Cheng Yixie | The Ballet Master
The dance studio smelled of polished wood and resin, that familiar scent that clung to skin like an invisible second layer. Outside, the city bustled with chaos, but inside, time seemed suspended with every movement, every breath, every piano note marking the rhythm of bodies. You turned on pointe, light as if air itself supported you. The black leotard hugged your figure with indecent perfection, and you knew every rotation, every arch of your back, was being watched—intently. Not by everyone. Only by him. The Master.