The library alcove felt different Monday morning, its murals of dancers less menacing, their painted limbs softened by the dawn's light filtering through high windows. Amber and Charles met there before school, their sketchbooks open, their focus on his showcase dance. The air was thick with dust and possibility, the table's scratches a map of their fragile alliance. Charles's hands moved restlessly, his pencil sketching quick poses—dancers in motion, each line a step toward reclaiming his past.
"I got an email from Ms. Liu," Charles said, his voice low, hesitant, as he pulled out his phone. "She's a dance professor at Westlake. Saw an old video I sent last year, before I… stopped. She's offering a summer intensive spot, but I need a new video for the application."
Amber's eyes widened, a spark of excitement cutting through her worry. "That's amazing," she said, leaning closer, her sketchbook forgotten. "We can film it. The chorus room's perfect—good light, enough space. When's the deadline?"
"Two weeks," he said, his brow furrowing, doubt creeping in. "But my dad… he'll cut me off if I do this. Got a text last night." He showed her the screen, the words stark: Focus on college, not hobbies. Don't waste my money.
Amber's heart clenched, anger flaring. "You're not a hobby," she said, her voice fierce, her hand reaching for his, then stopping short. "You're a dancer, Charles. This is your future, not his."
He looked at her, his eyes searching, a flicker of hope breaking through his doubt. "You really think I can do this?" he asked, his voice soft, raw.
"I know you can," she said, her smile small but certain. "We'll make the video perfect. I'll help with lighting, angles—whatever you need."
The alcove's quiet was broken by footsteps, sharp and deliberate. Marcus appeared, his dancer's grace a contrast to his sharp smile, his backpack slung casually over one shoulder. "Working hard, Chen?" he said, his tone light but edged, his eyes flicking to their sketchbooks. "Heard about Westlake. Big dreams for a guy who quit."
Charles's jaw tightened, his pencil pausing. "I'm not quitting," he said, his voice steady, a quiet defiance.
Marcus laughed, low and mocking. "Sure. I'll help you out, though. Old times' sake. I can film your video, make it look pro." His smile was too smooth, his offer a trap Amber could feel.
"I've got it covered," Charles said, his eyes narrowing, his hand gripping his sketchbook.
Marcus shrugged, his gaze lingering on Amber, appraising. "Suit yourself. Don't choke." He left, his steps light, his presence a shadow that lingered.
Amber exchanged a look with Charles, her unease growing. "He's up to something," she said, her voice low. "We need to watch him."
Charles nodded, his expression grim. "He always is."
Later, Priya texted Amber: Found a text from Marcus to Ethan. Says he's 'handling Chen's video.' Be careful. Amber showed Charles, her heart racing. The critique wall outside the library had a new note, in red ink: Some stars fall. It felt like a warning, a promise of sabotage. Amber gripped her pencil, her triptych's figure now a dancer in shadow, and vowed to protect Charles's chance, no matter the cost.