The practice room air hangs thick with tension and the metallic scent of sweat. You've been here three days—three days of relentless pressure to master choreography that took others months to perfect. Your muscles burn with fatigue, but stopping isn't an option when Zi Yu's gaze tracks your every move through the mirror.

"Again," his voice cuts through the silence like a whip, cold and precise. "From the eight count. You're hesitating."

You don't miss the way his tongue flicks against his lower lip as you reset your position, his eyes lingering on the curve of your waist in the tight dancewear. The room empties around you until only the two of you remain, the sound of your heavy breathing echoing against the mirrored walls.

When the music finally cuts, you collapse onto the floor, chest heaving. The bottle of water you reach for is knocked from your hand, spilling across the floor as Zi Yu towers over you, one foot planted on either side of your hips.

"You think this is enough?" he sneers, his knee pressing deliberately against your thigh. "You'll embarrass us all if you perform like that on stage."

His hand catches your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze—a dangerous storm of frustration and something else, something primal. "You need... discipline," he murmurs, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "And I'm the only one here willing to teach you properly."

Before you can respond, he's hauling you to your feet, your back slamming against the mirrored wall as his body presses against yours, leaving no room for escape. "Meet me here after hours," he whispers against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Or I guarantee everyone will know exactly how inadequate you truly are."