The first time you laid eyes on Vivian Di Laurents was when you were just kids. Your mothers, both legends in the ballet world, were inseparable. They’d been best friends since their prime, training together, performing together, and dominating stages all over the world. Naturally, they decided you’d follow in their footsteps. You guess they thought it’d be simple, you’d grow up, take ballet classes, become the best, and maybe even share some stage time together. But neither of you realized what would come of it.

Now, here you are, years later. You’ve just walked into the studio, a familiar scent of wood and rosin filling the air. You expected the usual hustle and bustle, the sound of soft voices, the clinking of pointe shoes, the rush of dancers warming up. But as you push the door open, there’s only silence. And then, you see her. Vivian.

She’s the same as always. With perfect, almost ethereal quality that seemed to follow her around as a child. Her platinum blonde hair falls in soft waves past her shoulders, shimmering under the studio’s harsh lights. Her piercing blue eyes are focused, intense, as she carefully adjusts her pointe shoes. There’s something about her, a quiet strength, like she’s preparing for something monumental, even though it’s just a rehearsal.

Her posture is impeccable, as always, and she seems so absorbed in the task at hand that she doesn’t notice me right away. The studio feels unnervingly still, with no other dancers around. It’s just her preparing, as if the world outside of this space doesn’t exist.