Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
Chapter 19
Coming of Age Story: Chapter 19 - Defenceman: Parallel Ice (A Non-Canonical Saga) builds on Cold Creek’s Defenceman series while offering a new interpretation. Michael Stewart’s journey extends beyond the rink into intrigue, modeling, and the launch of his AI: Aegis. From Ann Arbor to London, Japan, and Spain, the story explores honor, love, betrayal, and resilience. Rivals and allies test his limits in the arena, courts and shadows—where triumph demands sacrifice and heart both on and off the ice.
Caution: This Coming of Age Story contains strong sexual content, including Romantic Celebrity Sports Interracial White Female Oriental Female White Couple Royalty
Opening Day (July 8th)
Morning light spreads across the stone floor as the sun rises over the Danube, warming the suite with a clean, bright glow. The thump of early sound checks drifts up from the courtyards—scattered drumming, half-tuned guitar chords, a microphone squeal that rattles the windows.
I dress, grab my phone, and step into the hallway. Rika is waiting beside my door, standing easy but alert. She offers a slight bow.
“Good morning, Michael.”
“Morning,” I say. “Any word from Dušan?”
“He is downstairs,” she replies. “He said to take our time.”
Perfect.
As if on cue, Asuka steps out of her suite across from mine. She’s already in crisp clothes; the EXIT map is folded neatly in her hand. A second later, Willow comes out of the next suite—bright-eyed, smiling instantly, hair falling over one shoulder. She looks exactly like someone excited for this day since last night.
“There you are,” she says, her grin spreading. “I woke up starving.”
Asuka raises a brow. “You woke up seven minutes ago.”
“Which means I’ve been starving for seven minutes,” Willow replies with complete conviction.
Rika doesn’t react outwardly, but her eyes lift for a brief, amused moment. It’s subtle, easy to miss—but I’ve known her long enough to catch it.
We head downstairs together to the restaurant, it’s elegant without being showy—thick stone walls, tall French doors facing the inner courtyard, warm morning light drifting in. Staff move efficiently between tables, and a few guests are already drinking coffee, talking about the festival. Dušan stands when he sees us, waving us over.
“Dobro jutro,” he says warmly as we take our seats. “You all slept well, I hope?”
“Like rocks,” Willow says, sliding into the chair beside me.
“Perfectly,” Asuka answers.
Rika nods.
Breakfast arrives quickly—eggs, fresh bread still warm enough to steam when torn, fruit, and strong Serbian coffee that wakes every nerve in the best possible way. Dušan taps the folder in front of him. “Your VIP Platinum credentials arrived; you can go everywhere, including backstage—all is open to you.”
He passes out lanyards with EXIT’s 2010 design. Mine is marked VIP PLATINUM, and Willow’s badge features the same label with an additional stripe: PERFORMER.
Willow’s smile brightens immediately. “Okay, now it’s real.”
Asuka studies her credentials, folding the strap neatly. “This will simplify movement.”
Rika slips hers on.
Dušan—ever the planner—pulls a map from the folder. “Today, we will walk the fortress to orient you before the Festival starts. The fortress will look different after dark, especially with fifty thousand people inside. You need to know where everything is before the chaos begins.” He taps the map again. “And you need to know the escape routes, rendezvous points, and secondary exits. The festival is safe, but we follow procedure.”
Willow leans in. “I like that we have a procedure; it makes me feel important.”
Asuka gives her a sideways look. “And safe.”
“That too,” Willow concedes.
I glance at Willow’s phone as she scrolls through the lineup. “Anything good tonight?”
“Everything good,” she corrects with a grin. “LCD Soundsystem at twenty-one hundred. Chromeo around twenty-two-thirty. DJ Shadow after midnight down in the moat.”
“That’s a lot of walking,” I say.
“Worth it,” she replies without hesitation. “Plus, Faith No More, Mika, Chemical Brothers, and Missy Elliott in the coming days.”
Asuka nods thoughtfully. “We should watch DJ Shadow from the right-hand terrace. Less crowd pressure.”
“I have a route for that,” Dušan says, pleased. “We will preview it today.”
Breakfast settles into easy conversation—laughter, small jokes, everyone relaxed. Being here together feels natural again.
As we finish eating, Dušan stands. “Ready? The fortress is waiting.”
We all rise—Willow buzzing with anticipation, Asuka sharpened but calm, Rika steady and watchful at my side.
Time to see EXIT from the inside.
We step out from the restaurant into the inner courtyard. Dušan walks ahead with steady purpose, holding his map. Rika stays half a step behind me to the right, eyes scanning everything with her usual quiet precision. Asuka moves with the same focused calm, and Willow ... Willow looks like she’s walking into the world’s biggest playground.
We climb the broad stone ramp toward the upper terraces. Workers push heavy rolling cases past us—coiled cables, lighting equipment, folded truss pieces. A forklift rumbles along the cobblestones, carrying equipment toward the Main Stage.
“Okay, this is wild,” Willow says under her breath as the entire fortress is buzzing with last-minute activities.
She’s right.
EXIT doesn’t look like a festival in daylight; it appears like a temporary kingdom. Twenty stages are spread across different terraces and courtyards. Colored banners hang from the fortress walls— David Guetta, Tiësto, Carl Cox, and others—flaring in the breeze. LED tiles blink through testing sequences. Giant video screens cycle through calibration patterns. Technicians shout timing cues across open ground.
Down the slope, the Dance Arena fills the old moat like a neon skeleton waiting for flesh. It’s enormous—larger than it looks in photos, stretching across a natural bowl of stone and earth. Laser rigs on scaffolding fire test beams into the empty air, cutting thin streaks of green across the dust. A synthetic bassline thuds from somewhere deep inside, where Guetta’s team is running audio checks.
“This is the main artery,” Dušan says, leading us toward the vast terrace overlooking everything. “It connects to the Main Stage, VIP decks, and two of the tunnel entrances. We’ll start with the overhead view.”
Asuka studies the layout intensely. “The crowd will flow from west to east here,” she says, pointing to the map. “That means pressure points around twenty-one hundred.”
“Correct,” Dušan confirms. “Tonight is not the heaviest. But even today, it helps to know the terrain.”
Willow grips the railing, eyes sweeping over the entire complex. “I can’t believe how big this is.”
“Big?” Dušan almost laughs. “Wait until twenty-three hundred when LCD Soundsystem starts. You’ll see.”
Rika speaks softly beside me. “There are four access lanes from this terrace. One is restricted to staff. I will prefer that one for movement if you need repositioning.”
I nod. “Good.”
The winding layout is mesmerizing. Everything looks close in pictures, but in person, the fortress has levels, hidden corners, inner courtyards, and steep staircases that twist unexpectedly. It really is a labyrinth.
“Let’s go down,” Dušan says. “We have to check the tunnels now, before the crowds arrive.”
We follow him along the terrace walkway until he stops at a heavy wooden door set into the stone wall. “This is Tunnel 3,” he explains. “Short corridor. Staff only. Good for fast movement.”
Inside, it’s cool and dim—a twenty-meter casemate tunnel, not deep, not long, just a curved chamber with arched ceilings and ancient brick—light spills in from a second doorway ahead. At the midpoint, a coffee vendor is setting up under a string of bulbs. Espresso machines hiss. Ice clinks in metal buckets. Two workers eat pastries and laugh.
Willow’s smile brightens. “We’re definitely coming here later tonight.”
“Maybe after DJ Shadow,” Asuka agrees.
We move on. Another stone corridor. Another stairwell. A narrow walkway overlooking the moat. “Second rendezvous point,” Dušan says. “Below the Dance Arena. If the crowd becomes too dense, you exit this way and move toward the hotel side.”
Asuka studies the route carefully. “Excellent. We will be able to move quickly.”
Rika nods in agreement.
Back above on the terrace, the fortress feels even larger now—alive and pulsing as EXIT continues to wake. And through all of it, the four of us walk together easily, laughing when something amuses us, sharing glances at the insanity of the setup. No tension. No awkward pauses. Just a group of people genuinely excited for the night ahead. The festival isn’t even open yet, and it already feels unforgettable.
While we’re out, the hotel is quiet. Two men walk inside wearing pressed linen shirts, sunglasses, and EXIT festival wristbands. They move with calm confidence, like affluent foreign visitors. Their leather satchels look like typical travel bags. Staff greet them without suspicion.
Using a cloned access fob, they enter our floor. They move slowly, not rushed, the way guests familiar with the hotel would and enter my and Willow’s rooms.
Inside our suites, they work methodically, placing surveillance equipment inside a travel-clock casing and a lamp base. Others go into air-vent grilles and behind the TV. Every device is placed quickly and cleanly. They don’t disturb anything, and the rooms appear untouched. They exit the same way they came, walk outside, and disappear.
Onstage Reunion (July 9th ~ 10th)
I wake a little after six and text Rika and Asuka. Both respond immediately, and we meet in the lobby ten minutes later, dressed to run. The air outside is calm and clear. We cross the bridge and join the riverfront running track. Several runners are already out, and parents walk younger children near the water. Exercise stations line the path—pull-up bars, parallel bars, stretching frames, and simple obstacle structures.
We start at a steady pace. After a few minutes, my stride settles, and I increase speed naturally. Rika keeps up beside me because she refuses to be dropped. Asuka stays just behind, breathing evenly, pushing herself to stay close.
We pass Štrand. Workers rinse the walkways, and at the end of the loop, we turn back. I increase the pace again, and we make good time returning to the hotel.
I shower and change, and Dušan arrives carrying two white paper bags.
“Burek Plus,” he says. “Still warm.”
We move into my suite. I clear the table while he unpacks two full trays—sirnica and mesni burek—each cut into wedges. Dušan taps one of the trays and says precisely what he told us yesterday: “In Bosnia, burek is only meat. My mother’s from Bosnia—cheese is never called burek there. This is sirnica, but I still like it.” Burek itself is delicious: thin dough wrapped around filling and baked until crisp. Sirnica uses mild white cheese, and mesni burek uses seasoned minced beef. Dušan sets four bottles of jogurt on the table and places two coffees beside them.
“Eat it now,” he says. “Burek cools fast.”
I take a piece of sirnica, and Willow reaches for the mesni burek. Asuka eats slowly and neatly. Rika eats in small bites. Willow keeps her voice low. Not because anything is wrong—it’s her routine before performing. Asuka watches her casually.
We finish in ten minutes. Willow whispers, “Really good.”
“Save your voice,” Asuka reminds her.
Willow nods.
Willow and Asuka return to their suite so she can rest. Rika stays with me. Dušan checks the time.
“You want to see the market?” he asks.
We leave the fortress again, cross the bridge, and walk several blocks into the neighborhood to Limanska pijaca. Rows of fixed stalls fill the building, and the ground is worn from prolonged use. Most shoppers are local women—mothers and grandmothers—going about their regular morning routines. Vendors know many of them by name.
Everything is local and seasonal. Tomatoes with uneven shapes. Cucumbers of different sizes. Carrots and potatoes with dry dirt still clinging to them. Onions, peppers, cabbage, beans, and herbs. Nothing imported—no tropical fruit. The berry stalls sit at the center. Blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries in shallow trays. Sold by the half kilo. Prices are low. The berries look freshly picked.
Dušan buys raspberries from a vendor he clearly knows.
“Best month,” he says, handing baskets to Rika and me.
We make a complete loop through the market. No tourists. Just locals buying fresh produce. We head back after an hour.
By the time we return, Willow is awake, hydrating near the window while Asuka reviews the schedule.
“You ready?” I ask.
Willow gestures yes.
We eat an early dinner from the hotel kitchen, and as the sun sets, the sound inside the fortress rises sharply. We meet downstairs and follow the crowd into the festival zone.
Music overlaps from different stages—rock on one terrace, bass from deep in the moat, vocals from above us. Food stands line the main arteries and the smell of grilled meat mixes with calls from beer vendors. Volunteers direct foot traffic; groups of teenagers rush toward one of the smaller stages.
We head to the VIP area, from here we can see the crowds in front of the Main Stage. Dušan guides us to the backstage checkpoint. Security scans our badges and waves us inside. Backstage is focused and busy. Technicians check cables and monitors; stage managers coordinate transitions between acts. Willow’s band is already there, tuning guitars and reviewing cues. Mika and Plan B walk past laughing, still energized from their sets.
When they see me, they stop.
“Olympic gold, right?” one asks. “Canada?”
Before I answer, a DJ pulls me into a photo. Two others join. Willow watches with a small smile. I let them take the shots. Within minutes, the images hit social media. Voss’s team picks them up immediately. The geotags confirm my exact location behind the Main Stage. They don’t need to search anymore—the festival crowd and celebrity activity have done the tracking for them.
Willow finishes her warm-up and adjusts her earpiece. At 01:00, when the coordinator nods, Willow steps into the lights.
The reaction is strong cheers, raised hands, and steady movement. Firecrackers pop near the sides, and I even see people holding sparklers, and someone waves a blazing torch. I say aloud, “Who brings a torch to a concert?” and Dušan replies, “Welcome to the Balkans, rules are suggestions here.” Willow’s voice is steady and transcendent, and the crowd responds well. I stay in the right-hand wing, where I can see her clearly. People lift phones to record, and the band plays tight and passionately.
Halfway through the encore, Willow turns and looks at me. I know what she wants and step forward. The crowd erupts, people shout my name, and it clicks immediately—exactly what Dušan said earlier about Serbia is sports-crazed. Hockey isn’t their primary sport, but an Olympic gold medal stands out anywhere. Some of the women in the crowd react for a different reason; they recognize me from the modeling campaigns, and others clearly know me from the paparazzi photos that circulated all spring. Phones are lifted everywhere, and I raise a hand in acknowledgment. Willow finishes the final lines and exits with her band.
We stay backstage long after the set. Willow is wired, talking with her band, laughing, dancing while the next act plays, and generally having a great time. Once the adrenaline starts to settle, it’s well past three in the morning. EXIT is slowing down, and people drift toward the terraces to wait for sunrise. Around 04:30, we finally head back to our rooms. Music from the Dance Arena still carries across the lower levels. By the time we reach the hotel entrance, Willow leans heavily on Asuka, her energy finally fading.
“Good night,” I say. “See you in a few hours.”
There are tired nods in return. I step into my room just long enough to set my lanyard and phone on the table. I undress, switch off the light, and lie down. Tomorrow is another full day and night.
Uneasy Awareness (July 10th)
Rika walks several steps behind Michael, close enough to intervene but far enough to watch the movement around them as they head back to their rooms. She tracks the flow of people along the upper paths. Nothing stands out at first. EXIT always runs late, and crowds move unpredictably, but even so, a faint sense of tension persists.
They move past a stone archway where a man lingers, to check his phone. He looks up as Michael passes. His eyes follow for a second too long before he abruptly turns away. It could simply be curiosity—Michael stepped onstage tonight—but the timing sticks in Rika’s mind. Farther along the path, two young men move through the thinning crowd. Their pace changes twice in quick succession: faster as they approach the group, slower as they pass, then another change of direction toward a quieter terrace. None of their movements breaks social norms, but the inconsistency draws Rika’s attention.
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