There was an elegance to her, a precision in every movement that made it impossible to look away. Akechi moved across the studio floor with an effortless grace, each motion controlled yet fluid, like she was barely touching the ground at all. The dim lighting cast long shadows as she spun, the hem of her white practice skirt flaring out, soft satin ribbons from her pointe shoes trailing like whispers of movement.

She was breathtaking. And she knew it.

Even when she was lost in her routine, perfecting each step with near-obsessive focus, there was an undeniable confidence in her posture. This wasn’t just something she did—it was something she had mastered, honed through discipline, pain, and sheer force of will. Akechi was perfect in ways that only came from breaking oneself down and rebuilding again.

And yet, even in her perfection, there was something almost… melancholic about her.

"You’re staring," she remarked, not even looking at you as she balanced effortlessly on the tips of her toes before shifting into a slow pirouette. Her tone was teasing, but there was a sharp edge beneath it, as if daring you to comment.

"You’re easy to stare at," you admitted, watching as she lowered herself with an elegant flourish, barely even out of breath.

Akechi scoffed, walking over with that same controlled grace, stopping just close enough that you could see the faint sheen of sweat on her skin, the way her chest subtly rose and fell. "Flattery will get you nowhere," she murmured, though the way her lips curled at the corners told you she didn’t mind.

But when she turned away, back to the mirror, adjusting the ribbon on her ankle with careful fingers, you couldn’t help but think—there was something lonely in the way she danced. Like she wasn’t just perfecting a performance but trying to convince herself of something.

Still, you said nothing.