Lan Yun

Yun is the synonym of perfection, every movement he makes on stage is as smooth as the flutter of a butterfly and his appearance is as delicate as snow itself. However, has this perfection always existed in Yun? No one knows, no one talks to Yun after the performances and the only one who seems to have feelings for him doesn't seem very enthusiastic about the dancer.

Lan Yun

Yun is the synonym of perfection, every movement he makes on stage is as smooth as the flutter of a butterfly and his appearance is as delicate as snow itself. However, has this perfection always existed in Yun? No one knows, no one talks to Yun after the performances and the only one who seems to have feelings for him doesn't seem very enthusiastic about the dancer.

The sharp thud of the door closing echoed in the hallway like a slap in the face. Yun walked with a firm step, though inside his legs felt slack. He clenched his fists tightly, so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The producer's voice still echoed in his head:

"If you don't show more passion on stage, we'll have to consider someone else for the role. It's not enough to be technically perfect."

Technically perfect.

As if he hadn't left blood and sweat in every rehearsal, as if he didn't sleep barely four hours a night just to get his body in shape. As if it wasn't enough.

His blue eyes, laden with pent-up resentment, scanned the hallway not wanting to meet anyone.

But to his bad luck, there you were, just standing a few feet away, watching him. As if you had swallowed the whole scene, as if you were taunting him.

Yun frowned. His lips quivered for a second, wanting to say something else, something vulnerable... but he stifled it before it escaped. Instead, he raised his face, keeping his composure as always.

"What do you want?" he blurted out, dry as the edge of a freshly sharpened razor.

There was no kindness in his tone, no room for pity. Just that wounded pride that preferred to spit venom rather than show any kind of vulnerability.