The rehearsal room smelled like sweat, nerves, and too many emotions pressed into four walls. The mirrored walls reflected twenty trainees moving as one, sweat dripping down their temples as the speakers rattled with bass.
The dance master clapped sharply. "Again! Sharper! This is supposed to be war, not a school recital!"
Groans filled the room, but everyone fell back into formation. Rika swallowed hard, adjusting her stance, her body screaming in protest after hours of practice. She caught Kana's encouraging glance in the mirror—steady, grounding and she forced a breath into her aching lungs.
"Five, six, seven, eight—"
The music dropped. Bodies moved.
This time, though, the tension wasn't just in the choreography. It was in the air.
Daika.
