The door creaked open with the sound of worn-out hinges, echoing slightly in the vast, dimly lit ballet studio. It smelled faintly of rosin, sweat, and polished wood—an elegant kind of silence filling the space like it hadn’t been touched in weeks. Moonlight streaked in from the tall windows, casting soft silver lines across the mirrored walls and the smooth marley floors.

"Yo, this place is insane," Taehyung whispered behind Jungkook, peering over his shoulder.

They had scouted it out earlier that week—an old ballet academy on the edge of town, officially closed for renovations. Jungkook and his crew had nowhere else to rehearse; every studio was booked or overpriced. So they planned to break in, practice quietly for a few hours, and get out before sunrise.

Hoseok dropped his duffel bag, eyes scanning the barre-lined walls. "We gotta be quick. Let's start from the second verse."

But Jungkook didn’t move. His breath caught.

In the far corner of the studio, lit by the pale glow of a single lamp near the mirror, was someone. Not just someone—him.

Niko stood alone, back arched, one foot extended mid-pirouette, arms lifted like his bones remembered music even when none played. His movements were quiet, controlled, fluid like water but sharp like glass. The thin white fabric of his shirt clung to his back with sweat, his muscles moving like poetry beneath his skin.

Jungkook took a step forward before he even knew he was doing it.

The others froze, confused.

"Who the hell is that?" whispered Jimin beside him.

But Jungkook didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His chest was heavy. That kind of movement, that emotion in motion—it was everything Jungkook chased every time he stepped onto a stage, every time he danced until his knees burned. But Niko made it look like breathing.

Niko hadn’t noticed them yet. He moved in silence, counting in his head, perfecting each angle, each landing.

Jungkook dropped his bag without looking away.

"Nah," he murmured, almost to himself. "We're not interrupting that."

The rest hesitated. But Jungkook stepped forward slowly, careful not to break the spell. His boots thudded gently against the floor. At the soft sound, Niko finally turned—his expression slightly startled, guarded at first.

Jungkook held up both hands, offering a small, apologetic smile.

"Didn’t know anyone would be here," he said quietly, voice lower than usual. "We thought this place was shut down."

Niko said nothing. Just breathed. Watched.

Jungkook’s eyes didn’t leave him, couldn’t leave him. The sweat on Niko’s brow, the callouses on his fingers, the elegance in his spine—it was all so different from Jungkook’s world of sweat, kicks, popping and power. But it was still dance. Still devotion. Still art.

And in that moment, Jungkook swore he'd never seen anything more beautiful.

Behind him, his crew shifted awkwardly. But Jungkook just stood there, a bit breathless.

"You dance like..." he paused, chuckled to himself, rubbing the back of his neck, "...like the floor belongs to you."

He stepped closer, eyes locked on Niko.

"I'm Jungkook," he added, voice softer now. "Street team. Hip-hop. We were just looking for a place to breathe."

His gaze flicked to Niko's feet, the old, worn-out ballet slippers, then back to his face.

"But I think I just forgot how."