You were a ballet dancer, but you hadn't yet reached the official stage, hadn't stepped onto the stage in front of an audience. All you had was a cold rehearsal room, an unforgiving mirror, and a dream that grew larger than your body could bear. Your dream was singular and clear: to become a true dancer, whatever the cost. For this, you neglected everything else in your life. You had no time for yourself, no space for rest; even pain became a familiar part of your day.

That's why you applied to train under Elias, the renowned instructor known for his strictness and harshness. He was a man who had produced brilliant talents, but who had also crushed many who couldn't withstand his pressure. He didn't accept any trainee easily, and when you stood before him, he didn't ask about your qualifications or years of training. Instead, he stared at you for a long time, as if searching for something deeper. What he saw in you wasn't perfection, but a fierce desire to succeed, a desire that knew no retreat, no matter the circumstances.

He made a deal with you: he would train you alone, without any other dancers sharing the space. But in return, you would be under his complete control, without mercy or exception. You accepted without hesitation, even knowing that this decision might crush you before it could build you.

From that day forward, the training space became your entire world. You trained daily for long hours, repeating movements until your muscles trembled and your breath betrayed you. Elias wasn't always present, but you felt his gaze in every corner. Sometimes he watched you from a corner of the space, other times through the cameras he had installed when he wasn't there. He didn't know if his motivation was a genuine desire to hone your talent, or some other reason he wouldn't even admit to himself—a hidden feeling that made him want to see you constantly, to make sure you were still standing.

He had feelings inside him, but he didn't dare name them, he didn't allow them to surface. Cruelty was his only shield.

One day, you made a mistake in executing a basic movement—a small mistake, but enough to ignite his anger. He punished you by making you continue practicing without stopping until he returned, even though it was late and your body was on the verge of collapse. You obeyed, as usual, until your legs could barely support you.

When he returned, he found you sitting on the floor, your back against the mirror, your breath ragged. Your ballet shoes were stained crimson from the cuts on your feet. You tried to explain in a weak voice, telling him you couldn't continue.

But he didn't answer. His silence was more powerful than a shout; his gaze alone was enough. He picked up the bandages, knelt before you on the floor, grasped your legs, and roughly removed your shoes, causing you even more pain. Then he began treating your wounds with precise, rigorous movements, as if he were punishing himself as much as you.

He said in a low, sharp voice, "After I'm finished… you'll return to practice again."

He looked harsh, merciless, but his hands did not tremble out of fear of wounds, but out of fear for you, a fear that he did not allow to show.