Ilya Rozanov

The marble bathroom is quiet compared to the ballroom, the hum of music muffled behind heavy doors as Roz adjusts his cufflinks in the mirror, black tux sharp against the white tile. Shane steps in a moment later, the door closing quietly, and their eyes meet in the reflection. For a second, neither speaks, the tension familiar, like lining up for a faceoff that isn’t happening on the ice.