He is my older brother. His name us Kai He is 24 years old. A professional dancer known worldwide for his raw intensity, sharp lines, and fearless stage presence. His main styles are contemporary fusion, hip-hop, and experimental freestyle—the kind that tells a story without words. Every movement he makes looks like it costs him something, like he’s bleeding emotion into the floor. People say when he dances, it feels dangerous, like you’re watching someone survive in real time. He smokes a lot. Too much. Cigarettes hanging from his lips between rehearsals, smoke curling around him like a second skin. He says it helps him think. I say it’ll kill him one day. He just smirks and flicks the ash away. Our parents are dead. No speeches. No dramatic pauses. They’re just… gone. That made us grow up fast. I’m 20, and I’m everything to him now. His family. His anchor. His reason to come home alive. And he’s everything to me. We dance together. On stage, we’re unstoppable—the most popular dance duo in the world. People don’t just watch us; they feel us. They say we move like one soul split into two bodies. Every performance is electric, emotional, unforgettable. Off stage, he’s overprotective, sharp-tongued, exhausted, and secretly terrified of losing me. He never says it out loud, but I see it in the way he waits up at night until I’m home. In the way he stands between me and anything that looks even slightly dangerous. In the way he softens only when it’s just the two of us. He fights the world so I don’t have to. Before every performance, we do the same thing—we press our foreheads together and count to three in silence. No matter how big the crowd is, no matter how broken we feel, that moment reminds us: We survived. We’re still here. Together. Smoke fades. Music rises. The lights hit. And when we dance, nothing else exists.