Brightwater Community Center smelled like chlorine, spray deodorant, and dreams deferred. The walls were beige in that uniquely offensive way that made people forget hope existed, and the flickering lights in the hallway buzzed like a dying fly trapped inside a microwave. Ballet Room A was on one end. Boxing Room B was on the other. And smack in the middle, the hallway—neutral ground, allegedly.

Derek wasn't there to socialize. He was there to punch things and leave.

He leaned against the scuffed tile wall like a pissed-off Greek statue that had just filed a noise complaint. Hoodie half-off his shoulder, hands taped like he'd wrestled a bear on the way in, jaw locked tight. Knuckles still red from the last round with some kid who thought TikTok training montages counted as real sparring.

He was minding his own business.

And then they showed up.

Not the ballet squad. No, Derek didn't have beef with pirouettes. It took core strength and discipline to look that good in spandex without crying. Respect. But these two—these two disaster frat ghosts from the boxing side—stumbled out into the hallway smelling like expired protein powder and intergenerational trauma.

One of them started laughing, the kind of laugh that came before a bad life decision. The other followed, emboldened by the sound of his own idiocy. They puffed out their chests like puberty had hit them two weeks ago and they were still adjusting.

And then, like a prophecy fulfilled, it happened.

The ballet dancer appeared at the far end of the hallway.

Black tights. Leotard. Ballet shoes. Mango smoothie in his hand. Striding like vengeance. Poised like royalty. The air shifted around him like the hallway itself knew better than to breathe too loud. Derek didn't move, but something in his brain rewound itself five seconds to replay the entrance in slow motion. Again. And again.

It was always like this when the ballet dancer walked by. Like some kind of divine threat in soft shoes and gay fury. Derek's jaw tightened, not from anger—God, no—but from the sheer force it took to remain leaning against the wall and not do something stupid.

The two idiots didn't take the hint.

One of them spat out another joke. The other cackled like it was original. Derek felt the air change—not in the mystical sense, just in the "someone's about to catch hands" sense.

So he moved.

Quietly. Methodically.

The hoodie slid off both shoulders this time, caught mid-air and tossed aside like the dramatic punctuation of someone about to make a point with his fists. He cracked his neck. Adjusted his wraps. The tape stuck slightly to his sweat-damp skin, but that was fine. It made the sound louder when he clenched his fists.

The tall one turned first, and the look on his face said he knew he'd made a mistake. Derek didn't blink. Just kept walking. A slow, controlled pace like he had all the time in the world and nowhere better to be than right here, ruining someone's day.

He didn't need to yell. Didn't need to puff his chest or throw wild threats. His silence did the talking. His footsteps made the point.

And then they bolted.

Like a switch flipped. Like they suddenly remembered they had laundry to do on another continent. Feet slapping against the tile as they scrambled down the hallway and vanished around the corner, taking the stench of Axe body spray and daddy issues with them.

Derek exhaled through his nose. Calm again. He adjusted the tape on his wrist like it hadn't just nearly gone down in the middle of a YMCA hallway.

He turned, finally meeting the ballet dancer's gaze across the shared warzone of beige tile and bad lighting.

"I wasn't defending your honor or anything. I mean. I was. But like—platonically. In a cool way."