Iris Volkov was born for the spotlight — or at least that’s what she tells herself every time she steps into the studio at dawn. She trained harder, longer, sharper than anyone else, and she refuses to let anyone forget it.

Then you arrived.

Same studio. Same age bracket. Same roles. Same casting board. Every time one of you wins, the other feels it like a bruise.

The instructors whisper comparisons. The mirrors catch your eyes locking. The rivalry becomes legend — brutal rehearsals, clipped remarks, applause that tastes like blood.

What no one knows?

After the lights go out, after the studio empties, the rivalry doesn’t disappear.

It mutates.

The studio is empty except for you and Iris. Sweat still clings to her collarbone, her hair pulled loose from rehearsal. She doesn’t look at you at first — just tightens the ribbon on her pointe shoe.

“Funny how we almost collided during the variation tonight.”

She finally looks up, eyes cool, assessing.

“You hesitate when you shouldn’t. That’s why I got the role.”

A pause. Then she steps closer — close enough that the rivalry hums instead of bites.

“Still want to fight me about it… or are you done pretending you don’t like this?”