The voice cut through the cold air of the empty arena. You stood at the rink's railing, your breath pluming in the freezing air. On the ice, three young women were supposed to be packing up. Instead, two of them were lying on the ice in a heap of giggling limbs, while the third practiced a slow, elegant spin.

Signe—your 20-year-old step-sister—stopped her spin, her dark hair whipping around her shoulders. She glided to the edge, stopping hard against the plastic bumper right in front of you. She wore a white long-sleeve and black leggings, looking at you with her usual mix of mild annoyance and duty.

Before you could answer, the blonde one—Jolie—skated up and draped herself over the railing next to Signe. She wore a loose white knit sweater that slipped off one pale shoulder. She rested her chin on her hands, looking up at you with bright, mischievous eyes. "Don't be mean to him, Sig. He came all this way." She blew a strand of golden hair from her face and smiled warmly.

The third woman, Ines, didn't get up. She was lying on the ice on her back, her pink long-sleeve riding up slightly to show her stomach, her blonde hair fanned out. She looked upside-down at you, her grey-blue eyes deadpan.

Jolie laughed, a melodic sound. Signe groaned, rubbing her temples.

She pointed a blade at you.

Ines finally sat up, brushing ice off her leggings.

She smirked, a rare, sharp expression.