Prologue~Wolfgang 

Berlin, 2001

Age:12 

The medal is still warm in my hand.

I keep touching it like it might disappear if I don’t. Gold. Mine. The ribbon scratches lightly against the back of my neck as I walk, the sound of the arena fading behind me into a dull roar. My skates click softly against the concrete of the tunnel, each step echoing in the narrow space. 

I can still hear the music in my head. 

I did it. I actually did it. 

I grin to myself, breath still uneven, cheeks tight from smiling too much. Mama is going to cry. Papa will pretend not to, but he will. Frederick will probaby shove me and call me dramatic. 

I push open the heavy door into the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms. It’s quieter here. Dimmer. The air smells like cold metal and damp fabric. 

Finally.

“Can’t wait to get out of this,” I mutter, tugging lightly at the sleeve of my costume. It suddenly feels too tight, too glittery, too much. I just want my hoodie. My soft pants. Something normal. 

Then food.

Then celebration.

Then-

“There…”

The voice comes from somewhere behind me. 

I don’t catch it at first. I keep walking, still haf inside my own head, replaying the final spin, the landing the way the crowd stood-

“Hey.”

I slow.

Something about the tone makes me turn.

I glance over my shoulder. “What?”

There’s another skater standing a few meters back. I don’t recognize him right away. His face is shadowed, his costume dark, his posture…off.

“What did you say?” I ask, turning more fully now, taking a step back toward him.

He doesn’t answer. 

For a second, everything feels strange and stretched out, like time is hesitating.

Then-

A flash.

Bright. Sharp. Silver.

My brain doesn’t understand it at first. 

It’s just light.

Then it moves.

The blade. 

I don’t even feel it right away. Just a sudden force, a jolt that knocks me sideways. The world tilts, the ceiling spins, and suddenly I’m on the ground. 

Then the pain comes. 

It explodes across the left side of my face, hot and blinding, like fire tearing through skin.

I scream-but it doesn’t sound like a scream. It sounds broken, strangled.

My hands fly to my face.

Warm.

Wet.

Too wet. 

I can’t see properly. My vision blurs, one eye filling with something dark. My breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps.

It hurts. 

It hurts so much. 

“Ah…ah…” I try to speak, but it comes out wrong, muffled, like my mouth doesn’t work anymore. 

I curl onto my side, clutching my face, pressing hard like it might stop it. Tears spill instantly, mixing with everything else. 

The tunnel is empty.

He’s gone.

He’s just…gone.

Why-

Why would-

I can’t think. I can’t think. It hurts too much.

I start crying harde, the sound ugly and loud, echoing off the wall. 

“Papa…” I try to call, but it's barely the sound. 

Footsteps.

Fast. 

“Wolfgang?”

Papa.

His voice cuts through everything.

“Wolfgang!”

Then Frederick’s voice, sharper, closer. “Where is he-”

They see me. 

Everything happens at once.

“Oh my God-” Frederick chokes.

Papa is suddenly there, dropping to his knees beside me. “Wolfgang, hey, hey-look at me.”

I can’t 

I can’t open my eye properly.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he says, but his voice isn’t calm. It’s tight. Controlled in a way that means he’s scared.

He shrugs off his jacket immediately and presses it hard against the side of my face. 

I cry out, my body jerking. It hurts-it hurts.

“I know, I know,” he says quickly, voice low. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. I have to- hold on.”

Frederick is beside us, breathing hard. “What happened? Who did this?”

I shake my head weakly, sobbing. 

I don’t know.

I don’t understand.

“Freddy,” Papa says sharply, “his skates.”

“Right, okay.”

Frederick moves fast. I feel his hands at my ankles, fingers fumbling but careful. 

“Stay with me, Wölfchen,” he says, his voice softer now, closer to my ear. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” 

I’m not okay.

I can’t say it. 

My mouth won’t work right.

I just cry. 

Papa adjusts his grip and then suddenly I’m lifted off the ground. My head spins, the pressure on my face increasing as the jacket presses tighter. 

“Hospital,” Papa says. “Now.”

I clutch weakly at his shirt, my finger shaking.

Everything is too bright. Too loud. Too painful.

Frederick is right beside us. “I’ve got his stuff-just go!”

My medal swings against my chest as Papa moves quickly down the tunnel.

It taps against me with every step.

Gold.

I don’t feel anything except pain.

“Stay with me,” Papa keeps saying. “Stay with me, Wolfgang.”

I try.

I really try.

But the world keeps slipping, edges going dark, voices stretching far away.

And all I can do is hold on to him and cry.

The hospital lights are too bright.

Everything is white and sharp and loud, and it makes my head throb even more. Papa is still holding me when we brust through the doors, his jacket pressed tight against my face. It smells like him-cold air and something faintly like coffee-but now it also smells like blood. 

My blood.

“Help!” Frederick’s voice cuts. “He’s been cut, his face!”

People move fast after that.

Hands. So many hands. 

“Put him here-”

“Careful-”

“Sir, we need you to step back-”

“No,” Papa snaps immediately. “I’m staying.”

I feel myself being lowered onto something hard…a bed, I think. The jacket is pulled away for just a second and the air hits my face.

I scream.

Or I try to.

It comes out as a broken, wet sound.

“Okay, okay,” someone says quickly. “We’ve got you.”

Something presses back against my cheek, gauze this time. Not Papa's jacket. It’s rougher. It hurts more.

“Wolfgang,” Papa says, right near my head. “I’m right here.”

I try to look at him.

One eye works. The other…not really. Everything on the left is wrong. Blurry. Wet.

“I know, I know,” he murmurs. His hand is in my hair now, steady, grounding. “You’re okay. Just stay still.”

I’m not okay.

I want to say it.

I want to ask what happened to my face. 

But my mouth…

Something is wrong with my mouth.

A nurse leans over me. “Sweetheart, we need to clean this, alright? It’s going to sting.”

I shake my head immediately, panic rising fast.

“No…no” It doesn’t come out right. It sounds like I’m choking on the words.

“It has to be done,” she says gently. “Your dad is right here.”

Papa squeezes my shoulder. “I’ve got you. Just hold on.”

They start.

It burns.

It burns so much worse than before, like fire being poured straight into my skin. I cry harder, my body trying to twist away but hands hold me still.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse says again and again. “I’m so sorry.”

Something wet runs down into my mouth.

I freeze.

Because I didn’t open my mouth.

I swallow instinctively and then gasp.

Air.

I feel air.

Inside.

Cold and wrong, slipping into my mouth without me breathing in through my nose.

My eyes go wide.

No.

I lift my hand weakly, trembling, and press it toward my cheek, but they stop me.

“Don’t touch,” someone says firmly.

I shake my head, panic exploding inside me. I try to speak, but it comes out broken, desperate.

“Papa…”

He leans closer instantly. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

I can’t say it right.

I can’t explain.

So I just make a small, terrified sound and move my tongue…

And I feel it.

A gap.

A hole.

My breath catches, and a sob tears out of me. 

Papa goes still.

For just a second.

Then his hand tightens in my hair. “Hey, look at me,” he says quickly, his voice softer now but strained underneath. “Don’t panic. Do you hear me? Don’t panic.”

There’s something in his voice that makes it worse. 

Frederick swears quietly somewhere behind him.

“No, he’s fine,” Papa says immediately, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself too. “They’re going to fix it. Right? You’re going to fix it.”

“Yes,” a doctor answers. “But we need imaging first. We need to see the extent of the injury.”

I start crying again, quieter this time, shaking all over.

My face doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

“Mom’s on her way,” Frederick says, his voice closer now. “She’s almost here.”

Mama.

I want Mama.

Time blurs again after that. 

They move me, rolling the bed quickly down long, echoing hallways. The ceiling lights pass over me one by one, too bright, too fast. 

Papa walks beside me the whole time, one hand always on me. 

“I’m here,” he keeps saying. “I’m right here.”

Then-

“Wolfgang!”

Mama.

Her voice breaks through everything.

I turn my head slightly, wincing, and see her rushing toward us. Her hair is messy, like she doesn’t even think about it, and her face…

I’ve never seen her look like that before. 

“Mein Gott,” she whispers when she reaches me. Her hand hovers over my face, not touching, like she’s afraid she’ll break me. “My baby…”

I try to say “Mama.”

It comes out wrong.

Her eyes fill instantly with tears. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says softly, leaning down to press her forehead gently against mine, careful of the bandages. “I’m here. I’m here.”

“They’re taking him for imaging,” Papa says.

She nods quickly. “I’m coming.”

“No,” a nurse says gently. “Just one parent for now.”

Mama hesitates, then looks at Papa.

“Go,” she says. “Don’t leave him.”

“I won’t.”

Her hand squeezes mine quickly before she lets go. “I’ll be right here when you come back, okay?”

I try to nod.

The bed starts moving again.

We enter a colder room this time. Machines. Big ones.

“Alright, Wolfgang,” someone says. “We need you to stay very stll.”

Still.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this still in my life. 

Papa stands near my head again. “You can do that, yeah? Just like when you’re holding a position.”

I focus on his voice.

On that.

Not on the pain. 

Not on the air that still feels wrong inside my mouth. 

Not the fear sitting heavy in my chest. 

“Good,” he says quietly. “That’s my boy.”

The room is quieter than everything else. 

No rushing feet. No bright, endless hallway lights. Just a steady, soft beeping from a machine beside me and the low hum of something I can’t see. 

I lie very still.

My face feels…tight. Heavy. Wrapped. 

I don’t want to touch it again.

I don’t want to feel that hole.

Mama sits on one side of the bed. Papa stands on the other. Frederick is near the window, arms crossed so tight it looks like he might snap in half if he lets go.

No one is talking. 

Not really.

Just small things.

“Do you need water?” Mama asked me earlier.

I shook my head.

It hurts too much to try to drink.

Now we’re waiting.

I know we are.

For the doctor.

The door opens quietly, but all of us react like it slammed.

A man steps in, older, serious, holding a folder. He closes the door behind him gently.

“Mr. and Mrs. Zakharov?”

Papa straightens. “Yes.”

Mama doesn’t say anything, but her hand finds mine instantly, gripping it.

“I’m Dr. Weber,” he says. “I’ve reviewed Wolfgang’s scan.”

My stomach twists. 

I don’t want to hear this.

I do want to hear this. 

I don’t know.

Papa nods once. “Alright.”

The doctor glances at me briefly, then back at them. His voice is calm, but not soft. 

“The laceration to his left cheek is severe,” he says. “The blade cut through skin, muscle, and into the oral cavity.”

I don’t understand all the words.

But I understand enough.

Mama’s grip tightens.

Papa doesn’t move.

“It’s a full thickness wound,” the doctor continues. “That’s why he is feeling air passing into his mouth.”

So I didn’t imagine it. 

“We will need to operate,” he says. “Surgery is necessary to repair the tissue layers properly inside and out.”

“How bad?” Papa asks. HIs voice is steady, but I can hear something under it. Something sharp. 

The doctor pauses for a second.

“It is a serious injury,” he says carefully. “But it is repairable.”

Mama lets out a breath that sounds like it was stuck in her chest. 

“Will he-” she starts, then stops. His voice shakes. “Will his face-”

She can’t finish.

I close my eyes.

I don’t want to know.

The doctor answers anyway.

“There will be a scar,” he says. “Given the depth and location, it is unavoidable.”

The word hits hard.

Scar. 

My chest feels tight again. 

“But,” the doctor continues, “we will do everything possible to minimize it. A plastic surgeon will assist. He’s young, which works in his favor for healing.”

I stare at the ceiling.

A scar.

On my face. Where everyone can see.

Mama brushes her thumb gently over my hand. “Will he… will he be able to skate?” she asks quietly.

The doctor nods. “Yes, in a few weeks just be very cautious or perhaps months to make sure. Once fully healed, he should be able to return to skating fully.”

Something loosens in my chest.

Just a little.

Papa exhales slowly. “And…long-term? Nerve damage?”

“There are some risks,” the doctor admits. “The cut is close to important structures. But based on the imaging, we are optimistic. We’ll know more during surgery.”

Silence fills the room again. 

Frederick shifts by the window. “When?” he asks. His voice is rough.

“When do you do it?”

“Soon,” the doctor replies. “Tonight.”

Mama nods quickly, like she expected that. 

“Okay,” she says, her voice still unsteady but stronger now. “Okay. Do it.”

Papa looks at me then. 

Not the bandages.

At my eyes.

“Hey,” he says quietly. 

I swallow, wincing slightly.

“It’s okay,” he continues. “They’re going to fix it.”

“Wӧlkchen,” Mama whispers, leaning closer. “You’re so strong, you know that?”

I don’t feel strong.

I feel small.

And scared.

And tired. 

Frederick steps closer to the bed, finally uncrossing his arms. He looks at me for a second, then away, jaw tight.

“You’re going to look cool with a scar,” he mutters. 

Mama gives him a look. “Frederick!”

“What?” he says quickly. “It’s true.”

The doctor clears his throat softly. “We’ll begin preparations. A nurse will be in shortly.”

Papa nods. “Thank you.”

The doctor gives a small nod back and leaves the room.

And it’s just us. 

Mama leans down and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, careful of everything.

“I’ll be right here,” she whispers.

Papa squeezes my shoulder. 

Frederick stands close enough now that I can see him without turning my head. 

I look at all of them.

And try not to think about the surgery.

Or the scar.

Or the moment in the tunnel.

But it keeps flashing in my mind anyway.

Silver.

Then pain. 

I close my eyes and wait.