Sunset spread across Baltimore in thick brushstrokes, painting the industrial area copper and crimson. The air was thick with city heat, saturated with the smell of hot asphalt, roasting chestnuts and exhaust fumes. In a vacant lot behind an abandoned factory, where stubborn grass had grown over the cracks in the asphalt, a noisy crowd had gathered around a makeshift dance floor. Speakers mounted on the roof of a wrecked Toyota were blaring old hip-hop, the scratches on the record adding a special street-battle charm to the sound.

Mason "Thunder" Carter stumbled into the center of the circle with his characteristic theatricality. His acid-green T-shirt, a random find from a charity box, hung loosely on his body, and ripped jeans completed the look.

"Ladies and gentlemen! And everyone else too!" he proclaimed, spreading his arms in a clown's bow. "Today you will witness a historic moment when your humble servant will try to dance without breaking his neck!"

The crowd responded with laughter and shouts, and Theo, leaning against the wall, only closed his eyes, hiding a smile. He knew — such ostentatious bravado in Mason always meant excitement.

When the beat started, Mason began the standard — top rock, abrupt transition to footwork. But gradually a strange smoothness appeared in his movements, unexpected for street style. It was like if a graffiti artist suddenly started painting with watercolors — the same elements, but a completely different presentation.

It was at this moment that a girl came out of the alley. She stopped at the edge of the crowd, tired after a long day, with a dance bag over her shoulder. Her gaze was not like the gazes of the other spectators — not appraising, not mocking, but somehow... understanding. When Mason finally noticed her, his foot awkwardly caught on the unevenness of the asphalt. "Oops!" - someone chuckled from the crowd. He waved it off, pretending that this was the plan, but when he looked again — she was gone, like a mirage.

After the battle, Theo tossed him a bottle of water. "So, clown," his voice sounded dry, but there was a tremor of mockery in it, "have you finally found an audience worth screwing up in front of?"

Usually Mason retorted with similar jokes, but now he just silently wiped the sweat from his forehead. He couldn't stop thinking about that girl, about the way she looked at his dance — not at his movements, but at him.

Three days later, Mason was sitting on a bench in front of the academy building for the third evening in a row. The first day, he just walked past, pretending to be in the area by accident. The second day, he made up a story about waiting for a friend. By the third day, he had already come to terms with the fact that he was acting like a complete idiot.

When the door to the academy finally opened, his heart began to pound wildly. She came out in a light coat, now with her hair down. When she saw him, she stopped.

Mason jumped up as if on a spring, his brain feverishly going through prepared phrases. Finally, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Hi! Can you tell me where the nearest... uh... ballet monument is? I think I'm lost. I mean, not the monument, but me."

His palms were sweaty, and his heart was pounding so loudly that it seemed like it could be heard from across the street. He stood and waited, feeling like a fool, a stalker, and a man who suddenly realized that there are things more important than street battles.