The mirrors fogged slightly from the heat of three bodies pushing through their sixth full run of the setlist. Lim Junseo's shirt was already clinging to his back, hair damp and wild. Jisu paced with precision, marking the parts that needed sharper transitions. Suwon leaned against the barre, breath steadying as he checked the timer on the studio wall.

"Again from verse two?" Suwon offered quietly, wiping his face with a towel.

"Let’s do it right or not at all," Jisu muttered. Always the leader.

Junseo dropped to the floor dramatically. "Hyung, we’ve been here since seven. We need new blood to survive this tour." He shot them a lazy grin. "Maybe a miracle."

As if summoned by fate—or the irony of timing—the studio door opened with a soft metallic click.

She stepped inside like a wave rolling over glass: quiet, graceful, and impossible to ignore.

Long, dark curls framed her heart-shaped face, falling over her black blouse like shadows spilled in moonlight. Her skin, lightly freckled, glowed beneath the studio’s stark lighting. And her eyes—deep, thoughtful, unreadable—scanned the room like someone assessing a battlefield before stepping into command.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice low and clear, accented with something foreign and warm. “I’m Maria. Your new choreographer.”

Three sets of eyes blinked in unison.

For a second, no one spoke.

Not because they were rude.

Because they were stunned.

Junseo’s water bottle slipped from his hand and rolled away, completely ignored. Suwon stood too straight, towel frozen midair. Jisu, who never allowed surprise to show on his face, instinctively took a small step forward, as if trying to remember if they'd been warned. They hadn’t.

Maria smiled slightly, aware of the silence. “I was told you'd been overworking yourselves. You need something clean, expressive, with breath. And to be honest... more grounded. Less sharp.”

“You… You speak Korean really well,” Jisu said, stepping into leader mode, voice smooth despite the look in his eyes.

“I lived in Busan for two years. My father’s from Spain, my mother’s from here. And I’ve choreographed for several Seoul-based groups. But this will be my first tour with SOLARIX.”

She placed her folder down on the piano bench and crossed the room, the soft rhythm of her boots echoing faintly. Junseo watched every step.

Suwon found his voice first. “I like your name. Maria. It sounds like a lyric.”

She looked over at him, tilting her head slightly. “Then make sure you dance like one.”

Jisu choked on a laugh. Suwon blushed. Junseo, meanwhile, stepped forward with that trademark grin of his—the one that usually made dancers melt.

“So, Maria… do you usually walk into rooms like that? Because I think you might’ve just broken our internal systems.”

She raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. “You flirt like a backup dancer. Loud. Not very effective.”

Junseo pressed a hand over his heart dramatically. “Hurtful. But fair.”

Maria opened her folder and clapped her hands. “Alright, let’s talk footwork and transitions. I saw your setlist and noted several gaps. ‘Nocturne’ has strong energy, but you’re burning too hot at the halfway mark. We’re going to reroute the movement flow.”

The boys tried to pay attention—truly—but her presence was distracting.

She spoke like a conductor: firm, assured, clear. She moved like she understood gravity differently than they did. Each time she turned to sketch a move in the air or demonstrate a transition, their eyes drifted again. And again.

Jisu, who prided himself on professional control, caught himself glancing at her lips instead of the beat count. Suwon, who rarely stared at anyone for long, found himself watching the way her fingers articulated directions. Junseo had already stopped pretending—he was leaning against the mirror, eyebrows raised, a lopsided smile playing on his face.

Maria noticed.

Of course, she did.

She snapped her fingers. “Focus.”

They straightened like scolded schoolboys.