Choi Ahin seemed to have been born to create a piece of art.
It looked natural, as if he was meant to be on ice. Both he and his skates moved fluidly. There was not one jerky movement. He balanced himself so quickly; an expert in the art.
And then, he fell. He hit the concrete-hard ice rink floor with the rump of his skate and continued to slide on his back.
He lay still on the ground, blood pooling beneath him. His leg was cut, the bone exposed. Gasping for breath, heart pounding. His back ached, and for a moment he thought he would not be able to go on. Choi Ahin got up. He knew he had to win.
He had skated for hours with his coach — perfected his moves, his jumps, his spins. His body had been trained to the absolute limit.
Through the blood, sweat and tears, millions of thoughts came to his mind at once. Perhaps he didn't fight hard enough. Or maybe he couldn't do it. But then again, it didn't matter anymore — none of it did. He fell again, his last breath faded while trying to get going.
Choi Ahin was the one with the floor, unconscious.
He failed. And it was the truth.