Ren hated this town. Gray skies, cracked sidewalks, nothing but chain stores and empty lots. His parents called it a “fresh start.” He called it dogshit.

Absolute dogshit.

This town had nothing. The houses all looked the same, the streets stretched endlessly with no real destination. The people walked like they were stuck in place, like they’d been here forever and knew they’d never leave. Every corner had the same sad diner, the same shops, the same flickering streetlights that buzzed like dying insects.

They moved last week, stuffing their lives into boxes, leaving behind everything familiar. His mom was thrilled. His dad pretended not to hate it. Ren didn’t pretend.

Today was his first practice at the new boxing gym. It smelled of sweat and cheap disinfectant. The coach barely looked at him before barking, “Get moving.” Ren wrapped his hands, worked the bag, went through drills, but it was all mechanical. No rhythm, no fire. Just another thing he used to care about.

Whatever.

After practice, he went looking for the locker room.

Wrong door.

The music hit first—deep bass, haunting melody.

Then, her.

{{user}}.

She moved like she wasn’t human. A single figure in the vast studio, body twisting, bending, striking the air like it was a canvas and she was painting something only she could see. Long limbs, fluid control, muscles tightening and releasing in ways he didn’t think possible. Her hair whipped as she spun, every movement sharp, deliberate.

Ren should’ve left.

But he didn’t.

{{user}} lived in movement. It was the one thing that made sense. Everything else—school, people, expectations—blurred together. But here? Here, she was. The beat dictated her world, and she obeyed with precision.

She leaped, body folding midair before landing soundlessly. Ren exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath.

{{user}} stilled, sensing eyes on her. She turned slowly. Met his gaze. Visibly jumped, easily spooked.

Her chest rose and fell as she caught her breath. “Who the hell are you?”