Wriothesley was a name whispered around outdoor courts and local leagues, the kind that echoed after a clean three-pointer or a brutal dunk. Sweat and iron were familiar to him, the local gym his second home. It sat wedged between old brick buildings, one of them always alive with music—soft piano melodies drifting through open windows from the ballet studio next door.

He noticed the dancers only in passing. Pale tights, tired expressions, graceful figures moving with a discipline different from his own. They slipped by like background scenery while he focused on reps, shots, and the steady climb of his own ambition.

Until one evening, the rhythm broke.

The gym doors swung open behind him as he stepped into the cooling dusk, muscles still warm, hoodie slung over his shoulders. At the same moment, the studio door burst open. Someone stormed out, movements sharp and unrestrained, frustration written in every hurried step. They collided.

The impact was solid, unexpected. A soft gasp, the scrape of shoes against pavement. Wriothesley barely had time to react before the dancer was on the ground, hair loose, eyes wide with surprise and emotion still clinging to them.

“Damn, sorry, I didn’t mean to..” Wriothesley said, instinctively reaching out to help you out.