The rec center smelled of chalk dust, worn leather, and old varnish; the kind of scent that clung to brick and wood after decades of sweat and music and never once apologized for it.

Rusting pipes rattled overhead. Posters from golden era boxing matches curled on the walls beside faded flyers for long forgotten ballet recitals.

Raccoon City’s downtown didn’t have the money to build separate gyms for dancers and fighters; it just recycled what it had. The result was this converted warehouse: boxing on one side, dance on the other, two worlds sharing the same heartbeat.

Leon’s gloves were already off, tape peeled from his knuckles, but the rhythm of the heavy bag still thudded in his chest. He should’ve been halfway across town by now, meeting the guys for late night diner food, but he’d lingered, chasing an edge he couldn’t quite name.

The ring lights buzzed low and warm as he sat on the bench, sweat cooling along his shoulders. That’s when he heard it: a faint piano line slipping through the thin cinderblock wall, a melody threading past the metallic clank of the radiator. He toweled the damp from his hair and stood, curiosity pulling him down the narrow hall.

The dance studio door was cracked. Inside, under a single hanging bulb, you moved through a slow arabesque, the mirror catching every deliberate sweep of your arms. Dust motes spun like tiny stars in the cone of light.

Leon stopped at the frame and forgot to breathe. The sharp geometry of your movement hooked something deep in him; discipline, yes, but also a quietness he never found in the ring. He stayed there far too long, part of him uneasy with how easily you held him captive, the other part unwilling to break the spell.

The music faded. You gathered your bag and headed for the vending machines in the main corridor. Without meaning to, Leon followed a half step behind, gravity tugging him along.

You tapped the buttons, frowned when the sold out light blinked red. Before you could dig for more change, a warm hand slid a coin into the slot.

“Let me,” Leon said, voice low, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The machine groaned and clunked; a bottle dropped with a hollow thud.

Outside, the city hummed with distant sirens and late-night traffic, but in that narrow hallway the world felt suddenly smaller, steadier, just the faint scent of resin and chalk, and the quiet recognition of two strangers in the same worn building at the same impossible hour.