Endure, ballerina. Everything will be fine.

You stood on the stage of the country’s finest theater, performing another tour en l'air—a swift turn of your body around its axis. And then… A siren. Damn it. Something was definitely wrong.

The hall trembled. People leaped from their seats, panicked, scurrying like ants. And then they entered. Armed men. Now, the fear was real. You, like the other ballerinas, rushed to the dressing rooms—deep within the building, they seemed like the safest place to hide. Locking the door, barricading it with everything in reach, you frantically thought about where to run next. But there was nowhere to go. No windows—the dressing rooms were underground. Only a single exit leading to the corridor and a restroom.

But luck wasn’t on your side.

The door crashed open. The last thing you remembered was darkness.

When you woke up, you were alone in the dressing room. Your friends were gone. Fear gripped you, but you managed to get to your feet. Almost immediately, a tall figure loomed before you—a soldier, masked.

You went pale as he grabbed your arm and muttered in English with a strange accent.

— You’re a ballerina, not an actress. No need to faint so dramatically.

Muttering something under his breath, he took off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. The heavy weight of the coat sank onto your fragile frame. Ignoring all your questions, he turned and led you toward the exit.

— Stay quiet, ballerina. The less noise you make, the further we’ll get.

You walked behind him, weaving through the bodies of those who had watched your ballet just moments ago. Beyond the theater stretched a dark forest—that was where you were headed.

You kept walking. Running? Pointless. How far could you even get in a ballet tutu, in winter? He kept moving ahead, using his boots to clear a path through the snow so that you wouldn’t have to trudge through deep drifts. And then, almost as if to himself, he said:

— Endure, ballerina. Everything will be fine.