Prima

Ryoji spoke first.

Not Reika. Not Hiroto. Not me.

Ryoji.

His tone was clipped. Cool. Measured. But something beneath it—like iron beneath velvet—made the air go still.

“We do it here,” he said. “No staging tricks. No PR detours. You’ll give her a proper space and time to prepare.”

He wasn’t asking. He demanded, and it came so naturally to him.

“And,” he added, eyes narrowing just a hair, “you will compensate my client for her work.”

Reika didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. But I saw it—the slightest uptilt at the edge of her brows. The grace didn’t crack, not even slightly. But Ryoji’s tone had drawn blood.

He’d drawn a line.

“I wasn’t aware,” she said calmly, “that your client was operating as a professional performer.”

“I operate the terms,” he said, sharper now. “You know that well.”

At that moment, Hiroto wheeled himself in with the timing of a theatre curtain drop.

“Actually,” he said brightly, hands already fluttering over his datapad, “as operator and negotiator for Sette Risk Solutions, freelance arm, I’d like to officially state our rate.”

I blinked.

We have a rate? They have a rate?

He turned toward Reika, all cheerful poison. “Given the urgency of the request, the lack of prior rehearsal time, and the personal stake involved, the agreed-upon compensation will be equivalent to our short-notice infiltration package—plus performance hazard fee. Standard.”

“Hiro,” I whispered. “That sounds like we’re about to break into a bank.”

He gave me a wink.

Reika didn’t even look at him.

She looked at me.

Like none of the noise around her mattered. Like her surroundings existed to frame her silence.

And she smiled.

A small, impossibly elegant curve of the lips.

“Very well,” she said. “Compensation will be provided accordingly.”

She took a single step forward. I could hear the swish of silk as the hem of her kimono shifted.

“I’ll have the equipment brought up shortly,” she said, inclining her head toward me, voice still dipped in politeness, “and I trust you’ll find our rehearsal space satisfactory. Please use it as you see fit.”

And with that—

She turned.

She didn’t bow again. She didn’t linger.

Just a turn. A glide toward the exit.

The moment she left, the air moved once again, and I allowed myself to take a deeper breath.

Hiro exhaled dramatically, already typing something that beeped. Ryoji just folded his arms, jaw still tight.

And me?

I stood where I was.

Heart beating.

Game on.

The changing room wasn’t exactly a dressing room. It was more like a side lab with the equipment cleared out—spare, polished, but big enough to stretch and move.

A full-length mirror stood propped in one corner, a garment rack beside it, draped with a sleek black unitard and tights.

Beside that: a folded towel, water bottle, and a fresh pair of dance slippers.

Prepared. Very prepared.

Then came the soft swish under the door.

A thick folder, sliding in.

“Score’s coming through, Natsumi-chan!” Hiroto’s voice chimed from the other side—cheerful as always. “Take your time! We’re still calibrating the sensors and adjusting the room config. Ryoji’s guarding the door like a temple lion, so you’re safe from wardrobe sabotage.”

I almost smiled.

Of course he was out there.

I didn’t even need to check. I could feel it—his presence on the other side of the panel like a shadow that refused to leave mine. Always between me and anything that might slip through the cracks.

It wasn’t about surveillance.

It was about watching.

And it meant something—that even now, even here, with the Yamada’s trust and all their glass walls, he still wouldn’t let me out of his reach.

He hadn’t said a word when I stepped inside. Just a nod. A brief glance. That was all.

But I knew he was out there.

And that told me just how serious this was.

I bent down and picked up the folder.

Cream cardstock. Thick paper inside. Neat diagrams, crisp notation.

Then I saw the title on the cover sheet.

“A FEELING — Experimental Rendition for AR Motion Sync”

Performance Code: 09-BETA-REIKA Choreographers: Stella Marina, H. Masuzawa Duration: 3:52 min Notation Format: Benesh Movement (BMN) & Labanotation Supplement

My eyes narrowed.

Of course. A Feeling. Stella Marina’s breakout anthem — a piece every serious dancer knew. She had built the choreography herself back in New York, ‘83–‘84, before Luciana cornered her and forced the fateful choice: dance or music. Marina chose music; the rest became pop history. But these lines on the page… they were her goodbye to the stage — energy and sorrow pressed into every spin, every reach, like she was burning the last of herself before walking away.

And now it was in my hands.

I flipped past the time markers and into the choreography. Pages of staves and gridlines, BMN symbols rising and dipping like strange music — head positions, torso tilts, foot angles, hand arcs mapped into motion geometry. Beneath them, Labanotation traced the dynamics: weight, effort, direction.

I could read it.

I’d been trained for this since I was twelve.

I sat down, knees tucked under me, and studied the first set.

The symbols blurred for a heartbeat, not from confusion but from a sudden clarity: this might be it. After everything — the running, the hiding, the guns and shadows closing in — this could be the last time I stand on any stage at all. The last time I get to speak in the only language that’s ever been fully mine. If the world was going to take dance away from me, I’d leave it with something worthy.

I sat down, knees tucked under me, and studied the first set.

Intro: pliés and arms—standard. Then came the extensions. The jumps.

And then—mid-page—the tempo spike.

Sharp pivot into a travelling diagonal: one-turn pirouette, chasse, ground sweep, shoulder roll. No pause.

Then up.

A breakdance windmill.

No joke.

They were actually integrating the movie’s iconic freestyle sequence. Turnout flexes, back leg whips—modified slightly, sure, but still hard. Especially after the ballet-heavy opening.

The next page confirmed it: this wasn’t just dance.

This was a tech demo.

In the margins, someone had added test notes:

“Focus on velocity tracking—ankle & wrist.”

“Acceleration tolerances mapped. Push the spin.”

“Frame drift calibration for hair and fabric. Max motion bloom recommended.”

Of course.

It wasn’t just performance.

They wanted to show that this new AR system—whatever it was—could keep up with chaos. That it could track grace under velocity. That even in pirouettes, in breakrolls, in sweat and momentum—it wouldn’t lose a pixel.

I exhaled slowly.

I’d done this routine before.

Not this exact version, but something close. A tribute workshop in Milan. The final burst had nearly blown my knees out, but I nailed it. The muscle memory was there.

I just had to dig it out.

Still, even with muscle memory, this wasn’t normal.

The routine was printed in Benesh notation, tightly marked—but I could tell, almost immediately, that parts had been deliberately loosened. Segments were annotated for freestyle or interpreted movement, especially the more complex transitions. It wasn’t laziness. It was intention.

I flipped to the choreographer’s name in the margin and blinked.

I knew the name. He’d done contemporary blends for European tours. A bit of a wildcard—genius, but known for improvisational chaos. Below his signature were the words:

“Denied rehearsal with the substitute. Cramming in as much improv space as possible. I hope she’s sharp.”

No rehearsal. No prep. He wasn’t even briefed on who the new dancer was. Just a blank slate and an urgent delivery.

That wasn’t a logistical mistake.

That was deliberate.

My eyes narrowed as I stared at the page.

Ryoji.

He didn’t want anyone connecting dots. Not the studio. Not the original choreographer. Definitely not whoever might’ve been monitoring the original event. That meant no prior footage. No studio calls. No paper trail.

Just one substitute—me—dancing at a virtual camera.

Still, the freestyle sections… they weren’t just a creative crutch. They were what made this possible. Gave me a chance to actually pull it off in the three or four hours I had. Without that leeway, the full routine would’ve taken days of drilling. Weeks to polish.

And even with the space to improvise?

Some of the transitions were vicious. Extended pirouettes into crouch breaks. Sudden deceleration before explosive lifts. Floor work that teetered into near-breakdance territory.

The kind of things you didn’t just wing.

I stared at the mirror. At my own reflection—no makeup, hair tied back, dancer’s wear folded neatly beside me. No stage lights yet. No applause. Just me, the notes, and a mountain to climb.

Half a day.

No net.

No retakes.

But this—this was the best shot I had.

I could do this.

I would do this.

And not just for the payment. Or the stay.

But for myself.

For the girl who’d once danced in a tiny studio in Tokyo with blistered toes and big dreams.

For the woman who was not—not—going to be outshined by yet another kimagure girl.

Not again.

I stood up.

And began to stretch.

The doors parted with a soft hiss, and I stepped out.

The suit clung like a second skin—light pink down the arms and legs, a darker mauve across the leotard-style body that hugged everything in just the right way.

There were polished graphite bands around the joints, tracing seams that blinked faintly every time I moved. It looked like something between a ballerina’s dream and a prototype spy rig—fluid, minimal, and definitely way above my pay grade.

And the shoes. Oh god, those shoes.

I flexed my toes and had to bite my lip not to gasp. Perfect arch support, responsive traction, zero break-in time. I could pirouette on glass in these. Whoever designed this thing knew dancers.

I almost didn’t want to take it off. Ever.

“Ryoji?” I spotted him just a few feet from the dressing room entrance, arms crossed, leaning casually against a rack of equipment cases. His eyes lifted, catching me with that typical unreadable stare.

He gave a small nod. “Game face.”

I managed a smirk. “Something like that.”

He scanned me once—not the usual check, not just for danger, but something slower. Calmer. Then his eyes softened just a notch. “Suits you.”

There was that weird tug behind my ribs again. I swallowed it back, glancing at the lab space ahead.

“I’m nervous,” I admitted. “About tonight. The call.”

Ryoji didn’t flinch. “You’ll manage. For now—” he stepped forward and gently tapped my shoulder “—lose yourself in this. Let the rest wait.”

I held onto those words as I crossed the lab floor.

They’d transformed it.

The far wall had been cleared for a projection screen, and light grids shimmered above like synthetic starlight. Cameras were suspended from rails like quiet insects. Hiro was already dancing around them, tuning angles, tapping code onto his handheld monitor.

“Yo, Natsumi-chan! Everything’s synced, so just focus on nailing your marks,” he chirped without looking. “The neural mesh in that suit will adapt after your first run-through.”

“Got it,” I said, pulling my hair back into a tighter ponytail.

In the center of the space, I found my mark—taped down in silver. I placed the score folder beside it. The stereo remote in my other hand clicked softly.

Music.

Just the piano intro for now. No vocals yet. Just timing, breath, presence.

I moved.

One beat at a time.

First, placement. Then the angles. I marked each section out—arms, rotations, weight shifts. My hands flicked through the score between repetitions, tracing the notations again and again: BMN curves, Laban arrows, pivot counts.

The freestyle zones were marked in red.

I could see why now. The choreographer’s notes had been brutally honest—“No time for full reblocking. Substitute dancer, unknown range. Make it pop. Improvise.”

They’d leaned into it to disguise the last-minute swap. Ryoji’s doing, probably. The less predictable the demo, the harder to trace who the performer was.

Smart.

Hard.

But doable.

In Milan, that version hadn’t included the floor drop or the fusion lock transitions at the end, though. My knees still remembered.

I glanced in the mirror across the lab—saw my own reflection blinking back. Hair damp. Eyes focused.

No lights. No crowd.

Just discipline. Just me.

Focus.

Every few minutes, I reset the music, polished a beat, locked the timing. My legs burned. My shoulders ached. I redid the turns until the pivot snapped exactly on the downbeat.

And each time I looked up, Ryoji was still there.

Watching.

Not just idling. Not just guarding.

Watching me work.

It was subtle—just the lift of his eyes, the occasional shift of his stance—but I felt it. Recognition. Not just of me, but of the effort. The prep. The discipline.

He saw it.

He saw me.

As if reading my thoughts—because of course he always did—he moved toward my setup while I was lost in the third set of floor transitions.

Without a word, he bent down, placed a cold water bottle beside my score folder, and stepped back.

Didn’t say anything.

Didn’t linger.

Just… left it there.

For me.

I paused for the first time in an hour and took a breath, chest heaving, sweat clinging behind my neck. My hand brushed the bottle.

And something about that moment—quiet, weightless—wrapped around my ribs like silk.

Not approval.

Not praise.

Just… care.

The music had just stopped.