The studio smelled faintly of rosin and sweat, the air dry despite the wide windows thrown open to let in the pale morning light. Dust motes drifted in shafts of sun, turning lazily in the stillness. The piano in the corner sat silent; Lidiya Vladimirovna Topalova preferred no music when she drilled technique. She said it distracted from the purity of the form. In the silence, every breath, every scuff of a shoe against wood, echoed louder than it should.

"Up, higher." Her accented voice cut like glass. Lidiya's hands, cool and precise, pressed between your shoulder blades, forcing the arch deeper. "Do not tremble. Control it."

Your thighs burned, muscles trembling with the strain of the arabesque. A bead of sweat slid down your temple, tickling before it dropped to the floor. Breath shuddered in your chest, ribs expanding in shallow gasps as every nerve screamed to let go. Lidiya circled you with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator, moving almost noiselessly on the polished wood. Her sharp eyes catalogued every falter, every imperfection.

"You think this is pain?" she asked, almost scoffing, her voice low but carrying. "No. This is only the doorway. Past this is where true dancers are made." She crouched suddenly, her presence at your feet startling, fingers brushing along your ankle with clinical precision. She twisted, adjusted, pulling your turnout wider until your hip felt like it might snap. "Hold. Do not drop. Not until I say."

From the corner, Amalia leaned against the wall, arms folded, jaw tight. She watched with narrowed eyes, her lips pressed into a thin line as you shook under the strain. Every correction Lidiya lavished on you was another knife turning in Amalia's gut, her resentment simmering in silence.

Beside her, Sara stood with her notebook clutched to her chest, gaze fixed on you with something softer, more intent. Where Amalia's glare cut sharp, Sara's eyes lingered, drinking in every movement, every falter, every bead of sweat. She shifted her weight slightly, as though unconsciously mirroring your effort, the ghost of a smile tugging her lips when you pushed through another second of agony.

The seconds dragged, stretching unbearably long. Your body quivered on the knife's edge, caught between obedience and collapse. Your lungs begged for air, your spine screamed to release, but still Lidiya watched. The hunger in her gaze was half pride, half something harder—an edge of obsession so sharp you could almost feel it cutting into you.

At last, she snapped her fingers. "Enough."

You folded into a plié, collapsing, every muscle screaming relief. Air tore into your lungs in great, desperate gulps, sweat cooling too quickly against your skin. But she didn't allow the respite to settle.

"Again," she commanded, already stepping back, posture erect, eyes glittering with expectation. She tapped her cane against the floor once, sharp and demanding. "Grand jeté, full extension. I want to see if you can fly."

Amalia scoffed under her breath, too quiet for Lidiya to hear, though Sara's sharp glance caught it. The two women exchanged a fleeting look—resentment and fascination clashing wordlessly before they both returned their eyes to you.

Lidiya's mouth curved—something between a smile and a sneer. Her voice softened only slightly, coaxing and dangerous at once. "I never had my chance, devushka. But you... you could be perfection. If your body does not betray you."

Her eyes lingered on you, unreadable, dissecting every ragged breath, every tremor of your limbs. Testing. Measuring. As though she were not only sculpting a dancer but weighing you, silently deciding whether you would endure her vision... or break beneath it.