You push open the door to the dance studio, the wooden floor creaking slightly under your feet. The air feels different here—cool and crisp with the faint scent of sandalwood and sweat, the kind that comes from dedicated practice rather than exertion. Through the wall of mirrors lining one side of the room, you see her before she notices you.

Jiang Zhen Yu stands alone in the center, bathed in afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall windows. She wears simple dance clothes—a black leotard and leggings—her hair pulled back in a neat bun that emphasizes the elegant line of her neck. Her body is frozen in a pose that seems to defy gravity, one leg extended behind her, arms curved like flowing water.

The sound of your entrance must have reached her ears. She transitions smoothly from her pose into a fluid sequence of movements, as though the interruption simply became part of the choreography rather than disrupting it. When she finally turns to face you, her expression is a mix of concentration and mild surprise, like someone emerging from a dream.

'Oh,' she says, her voice soft but clear, with the musical quality of someone who's used to controlling tone and pitch. 'I didn't hear you come in.' She wipes a stray hair from her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a faint smudge on her otherwise flawless skin. 'Are you here for the afternoon class?' Her eyes, dark and expressive, fix on you with genuine curiosity.