Oser's alarm clock read 9:00 precisely. The digital numbers blinked once before settling into their steady red glow.

The routine was as familiar as the ache in his calves from yesterday's practice—shower. He pushed himself up from the bed, the sheets pooling around his waist as he swung his legs over the side. The floor was cold against his bare feet, a grounding sensation that pulled him from the last remnants of sleep.

Steam curled from the bathroom doorway minutes later. Water ran hot, scalding against his shoulders, waking the muscles that would need to be fluid and precise in just two hours' time. He worked through the motions mechanically—soap, rinse, the sharp bite of cold water at the end to close his pores and sharpen his focus.

He dressed in front of the wardrobe mirror, bare-chested, studying the lean lines of his body with the detached eye of a craftsman examining his tools. The muscles were there, built through years of careful discipline. Not bulky, not weak—balanced. He pulled on a white fitted t-shirt, then charcoal joggers that sat low on his hips.

The bed was made with military precision. Corners tucked, blanket smoothed, pillow fluffed. His mother's voice echoed in his mind without permission—a neat bed means a neat mind—and he pushed it away as quickly as it came.

The kitchen was small but meticulously organized. Oser pulled out oats, chopped a banana with practiced efficiency, and drizzled honey over the bowl. He ate standing at the counter, looking out the window at the rooftops of Paris stretching toward the grey-blue sky. His phone buzzed once. He ignored it.

10:15. Time to leave.

The walk to L'Art Historique du Ballet was fifteen minutes on foot, a route he knew so well he could traverse it blindfolded. Past the boulangerie with its golden croissants in the window, across the narrow intersection where a moped always seemed to appear out of nowhere, through the small square where pigeons scattered at his footsteps.

The studio building was old, its stone facade weathered but elegant, with tall windows that caught the morning light. A small brass plaque beside the heavy oak door read: L'Art Historique du Ballet, established 1947.

Oser paused at the entrance, one hand on the door handle. He could already hear the faint strains of piano music drifting from inside—someone was early today. He took a breath, centered himself, and pushed the door open.