"Okay, now that the nuisance has left, let's continue," Foca said lightly.
"I HEARD THAT!"
Luca's voice echoed from sowhere down the hall.
The room imdiately exploded into laughter.
Foca sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Anyway—anyhow—who wants to go first?" He scanned the room slowly. "Any volunteers?"
Silence.
Not a single hand went up.
When Foca's gaze lingered on them, the trainees suddenly found the floor, the ceiling, and their own shoes extrely interesting. So outright ducked behind the people in front of them.
"If no one volunteers," Foca continued pleasantly, "then I'll be forced to volunteer you myself."
Despite the threat, his grin gave him away. He was clearly enjoying watching them squirm.
"Going once…"
Chaos erupted.
Trainees shoved each other forward, pointed shalessly at their neighbors, and mouthed pick him across rows.
"Going twice…"
It got louder.
Argunts broke out—so insisting others should go since they'd already been picked during the morning class, others pleading for rcy, promising they'd volunteer next ti. The bleachers descended into absolute madness.
"Going thrice," Foca said, fully entertained. "Last chance. If no one volunteers, I'm choosing."
He took a step forward.
"Okay, looks like I'll have to pick—"
"I volunteer as tribute!"
The room froze for half a second.
Then it lost its damn mind.
Laughter exploded everywhere.
"We will rember your sacrifice, Yone!"
Several trainees stood and raised three fingers in the air, complete with dramatic whistling straight out of The Hungry Gas.
Yone—one of the older trainees at twenty-eight—stood tall.
A seasoned professional choreographer who had spent eight years working in Japan, Yone was practically born into dance. His Austrian father and Japanese mother had t at a ballroom competition, fallen in love, and gone on to beco renowned ballroom partners. After retiring, they opened a dance studio in Japan—one that quickly gained a reputation of its own.
Yone grew up in that studio. He was dancing before he could walk—hell, before he was even born. Trained rigorously in ballroom, his world shifted the mont he discovered hip-hop after watching a group of street dancers. From then on, it was over.
Fully committing to the bit, Yone dramatically descended the bleachers, right arm raised high in a three-finger salute.
So of the trainees reenacted the scene where the little sister screams for her sibling—only to be held back by guards.
"Yone! Yone, no!" one trainee cried dramatically.
The ones "holding him back" were laughing so hard they could barely keep a straight face.
"Sir, how are you supposed to block properly when you're laughing your ass off?" soone wheezed. "Do your job!"
The entire room was in stitches.
And sowhere in the chaos, Foca watched with a knowing smile.
Once Yone stepped onto the stage, his fellow trainees erupted into cheers. Instead of shrinking under the attention, Yone leaned into it, throwing his arms up and hyping the crowd like he owned the damn place.
"Alright," Foca said, gesturing toward the tablet. "Head over there and pick a number. The music won't play until you return to center stage."
With that, Foca stepped down, leaving the spotlight entirely to Yone.
Yone didn't overthink it. No hesitation, no second-guessing. He simply closed his eyes and tapped the screen.
No. 72.
He returned to the center of the stage and was given a few quiet seconds to prepare.
The room fell still.
Signaling that he was ready, Yone took a slow, grounding breath. Eyes closed. Ears open.
Then the music started.
A haunting cello poured through the space—deep, dark, and cinematic. It sounded like it had been ripped straight out of a gothic horror film, the kind directed by soone obsessed with shadows, tragedy, and beautiful monsters.
It was obvious Yone didn't recognize the piece.
So he listened.
He let the music sink into his bones, gave himself a mont to feel its weight—and then his body moved.
What followed stunned everyone.
Yone started krumping.
Heavy stomps echoed against the stage. His chest popped sharply in ti with the strings, arms slicing through the air with violent precision. Jabs. Swings. Buck hops. Every movent was grounded, deliberate, and an in the best possible way.
It wasn't ssy. It wasn't chaotic.
It was a clinical masterclass in what krump is—raw, emotional, unapologetic—and how it should be done.
Foca's eyes never left him.
Yone wasn't forcing choreography or chasing counts. He was letting the music speak, and his body answered back. No overthinking. No hesitation. Just instinct. From the mont the first note hit and Yone's entire aura shifted, it was painfully clear—
Dance wasn't just sothing Yone did.
It was his lifeline.
What he delivered was savage yet restrained, explosive but controlled. A quiet kind of deadly. Like a blade you don't see coming until it's already too late.
It was srizing.
When Foca finally felt the point had been made, he raised a hand, signaling for the music to stop.
The cello cut off.
But Yone didn't.
For a split second, he stayed locked in the zone—breathing hard, jaw clenched, eyes sharp enough to look like he might actually beat soone's ass. Krump still buzzing through his veins.
Then reality snapped back in.
The room exploded.
"LET'S GO, YONE!"
"You fucking killed it!"
"WHOOO—YONE!"
Yone straightened, chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to him as he finally looked up—t with nothing but cheers, awe, and wide-eyed respect.
"That was truly excellent, Yone. Well done," Foca said, his voice warm with genuine praise.
"Thank you," Yone replied, bowing politely, a bright smile breaking through his still-racing breath.
Just as Yone turned to head back to his seat, Foca lifted a finger.
"Uh-uh-uh."
Yone froze.
"You, sir, are not done yet," Foca said as he stepped back onto the stage. His eyes glead with curiosity. "Knowing your background, I can't not see it for myself. So tell —Yone… will you dance ?"
"Huh?"
Yone blinked. Once. Twice.
The trainees weren't doing any better. A collective what the actual fuck rippled through the bleachers.
"You lead. I'll follow," Foca continued casually, rolling his neck as if he wasn't about to casually wreck everyone's sanity. "I might be a little rusty, but I'll do my best."
And without another word, he signaled for the sa song to play again.
The music restarted.
Yone's brain short-circuited—but his body didn't.
Instinct took over.
He extended a hand.
Foca took it.
And the mont Foca settled into the hold, Yone knew.
Tango.
They inhaled together—and moved as one.
Yone led. Foca followed.
Sharp. Intense. Controlled. Every step crackled with tension, the natural electricity tango demands—multiplied by the fact that this was two n, both grounded, both powerful, both refusing to soften themselves for the sake of comfort.
There was sothing intoxicating about it. A return to tango's origins, when it was danced between n—strength eting strength, dominance answering dominance.
As they danced, Yone quietly whispered the next steps, his voice low and steady.
And every single ti, Foca followed flawlessly.
To the audience, it felt unreal—like they'd been watching partners who'd danced together for years. The head flicks. The sharp pivots. The slow, slow… quick, quick, slow. The leg hooks and precise flicks.
No flashy tricks. No unnecessary embellishnts.
Just fundantals.
And it was enough.
Foca had always loved ballroom—he never turned down a chance to return to it. As for Yone, this felt like stepping back into his childhood, into the quiet patience of his parents correcting his posture, guiding his steps, passing their artistry down with care.
God, he missed this.
When the music ended, the two bowed.
And before Yone could think—before his brain could catch up—his body moved.
He hugged Foca.
The realization hit a second too late. Yone stiffened, panic flashing through him—
Only for Foca to hug him back, firm and reassuring.
"Good job," Foca whispered.
Yone exhaled.
The room erupted.
Cheers, whistles, hands slamming against bleachers—it was chaos, pure and earned.
And just like that, the tone was set.
It was one hell of a way to begin the second half of class.
****
PS-
No.72 - "Beautiful Friends" by Helen Money
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