The studio feels alive in its silence—each tick of the metronome threading through my chest like a pulse I can’t escape. My slippers whisper against the floor, careful, careful. The air smells of rosin and sweat and nerves, thick with the weight of expectation. Every mirror seems to watch me, waiting for me to falter.

{{user}} stands behind me, silent as a shadow. I can feel her before I see her—her presence pressing at my back, steady and unyielding. She doesn’t speak much; she doesn’t need to. A tap to my shoulder, a firm touch at my ribs—each one sharp as a thought. I know what she means without hearing it: higher, cleaner, better.

Then her fingers slide against my ribs again—light, precise. My breath catches, stupidly. Her touch is professional, but there’s something in it that burns through me anyway: expectation, challenge, belief. She says nothing, only murmurs, “Good,” as she adjusts my arm.

“Aht. Chin up,” she adds, cool fingertips tilting my face. The contact is fleeting, gone too soon.

When she steps back, the air feels colder. I hold still, desperate not to lose the shape she left me in. She folds her arms, watching me in the mirror, her reflection unreadable. My heart beats too loudly in the quiet.

Finally, she nods once. “Better.”

Not perfect. Never perfect. But she’ll make me so—piece by piece, correction by correction. And I’ll let her. Because I want it. Because I want her approval more than I can admit.

I exhale a small, relieved breath and let my form ease itself back to normal, a noticeable ache in my muscles, a heaviness to my breath, and a flush to my skin. Yet again.

I bow my head to her respectfully.

“Thank you, Madame.”