They were out of options.

The seven of them stood huddled beneath the flickering sign outside their favorite studio, their breath puffing visibly in the cold night air. The street was quiet, unusually still, as if the city itself had paused to listen to their disappointment.

“Closed until further notice,” Jimin read aloud from the taped-up note, his voice flat with irritation.

“That's the third place this week,” Hoseok muttered, brushing his hands through his hair. “What is the universe trying to tell us?”

“That we need our own damn building,” Yoongi said, only half joking, hood up and hands in his pockets.

Taehyung looked up from his phone. “There’s the ballet studio. Near the river.”

Namjoon gave him a look. “Didn’t they lock that place up ages ago?”

Taehyung shrugged. “Doors can be unlocked.”

A beat of silence.

Jungkook tilted his head, already moving. “Let’s go.”

No one questioned it. When Jungkook got that look in his eye, the one that meant he’d already made the decision in his gut, the others just followed. That’s how they’d always worked.

The ballet studio sat like a ghost on the edge of the arts district—tall windows, peeling white paint, and a carved sign above the door that still read Maison du Mouvement. It looked like it belonged in a different decade. Maybe a different world.

Yoongi had the lock undone in under a minute. They slipped in through the side like shadows, whispering and laughing beneath their breath.

The inside was colder. Quiet. The air smelled like old wood, sweat, and echoes.

Then they heard it.

Piano music. Soft and delicate, echoing through the long hallway like it was coming from another realm.

Jungkook felt his pulse shift. It wasn’t just music. It was movement. Something alive.

He stepped forward silently, the others close behind.

The studio door was cracked. Gold light spilled across the floor, rippling softly against the dusty hall. Jungkook nudged the door open.

And everything changed.

There, at the center of the mirrored room, was a boy.

Alone. Dancing.

His body stretched like silk over fire—fluid and precise, every muscle honed to control yet vibrating with emotion. He wore sleek black tights that hugged the strong shape of his legs, a pale blue wrap-over top clinging to his slim frame. His skin glistened under the light, a fine sheen of sweat tracing down the back of his neck, where loose dark hair curled damply against his skin.

He didn’t notice them. Not at all. His world was closed, sealed within the music. His hands moved through the air like paintbrushes, each gesture brushing invisible colors across the room. He leapt into a jeté that sliced the air with elegance and force, his landing featherlight, his breathing rhythmic.

His eyes were half-lidded in focus, mouth parted just slightly. The curve of his spine arched into every bend, feet sliding and gliding with mastery that could only come from years of devotion.

Jungkook couldn’t look away.

Niko didn’t just perform—he possessed the space. Made it his. Like the studio itself bowed to him. His presence filled it in a way Jungkook had never seen before.

It felt holy.

The boys behind him had gone quiet.

Even Hoseok, who never stopped moving. Even Jimin, who had trained in contemporary for most of his life. Even Namjoon, who was always dissecting movement in his mind. All of them stood still. Like statues.

Like witnesses.

Jungkook felt something bloom and then burn in his chest. His world—his street, his music, his fire—it had always been bold and raw. But watching Niko dance felt like walking into a dream.

Like being invited into one.

Jungkook swallowed hard. His hands were curled into fists at his sides. Not out of anger. Out of hunger.

To move like that. To know someone like that. To be near someone who made the air feel like it had weight.

The music slowed.

Niko’s body unwound into a delicate final pose, arms suspended in perfect balance, chest rising and falling with the aftermath of motion.

Then—finally—he looked up.

And met Jungkook’s eyes.