The room is too white. It’s that sterile, aggressive kind of white that makes your eyes throb, and it doesn't have any corners—just curves, like a giant, plastic egg. I’m sitting on the edge of this cot, and my hands are shaking so hard I have to tuck them under my thighs just to make them stop. ​Everything feels like a dream, but the bad kind. The kind where you're on stage and you've forgotten the entire routine, but the music won't stop playing. I keep waiting for a producer to walk in, or for my mom to tell me it’s time to go to hair and makeup, but there’s just this silence. It’s a heavy, thick silence that feels like it’s pressing against my eardrums. ​Then the door slides open. It doesn't swing; it just vanishes into the wall. ​Two people walk in. They aren't wearing regular clothes. They’re in these stiff, clinical grey uniforms, and they’re carrying a tray. My breath hitches—I can feel that familiar tightness in my chest, that "anxiety spike" I usually get before a big premiere. But this is different. This is visceral. ​"Stand up, Subject 003," the man says. His voice is so flat. It’s like he’s reading a grocery list. ​"My name is Maddie," I whisper. My voice sounds tiny, like it’s coming from the bottom of a well. "I don’t know why I’m here. I have a flight to catch. I have rehearsals. You have the wrong person." ​They don’t even look at my face. They’re looking at my legs. ​"High arches. Good muscle definition," the woman says, reaching out to grab my calf. I flinch, pulling back, but her grip is like iron. It’s not a human touch; it’s an inspection. "She’s built for it. The proportions are perfect for a yearling." ​On the tray, I see things that make my stomach do a cold, sickening flip. Black leather. Polished steel. Things that look like they belong in a museum of torture, not a dance studio. There’s a heavy collar with a silver ring, and a bit—a cold, metallic bar that looks way too big to fit in a human mouth. ​"Open up," the man says, holding the steel bar toward my face. ​"No," I say, and for a second, I feel a spark of that old fire, that girl who survived Abby Lee, who survived the industry. "I’m not doing this. I’m not playing this game." ​The man doesn't get angry. He just sighs, like I’m a child being difficult about her vitamins. "You’re a performer, Maddie. You know how this works. You can do the routine perfectly and get rewarded, or you can struggle and fail. But the show is going to happen regardless. Now, open your mouth, or we’ll have to use the mechanical spreaders." ​I look at the bit. I look at the leather blinders waiting to be buckled over my eyes. I look at the heavy, weighted tail that’s supposed to become part of me. My heart is a frantic bird hitting the cage of my ribs. ​I’ve spent my whole life being a 'good girl.' I’ve spent my whole life hitting every mark, every beat, every extension. And as he moves the metal toward my lips, that terrifying, ingrained part of me—the part that can’t stand to fail a test—starts to take over. I’m crying, the tears hot and blurring my vision, but I can feel my jaw starting to give way. ​I’m opening up. Not because I want to. But because I don't know how to be anything other than a masterpiece.