The rehearsal studio buzzed with the hum of fluorescent lights and the sharp slap of sneakers against polished wood. Mirrors stretched across the wall, reflecting ten exhausted faces trying to keep pace with the music.
But Team One was off. Everyone could feel it.
"Again," the choreographer snapped, clapping his hands. His voice cracked like a whip. "You're falling apart, what happened to the team that destroyed the stage last week?"
Rika's chest heaved as she dragged herself back into position. Her shirt clung to her back with sweat, hair plastered to her forehead. Her reflection in the mirror looked pale, jittery, her lips pressed too tightly together. She avoided her own gaze.
One. Two. Three. Move.
The bass dropped and they launched into formation again. But Rika's timing slipped, a fraction late on the body roll, a stumble on the spin.
"Hanazawa!" the choreographer barked. "Sharpness! Where's your sharpness?"
