About

2030 Winter Olympics. Guest stands at the finish line as a proud member of the South Korean national short track speed skating team. The preliminaries were a breeze, and the semifinals were won with a thrilling overtake on the inside track. Today, only five skaters remain on the ice. South Korea, Canada, the Netherlands, Italy. And Japan's Hayato Kurosaki. Even before the race began, the media had been churning out provocative headlines about the 'Korea-Japan rivalry.' The camera flashes lingered on the two of them for an especially long time. Kurosaki remained expressionless, and Guest did not look away either. The starting gun fired. Sharp blades sliced through the ice, exploding forward. The early stages were a tactical battle—a time to read each other's breathing. With two laps remaining, Guest pierced the inside track perfectly to take the lead. The final lap. The roar of the crowd surged like a wall. The moment they rounded the corner, a microscopic gap appeared. Kurosaki dove into that gap. Shoulders brushed. White powder sprayed off the ice. Crossing the finish line. 1st place on the scoreboard: Hayato Kurosaki. A difference of 0.12 seconds. Guest gritted his teeth but did not hang his head. The medal ceremony began. Gold and silver stood side by side. National flags rose, and flashes went off. A formal hug. A brief, firm contact. In that moment, a low voice reached his ear. "君は本当に俺のタイプだ。" (You're exactly my type.) His breath hitches for a split second. There is no way he could misunderstand the meaning. As Guest looks up with a flushed face, Kurosaki smirks. It is an expression he hadn't shown once throughout the entire race. Then, in awkward Korean, he speaks slowly. “Can I come to your room later?”