Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
21. The Architects of Blame
Coming of Age Story: 21. The Architects of Blame - 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
Curated Chaos (July 11 – 10:35~11:05 BST)
The upload arrives on schedule — a small, packet dropping into Doyle’s inbox. He opens it.
The photographs arrive as individual files. He drags them to his desktop, opens each one, enlarges it, and studies the details before sorting them into place. The first images show tension on the EXIT walkway: Michael Stewart bracing against the push of bodies around him, posture coiled, eyes narrowed. A moment of rising pressure. Nothing more — yet.
Then the shove.
Clean. Forceful. Intentional.
The attacker’s chest compresses from the impact before his feet lift from the decking, momentum driving him backward through the flare-fogged air. The metal stairs behind him wait like a trap.
The subsequent frames reveal the fall — bodies tumbling in a blur of limbs and panic. But it’s the aftermath that stops Doyle’s hand as he scrolls.
The bottom of the stairs.
Impact.
Damage.
Rika Sato lies twisted across two steps, her right arm bent at an angle no joint allows. Bone has punched through the skin in a jagged white shard, slicing upward from her forearm. Blood smears across the metal beneath her — a long, dark streak where she skidded on impact. Her face is slack with shock, pupils blown wide, mouth open as if the breath had been punched out of her body.
A perfect injury photo. Brutal. Clear. Undeniable.
Then the teenage girl.
She’s collapsed on the lower landing, knees splayed, one hand buried in her hair as blood pours down her temple in thick streams. It runs across her cheek and stains her shirt collar, dripping onto the metal grating below her. Mascara has dissolved into ragged black lines that cut across her skin. She looks helpless. Frightened. Young enough to break public hearts in seconds.
He brings her photo upward in the sequence.
Then the dual frame — both victims captured in a single shot.
Rika on the steps, arm torn and slick with blood.
The girl: seated, against the corner rail, head wound spilling down her neck.
Their positions form a single tableau of catastrophe.
Doyle drags that one beside the girl’s. Together, they form a narrative heavy enough to crush any attempt at context.
Only after the injuries does he reveal the final emotional blow:
Michael: standing at the top of the stairs, hand gripping the railing, frozen in a mixture of shock and horror. The distance between him and the victims is vast enough for interpretation, close enough for blame.
Aggression → Consequence → Blood → Guilt.
A perfect incitement.
He isolates six photographs — the shove, the airborne attacker, Rika’s ruined arm, the girl drenched in blood, the dual-victim frame, Michael’s frozen guilt. He lines them up in a single ribbon of escalation, studying their combined force.
The second half of the decrypted packet follows: bug-audio summaries, quickly written after the incident.
— Jack calls him first
— Stewart speaks rarely
— After the fall: freeze → follow guidance → move to protect → guilt response
Doyle reads the sequence once; it’s enough. Stewart’s emotional rhythm is useful, instinctively obedient under shock, protective when directed, crushed by remorse afterward. A pattern that bends easily.
He opens a new encrypted message window and types three headlines without hesitation:
Olympic Thug: Stewart’s Shove Sends Two to Hospital
Stewart’s Slap Shot Injures Teen at EXIT Festival
From Gold to Violence: Troubled Olympian at Center of Chaos
Sharp. Fast. Ready for oxygen.
He attaches the curated six-photo set, the proposed headlines, and the relevant audio notes. Nothing extra; precision amplifies impact.
His message to Voss is a single line:
Package prepared. Standing by for concurrence.
The payload vanishes into the blind-drop system with no confirmation, no return signature, no trace.
Doyle studies the photos one last time while tapping the desk with two fingers, a small ritual marking completion.
“Once Voss approves this,” he murmurs, “the world will turn.”
Quiet Extraction (July 11 – 08:00~10:00 CET)
The Belgrade technical team arrives early, the specialized unit that Dušan requested after the initial bugs were discovered earlier. A little after 08:00, they call from the lobby.
“We’re in position. Begin now?”
“Michael, Asuka, and Willow are still at the hospital with our men,” Dušan says. “You have full access to their rooms. I’ll alert you if they start back so you’re not interrupted.”
The technicians retrieve the room keys from the front desk and unlock Michael’s and Willow’s suites. The bugs discovered the previous night remain in their original positions: vents, lamp housings, and beneath furniture edges. Leaving them undisturbed was part of the plan.
The team begins the forensic examination, taking precaution not to alert whoever is listening to their activities.
One technician inspects the power cell on a bug tucked inside a vent.
“Battery’s around half, that puts the install within the last few days.”
Another examines adhesive marks with a small magnifier. “Clean application with no reposition marks, someone experienced.”
By 08:40, two technicians walk the VIP corridor with a high-gain Radio Frequency (RF) antenna and a handheld receiver. The gear isn’t subtle, so their sweep is quick: dip beneath each peephole, catch a reading, move on. The bug’s limited transmitter strength and thick stone walls narrow the signal range to less than 15 meters.
The RF pulses and the relays’ responding pings are tracked.
“Signal’s rising,” one says quietly.
They walk toward the north end of the wing. The spike intensifies—peaking outside Room 214. They confirm the reading from the opposite direction, then continue to the stairwell before calling Dušan.
“Relay is at 214.”
“Understood. I’m coming.”
Within 20 minutes, Dušan arrives with a small BIA entry team, knowing time is of the essence. After a concise briefing, he heads to the front desk and asks for the Manager. Credentials are shown and requests made. The manager leaves to retrieve Room 214’s records and hands Dušan the photocopy of the guest’s passport.
“Checked in July 9,” the manager says. “Paid cash. No issues and ordered room service for most meals.”
That aligns with what Dušan already suspected. Room 214 wasn’t chosen randomly.
Someone knew Michael would be in Serbia — someone with enough insight to anticipate where he would stay. Willow’s headliner status made the location nearly predictable. EXIT placed top performers and high-profile guests in the premium wing of the Hotel Leopold I every year.
Whoever booked 214 and waited. This wasn’t luck, it was planned.
“We’ll need housekeeping assistance for entry,” Dušan says.
The manager nods and calls the housekeeper for the floor. She arrives, listens as Dušan explains quietly, and nods once unbothered, though she does sigh at the likely loss of tips. The guest had tipped well, which in her experience meant American.
Dušan and the housekeeper move upstairs.
The housekeeper pushes her cart to Room 214 and stands directly before the door—exactly where the peephole will catch her. She serviced this room yesterday, so her face is known. The entry team flattens itself against the walls on either side, hidden from the fisheye view.
She knocks and says, “Dobar dan! Spremačica... čišćenje!”
Inside: movement.
A pause at the door.
A brief shadow passes across the peephole.
He sees only her.
The door lock turns.
As soon as the latch clicks open, Dušan pulls her back. The entry team slips past her as the door swings, entering the room before the comms tech can react.
He freezes. His laptop sits open on the desk—session still active, communication windows illuminated. Two officers take him down cleanly.
“Clear.”
A technician moves straight to the laptop, photographing every open window, copying volatile data, extracting timestamps, and relay configurations. With the laptop unlocked, he inserts a bootable USB loaded with a privilege-escalation tool. A few quiet keystrokes later, he injects a new hidden local administrator account through the active session.
“Admin established,” he murmurs. “Full access without altering the original credentials.”
Only after securing elevated privileges does he power down the laptop and seal it in an evidence bag. The modified suitcase and RF receiver follow.
By 09:50, the detainee is transported to the Novi Sad BIA field office. No embassy is notified, and the hotel receives only: “Internal security matter.”
Concurrence (July 11 – 11:10~12:00 BST)
The packet arrives; Voss opens it without delay.
The photographs display themselves in sequence. He studies them with the calm attention of someone confirming the angles of a structure he designed days ago.
The shove.
The midair turn.
The collapse on the stairs.
He doesn’t linger on the impacts — Doyle already covered the mechanics, what matters now is the result.
Rika is down and out of position, the girl beside her is bloodied and stunned, the kind of image that provokes immediate sympathy.
He arranges the images in a purposeful order. Doyle’s earlier summary — outrage leading to escalation, then confirmation and guilt — is a tidy emotional funnel, helpful in shaping how the public will interpret the event. But emotional funnels are tools for distribution, not design.
He checks the reordered sequence against his operational design.
Separate: Rika is removed from Stewart’s immediate space. The visible protector is neutralized without force, and the team’s formation ruptures. Clean.
Expose: A public injury captured in perfect clarity. A story that writes itself.
Map: The attached metadata shows the pattern he expected: Stewart’s first call, the escalation path through Danner and Matsuda, and the timing of each response. A hierarchy revealed in minutes.
He scrolls to the bug-audio summary:
— first call inbound, not from Stewart
— minimal verbal engagement
— reaction pattern: freeze → comply → protect → guilt
Exactly the profile Elizabeth Ford’s earlier notes suggested. Predictable under stress, guided more by instinct than calculation. A liability to himself and a resource to those studying him.
Voss opens a reply window and types only what the situation requires:
Concur. Slow release. Let speculation grow before release.
He encrypts the message and sends it. No acknowledgment returns, nor is one expected.
Risk Containment (July 11 – 07:30~08:30 EDT)
The teaser images arrive in Whitcombe’s inbox with a two-word subject line: Preliminary Containment.
A moment later, he forwards them to Charles Ford and Elizabeth without explanation.
Ford opens the attachments and studies the first photo. Michael Stewart stands at the top of a metal staircase, frozen mid-motion, his face carved with anguish and guilt. The second photo shows the injured: Rika Sato twisted across the steps, her arm broken at a brutal angle, and an unknown teenage girl slumped on the landing with blood spilling down her face.
Ford examines the frames with steady, unhurried attention. There it is — the first breach in Stewart’s spotless reputation. A controlled, quiet satisfaction settles in his chest. The kid embarrassed him once; now it is his turn to bleed publicly. Not enough to destroy him, but a start — a way to begin balancing the ledger.
Then the risk becomes clear.
This isn’t business pressure anymore, it’s assault — violent, staged, undeniable. Any prosecutor could interpret it as attempted manslaughter if the consultants Whitcombe hired are ever connected to the fall.
Exposure. Liability. The kind that ruins companies, not just individuals. Charles shifts immediately into risk containment. Someone will need to stand closer to this than he ever will.
Elizabeth replies to Whitcombe’s message before Ford finishes analyzing the images — a short, eager confirmation. She wants involvement, to be near the center of things, to feel significant. That desire is what makes her useful and expendable.
She’s not reckless, just ambitious, and ambition pulls her forward before judgment catches up.
For Charles, that is the perfect quality.
If anything surfaces — if investigators tug at the wrong thread, if the consultants leave a trail, when Michael’s people dig — Elizabeth will already be positioned near enough to Whitcombe to draw scrutiny first. Her history with Stewart provides motive, her eagerness an opportunity, and her proximity provides plausibility.
Charles remains insulated, controlling the game board.
He drafts a brief message to her, deliberately neutral:
Stay close to Harold on this. Follow instructions from the consultants. You will be updated.
He sends it, and her reply arrives almost instantly:
Understood. I’ll stay aligned with him.
Of course, she will.
Ford closes the correspondence and returns to the photographs. Stewart: frozen in shock above two injured women. Blood. Youth. Guilt. A single frame capable of generating a month of speculation.
The operation is dangerous, yes — but manageable as long as he keeps his distance and directs pressure on the right people. He will remain untouched.
He taps the images once with his fingertip.
“Time she got her hands dirty.”
Stojan Andelković (July 11 – 12:45~13:30 CET)
My mobile phone buzzes just as the three of us step out of the elevator onto our floor. I answer immediately.
“Michael, it’s Stojan. I’ve just arrived in Novi Sad and will be at the hotel in a few minutes. Where should we meet?”
“We’ll set up a room here,” I say.
Asuka nods once. “I’ll arrange it.”
We step back into the elevator and ride down to the lobby. By the time the doors open, Asuka is already moving toward the front desk. A quiet exchange, a brief flash of her ID, and the clerk hands her a keycard for one of the hotel’s small conference rooms.
The room is quiet when we step inside, and Stojan arrives minutes later. He greets each of us politely before sitting and placing a thin folder and a laptop on the table.
“Bill Dixon forwarded a comprehensive reconstruction package,” he says. “Timelines, isolated frames of the individuals involved, a compiled sequence of events. I reviewed everything before coming.”
I breathe out slowly, Willow sits straighter, and Asuka’s attention sharpens.
Stojan continues, steady and cautious.
“The sequence in the images is straightforward. There’s no interaction between your group and the man before the confrontation. Nothing provocative from any of you. Then he turns toward Willow and makes a striking motion toward her torso while shouting. That is visible aggression directed at your group.”
He pauses, choosing his following words carefully.
“Your movement afterward appears consistent with someone reacting to protect a companion, not initiating a confrontation. Then his momentum carries him forward into Rika and the teenage girl. From the timing alone, it appears the fall stems from his movement, not from anything you did. But these are observations, not conclusions. The MUP investigators will decide how they interpret them.”
Willow stays very still, her fingers curling lightly around her water glass. Asuka remains expressionless, though her breathing evens.
Stojan turns one of the annotated timelines toward us.
“And the girl posting her photo with you afterward, along with her family thanking you — that helps. It reinforces that you assisted, not harmed.”
I nod, some of the pressure in my chest loosening.
He leans forward slightly.
“What matters now is your conduct. Serbia’s process is similar to the U.S.: you have the right to remain silent and the right to counsel. If MUP asks for statements, you wait for me. All three of you.”
He looks at Asuka and Willow.
“No explanations. No clarifications: ‘I prefer to wait for my attorney.’ That is enough.”
They nod — Asuka crisp and steady, Willow quiet but resolved.
Stojan asks a small set of clarifying questions:
How long between the flare and the fall?
Did I hear anyone shout?
Where was each of us standing relative to the railings?
Who was closest to whom?
He notes each answer quickly, then he closes the folder.
“MUP may request statements later today or tomorrow. These interviews should be procedural; I will be present for all of them.”
I absorb it, grounding myself in the structure.
Stojan stands, collecting his materials.
“One more thing,” he says. “I plan to stop by MUP this afternoon and speak with the lead investigator — not for evidence, but to understand how they’re reading the situation. Unofficial impressions can matter.”
I feel steadier — not fine but anchored in something solid.
Stojan gives a final nod.
“Stay calm. Say very little until I’m with you. You’re in a good position. Let’s keep it that way.”
He leaves, then Asuka rises.
“Let’s go upstairs.”
Rest (July 11 – 14:45~16:00 CET)
The elevator doors open onto our floor, and exhaustion hits all three of us at once. Willow is wilting, I’m drained, and even Asuka’s balance slips for half a second.
She looks at us—quick, decisive.
“We sleep. Now.”
“I should go to the hospital—” I begin, but Willow steps into my space and places her palm gently against my chest.
“Rika’s stable,” she says. “You’re exhausted; she’ll need you clearheaded.”
My body gives up the argument for me.
Inside my suite, the room is muted due to the half-drawn curtains.
Asuka hands each of us a bottle of water, then gestures toward the bathroom. We drift in together without discussion. She takes a long drink, sets the bottle down, and reaches for my toothbrush. Willow follows a second later, taking it from her when Asuka’s done. No one remarks on it. It’s routine, not intimacy—something older than the moment.
They rinse, spit, then both lean into the sink to wash their faces, moving with quiet efficiency. Water runs. Hands move from forehead to jaw, hair pushed back, eyes closed against the splash. Tired habits, end-of-day muscle memory. When they’re done, they pat dry with towels and step aside without ceremony.
We head back into the room.