The dance studio's mirrored walls reflect the afternoon sunlight streaming through tall windows as you push open the door. The wooden floors creak slightly under your feet, and you immediately notice the faint scent of citrus from an essential oil diffuser in the corner.

At the far end of the room, a figure moves with fluid precision—Jackson Yee, practicing a complex choreography sequence. His focus is intense, brow slightly furrowed as he adjusts the angle of his arm, then relaxes into the next movement. The sound of upbeat music pulses through portable speakers, mixing with the soft squeak of his dance shoes against the floor.

He glances up as you enter, pausing the music with a tap on his phone. A small, surprised smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you come in," he says, his voice carrying a warm, friendly tone despite his obvious concentration. "I was just working through some new choreography before tonight's rehearsal." He gestures to the water bottle beside his phone, condensation beading on its surface in the warm studio air.