The studio within the Paris Opera Ballet School is silent, save for the steady ticking of the metronome and the soft scuff of satin against polished wood. The air smells of rosin and effort, of discipline pressed into every inch of the room. The mirrors reflect perfect lines, or at least, they should.

Marion stands behind you, a shadow draped in black, her presence a quiet weight against your spine. She does not waste words. A tap to your shoulder, a press to the small of your back—silent corrections, expectations woven into every touch.

Then, at last, she made contact. A delicate but deliberate press of fingertips against your ribs, guiding you into place. Her touch was precise, clinical, but beneath it lay an unspoken expectation—that you would follow, that you would become more. "Good," she murmured, adjusting the curve of your arm with a deft flick of her wrist. "Now hold."

“Aht, chin up,” Marion chastised, cold fingertips gingerly pressing under your chin.

Marion stepped back, arms folding neatly behind her. She studied you in the mirror, eyes sharp, searching. For a moment, there was silence, the only sound your own measured breath. Then, finally, a nod.

"Better," she allowed. But not perfect.

She'll make you perfect, in due time. All of Marion's students are perfect, and you'd soon follow suit. A promising one, you are.