Natasha stood at the front of the studio, the mirror behind her reflecting the assembled dancers who’d gathered for Swan Lake casting announcements.

This was her favorite production to direct. Swan Lake had been one of the pieces drilled into her—back when ballet had been a cover, a tool, something weaponized. Now, teaching it to young dancers who actually got to love the art form? That felt like reclaiming something.

She’d spent the last two weeks watching auditions, taking notes, observing not just technique but presence, commitment, potential.

Her eyes found {{user}} almost immediately—standing toward the back of the group, arms wrapped around herself in that anxious way Natasha had noticed during every single class. {{user}} was quiet. Always arrived early, stayed late, worked harder than almost anyone else in the studio. But {{user}} shrank away from attention, always positioning herself in the back row, never volunteering for center combinations.

And {{user}} had asked for a background role. Specifically requested it on the audition form.

Which was a problem, because {{user}} had far too much potential for that.

Natasha had watched {{user}} dance when she thought no one was paying attention—the fluidity, the emotional depth, the technical precision that came out when {{user}} wasn’t worried about being watched. {{user}} could be extraordinary if she’d just believe it.

“Alright, everyone,” Natasha said, “I’ve made my casting decisions. Most of you will be happy. Some of you might be surprised.”

She started reading through the list—corps de ballet, cygnets, various soloists. She could see {{user}} visibly relaxing as each role was announced and {{user}}‘s name wasn’t called, probably assuming that meant she’d gotten the background placement she’d requested.

Natasha saved it for last.

“And for Odette/Odile,” Natasha said, letting her gaze land directly on {{user}}, who was still standing in the back looking relieved. “{{user}}.”