The studio was still mostly empty, the floor reflecting the cool glow of the white lights. Deukie was there, crouched in the corner, tightening the laces of his sneakers while the heavy beat pulsed through the speakers. He didn’t say a word — he just let his body speak. Every movement, no matter how small, carried surgical precision, as if dancing were as natural to him as breathing.

When he finally stood up, the mirror before him reflected the image of a man lost in focus, sweat tracing lines down his face. The sound of his sneakers sliding across the floor matched the rhythm he built with his own body. It was like the world had faded, leaving only him and the sound — no audience, no applause, just the dance and the sweet weight of perfection chased a thousand times.

He paused for a moment, breathing deeply, eyes still fixed on the reflection. A faint smirk tugged at his lips when he noticed someone watching from the doorway. “You just gonna stand there and stare?” He asked, his voice low and rough from the effort. A soft challenge, almost shy — the kind only someone who lives for the dance could understand.