrigued, I looked up from my notes. "How is he with his teammates? Does that confidence ever clash with the rest of the group?"

Coach Kim gave a headshake. "San knows how to walk the line. He's confident, yes, but he's not selfish. He plays to win, and he knows that means making the team stronger. He pushes everyone around him to step up their game. Sure, he's got an ego-what star player doesn't? But it's earned. He knows when to lead and when to step back."

Pyo leaned closer, his curious eyes brightening. "And off the ice? What's he like around the rink when he's not playing?"

A little smile twitched Coach Kim's lips. "Off the ice, he's a mix of things. A joker, for sure-always the one lightening the mood in the locker room. But there's also a seriousness to him. He knows when to have fun, but when it's time to focus, he's all in. I think that balance is part of what makes him so successful."

I was lost in thought while Coach Kim said. My thoughts drifted to the noises coming from the rink: the puck bouncing off the boards, the scrape of skates, and the crisp, sharp voices of players calling moves. A peculiar mix of need and horror made my stomach clench. I was on the outside looking in, and this was the world I had left behind.

My distraction appeared to be noticed by Coach Kim. "Would you like to see him in action? Practice is wrapping up, but there's still some time."

Pyo seized the opportunity. "That'd be great. Thanks, Coach."

I paused, my heart pounding at the idea of being so near the ice once more. However, Pyo was already up and gesturing for me to follow before I could express my doubt.

The arena opened out in front of us, and as we stepped inside, the chilly air pricked my cheeks. Under the brilliant lights, the ice glistened as players glided across it with ease. My gaze instantly landed on San. He stood out even in the midst of the drill mayhem. His presence was imposing, and his motions were precise and fluid. With ease, he swerved past opponents as he sped across the ice, using his stick to manipulate the puck like it was an extension of his body.

As I watched him, the need I had suppressed for years came to the surface, and my heart tightened. I had previously danced on this stage, felt alive in a manner I hadn't since, and this was the ice I knew. It was now the property of someone else, who appeared to represent all I had lost.

Coach Kim's words cut through my thoughts and brought me back to the here and now. "Remarkable, isn't he?"

I swallowed the knot in my throat and nodded. "Yeah," I said. As I watched San rule the rink, I couldn't help but think, "He's... incredible." I wondered if this was fate pushing me to tell San's tale and face my own.

With his eyes firmly on the rink, observing his players complete their drills, he added nonchalantly, "What made you get into journalism after ice skating?"

The words sliced like a dagger through my mind, causing my breath to catch and me to freeze. With my heart thumping in my chest like the ice itself had broken underfoot, I whipped my head in his direction.

I said, "Excuse me-" but my voice was muffled by the distant noises of sticks hitting the puck and skates scrapping the surface.

Coach Kim lifted one eyebrow curiously as he turned his head slightly to look at me. The inquiry seemed casual, as if it were a natural part of the conversation, and he wasn't being invasive. However, it seemed as though he had discovered a long-kept secret that I was not ready to face, least of all in this situation.

As if to deflect the stress, Pyo turned to observe the coach after noticing a change in the atmosphere. He pretended to be interested in the rink by crossing his arms. Pyo said, "San's quick on his feet today," in a purposefully light tone. However, I sensed his eyes flitting in my direction, as if to inquire discreetly for my well-being.

I forced myself to breathe through the knot that was tightening in my chest and swallowed hard. I stumbled, searching for the correct words, "I-um..." "It's complicated."

Coach Kim didn't press, but his eyes stayed on me, pensive, as if he knew more than I did. "Most skaters I've known who left the ice still keep close to it, in one way or another. Coaching, choreography, sometimes broadcasting. But journalism... that's a different path."

The weight of his scrutiny made the air feel colder, and I felt as though I was being examined closely. I tried to deflect by forcing a feeble grin. "It's still storytelling, in a way. I just traded one form for another."

Coach Kim gave a nod, his face inscrutable. "Fair enough. But I've seen skaters like you-ones who leave but still carry the ice with them. You'll find your way back to it, one way or another."

I glanced aside, seeming to concentrate on the players, but the words were like a kick to the belly. My gaze returned to San, whose confident and authoritative motions stood in sharp contrast to the chaos screaming within me. My identity, my haven, had been the ice. And now that I was standing here, I felt alienated and unwelcome.