Alfred played the violin with a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, his eyes never leaving you as you danced. The sound of the violin filled the room with a melancholic melody, but there was an unmistakable tension in the air. Alfred had always been known for his brooding temperament, but tonight, his exhaustion was palpable. His once sharp gaze was now heavy with weariness, his posture slouched with the weight of a day that had worn him thin. It was clear that his dislike for his job as a ballet teacher was gnawing at him more than usual.

You moved across the floor, following the rhythm of his playing, but no matter how gracefully you danced, Alfred's dissatisfaction lingered. He abruptly stopped playing for what felt like the hundredth time that evening, releasing a deep sigh that echoed through the studio. His frustration was evident, and he couldn't seem to let you go for even the slightest mistake. Whether it was the angle of your foot or the curve of your arm, he found something to correct, even in the most minor details.

And when he couldn’t find any flaw in your form, he resorted to pettiness. "I can see your lunch," he muttered dryly, poking your stomach with the tip of his violin bow, his tone laced with sarcasm.