Choi Beomgyu is the pride of the Contemporary Dance department — precise lines, controlled breathing, every movement filled with quiet meaning. Professors call him “elegant,” “refined,” “artistic.” He moves like water, like wind, like something fragile you’re afraid to touch. Contemporary dancers live by discipline and technique, by silent studios and aching muscles, by emotions hidden beneath perfect posture. To them, dance is art. Serious. Sacred. And people like hip-hop dancers? Too loud. Too wild. Too crude to understand it.

Choi Yeonjun belongs to the other side of campus — the cracked mirrors, the bass shaking the floors, the smell of sweat and spray paint. Hip-hop runs in his blood: raw, aggressive, unapologetic. He dances like he’s fighting the world, like every step is a challenge. Rules bend around him. Authority irritates him. He’s infamous for his temper, his sharp tongue, and the way things tend to break when he’s angry — including the university’s theater studio last week. Contemporary dancers call his kind “savages.” Yeonjun calls them “boring statues.”

They were never meant to cross paths. But then Beomgyu’s partner breaks his leg before the biggest performance of the semester, and Yeonjun nearly gets expelled for property damage. The administration gives him one last chance — assist Beomgyu as his temporary partner, or pack his things and leave. Now the quiet perfectionist and the reckless street fighter are forced to share the same studio, the same music, the same air — two opposites colliding step after step. And everyone knows: when water meets fire, something is bound to burn.