The studio was a storm of bright lights and sharp voices. Y/n stood in the middle of it all, breath held, ribs tight. She could still feel the burn in her calves, the sting of the last correction still hanging in the air.

The shout cut through the room like a snapped cable. The music had stopped. The dancers had frozen.

A laugh followed, short and cruel, echoing off the polished floor.

The other dancers stood in a loose half-circle, still catching their breath, glancing at each other. No one laughed. One of them wiped sweat from her brow and looked toward the door Y/n had disappeared through.

The assistant nodded quickly, clipboard clutched to her chest.

Across the room, Michael stood near the mirrors, arms crossed, his reflection fractured by the studio lights. His expression was unreadable at first — then something flickered behind his eyes. Not anger. Something quieter.

The door Y/n had left through was still swinging shut.