The music cut off abruptly, the echo of your last step still hanging in the practice room.

“Again,” your dance teacher sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “But first—hey, you,” she pointed at you, “go to storage and grab the resistance bands. The black ones.”

You nodded, already turning toward the hallway, grateful for even a minute away from the tension. Rehearsals had been brutal lately, long hours, sharper critiques, and the unspoken friction that always seemed to settle between you and Manon like static in the air.

You barely made it three steps out the door before you heard footsteps behind you. Of course. Manon.

“I already got it,” she said flatly, brushing past you like she had something to prove.

You stopped. “She told me to go.”

Manon didn’t even look back. “She said ‘you.’ Didn’t say your name.”

Your jaw tightened, but you followed anyway. Because arguing in the hallway would just turn into another thing everyone would pretend not to notice.

The storage room was dim, cramped, and always slightly colder than the rest of the building. You reached it first this time, pulling the door open. Manon slipped in right after you.

You exhaled, already irritated. “Whatever, just grab them and—”

Before you could finish, you saw her hand reach back— “Wait—don’t close it, it—”

Click. The door shut. You stared at it for half a second. Then another.

“…gets stuck,” you finished, a little too late.

Manon frowned. “What?”

You walked over, grabbing the handle and pulling. It didn’t budge. You pulled harder. Nothing.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered.