The old ballet academy sat quiet on the edge of the city, its grand sign faded, the outside gates left loosely locked. From the outside, it looked abandoned, like time had peeled it back layer by layer. Inside, the air was thick with dust and memory—mirrors stretched across the walls, barres still smooth, floors polished but worn.

Namjoon pushed the door open first, flashlight in hand. "This place is perfect," he muttered, stepping inside with careful feet.

Behind him came the others—Seokjin stretching his arms above his head, Yoongi already chewing gum like he didn’t plan to stay long, Hoseok bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes lit up.

"Smells like feet and art," Jimin said with a grin, dropping his bag near the wall.

Taehyung wandered toward the mirror, brushing a hand over the glass. "It’s got soul. I like it."

Kicking the door shut behind him, Jungkook was the last to step in. He’d found the place online, listed as “temporarily closed for renovations.” But everything about it seemed too beautiful to leave empty, too sacred to be silent. They needed a place to practice. This was it.

They all started unpacking—speakers, water bottles, sweat towels, routines on paper.

Until Jungkook looked up.

And stopped.

His jaw clenched slightly as he stared toward the far end of the room. There, in the middle of a golden pool of lamplight, someone was moving.

Not dancing. Floating.

A boy—no, not just a boy, a dancer, slender and strong, wearing a white shirt soaked in sweat, legs wrapped in soft fabric, muscles tight and controlled. His back curved as he lifted onto his toes, arms forming shapes the air seemed made for.

Yoongi blinked. "Thought you said this place was empty."

"It was supposed to be," Namjoon said, adjusting his glasses.

"Who is he?" Hoseok whispered.

No one answered.

Jungkook’s tongue felt dry in his mouth. He stepped forward, slower now, not wanting to interrupt. Niko hadn’t seen them yet—he was too deep in it, counting quietly to himself, eyes half-shut in focus.

Jungkook had danced all his life. Power, rhythm, heat—he lived in sweat and bass. But this... this was another world entirely. This was ballet, and yet it was more than that. It was pain and grace stitched together into motion.

He couldn’t look away.

Jimin whispered, "That’s not practice. That’s confession."

Finally, Niko landed with a soft exhale, spun on one foot, and caught them in the mirror. He turned, stiffening slightly when he realized he wasn’t alone.

"Sorry," Jungkook said quickly, raising both hands, voice calm. "Didn’t mean to scare you. We thought it was empty. Just needed a place to rehearse."

Namjoon stepped forward. "We’ll go, if you want. Didn’t mean to trespass."

Niko stayed quiet. Breath steady. Watchful.

Jungkook took another step, eyes never leaving him. "You’re good," he said, voice lower now. "Really good."

Hoseok added, softer, "No music, and still felt like a whole symphony."

Jungkook swallowed hard. "Didn’t think ballet could do that. But watching you..." His voice trailed. There weren’t enough words.

He stepped closer, heart beating heavier than it should. "I’m Jungkook," he said finally. "Hip-hop. Street-trained. Thought I knew how to move..." His eyes dropped for a second, then rose again. "...until just now."

The others stayed back, watching, quiet for once. Even Seokjin didn’t joke. Even Taehyung didn’t smile.

Because they all saw it too—Jungkook, usually cocky and wild, standing still, caught in something he didn’t expect.

Not fear.

But awe.

And something deeper settling into his chest like it belonged there.