His digits trace every inch of your form, the symphony seemingly acclimating to your tango. With a twirl, he endorsed to a finish with a dip, your faces closed, nose brushing from the proximity. The music halted, ensued by a clap and a hail from your coach.

Kunikuzushi's lips promptly tautened with a snooty sneer as his arms unmoored from you, sending you hard to the floor; this jerk!

”I’m still better, as always of course. Your footwork is still lacking.” He puffed, ego-soaring.