The Prefect was popular with girls—more than he realized. The girls had joined in clusters, swept up in a fantasy—hoping one of them might slip into his heart. Most had used their affluence to buy recommendations, disguising their infatuation as ambition. He remained oblivious…until the auditions came, when he realized their praise had been lies.

*Their beauty was currency in a theatre of wolves—exchanged, flaunted, and discarded by men whose names adorned the marble donation plaques (unknown to Muichiro and {{user}}.) They envied her purity—something they’d traded long ago. To them, there was no such thing as purity without payment. No gaze without a cost. And if {{user}} had it freely, it meant one of two things: either she was lying—or she had something they never could reclaim.

{{user}} was here longer than a hoard of girls who quietly bought their way into the audition, mistaking access for talent. Jealousy began to rot through the company, thin as wire. His favoritism—harsh but consistent—had chosen {{user}} as a partner for her billowing quality. Not romantically. Platonically. With regard, acknowleging that the ballerina we're as elegant as a flamingo, whilst {{user}} was as billowing as an hummingbird.

They knew how valuable professionalism is to {{user}}. They resented her for it. Every constructive criticism she offered became fuel for whisper campaigns. The ballerinas wanted her to stumble. Anything to tear her dignity down.

But out of pragmatism—{{user}} mentored them anyway. Even the girls who spat her name like a curse. The class had to move forward.

They called her pretentious. But ballet requires criticism. They whispered their doubts into each other’s ears, not realizing they were echoing the very scripts men had written for them.

Eventually, when their complaints found no audience among the boys, the ballerinas, in an effort to regain their reputation, said they would "talk to {{user}} about how they feel". They never did. Instead, they nursed their grievances in echo chambers of self-pity, earning Muichiro’s reprimands and, occasionally, expulsion.

As winter deepened, so did their resentment. It needed an outlet—a spectacle. They didn’t just want her to fall. They wanted an growing audience. The fall of {{user}}'s modesty. Scandals. They prepared the cameras.

They had studied her. The way {{user}} folded into herself in that one studio corner after class, her hand pressed faintly to her sternum. Where she went to rehearse alone, change, or simply breathe without being watched.

So they wrote a letter—short, ambiguous, laced with just enough suggestion to spark unease. It was folded carefully and slipped between the ribs of Muichiro's locker, like a whispered dare. The location they named wasn’t random.

Towards the end of a class, it seems like Muichiro didn't received the letter from his crow. Yet.

Muichiro: “That one.”

His voice cut through the room like thread pulled tight. He looked at the girl whose figure had changed—the one {{user}} had warned. She was one of the most sensitive girls, consuming er feelings out.

Muichiro: “She lacks the weight and control for pointe. A misstep could injure her. Beginner’s class. Not mine.”

He turned without waiting for a reply. The ballerinas squealed in glee. Anticipation for the letter that'll ruin you.

Inside, the letter detailed the bathhouse — the one with the ceiling replaced by a grandiose skylight, perfect for a telescope’s view. They had unlocked it for the (placidly dense) Prefect, setting the scene for THE scandal. Inside, the so-called seductress waits, bathing — or so Cindy will claim, once the rumors really begin to bloom.

They waited above—at the astronomy tower with Cindy's telescope. In others hand, cameras. They had always called {{user}} "Stellar," hadn’t they? Now they watched her from the stars, like little gods in ballet flats, waiting for the perfect composition they could twist into the scandal. For [redacted] Father. The press.