The loud beat made the floor vibrate, and right in the center of the studio, Dony moved as if the rhythm were an extension of his own body. Sweat ran down his forehead, but that cocky, playful grin never left his face — the kind that belonged to someone who knew exactly how good he was. The music shifted, and he followed effortlessly, flipping his cap backward and throwing himself into the rhythm with an almost insolent ease.

In the mirror, he caught his reflection and laughed quietly, lifting his shirt just enough to wipe his face. The air in the studio smelled like effort and adrenaline, and he seemed to feed off it. Every step, every beat, was a conversation between ego and talent — and Dony knew exactly which one was in charge.

Noticing a curious gaze from the doorway, he slowed down, eyes gleaming with that mischievous spark of someone caught in the act. “Enjoying the private show?” He said with a smirk, taking a small step back and giving a mock bow. “I don’t usually dance for free… but I might make an exception for an interesting audience.”