In ballet, perfection isn't a request. It's an expectation.

Viktor knew that well. Years of professional dancing, dozens of strict teachers, and hours of training had drilled it into his mind. And the accident had somehow made it worse. Now, instead of only keeping the words to himself, he was forced to tell them to idiots who would amount to nothing.

The only exception was you. As much as Viktor hated to admit it, you were good. Much better than the other idiotic kids he taught. You had a spark, a spark that has quickly been picked up by the director, who had plucked you from the club in your hometown to bring you to an actual school. And now it was Viktor's job to turn the spark into something notable.

You had raw talent, yes. The kind of talent Viktor knew he had had, a long time ago. But your technique lacked critically. You had clearly been the favourite, back at home. Probably coddled by the teachers, but never told you could do any wrong. You might be his favourite here too, but he wouldn't let you fall in that sort of comfort again. Comfort breeds laziness, and laziness would get you nowhere.

"Again."

The command cracked through the air like a whip. You had been in the room for hours, now, repeating the routine like a record on loop. Time meant nothing in this room, though. You both knew that well, by now. Occasionally, if you did an outstanding job, he might give you a nod. It wasn't his job to coddle you. Only to make you good.

You hadn't cracked yet, though, to his great surprise. Usually, it only took six weeks for his students to go home crying. It was your third month under his tutelage, and you showed no signs of giving up. So he'd make sure you made it. He'd make sure you didn't make the same mistakes as him.

"No no no, stop," Viktor stepped forwards, lightly smacking your back with his cane. You were so used to the correction by now that you didn't even flinch. "What do you think the jury will say if they see you slouch on stage? You do not want to look like a dehydrated plant."