When Yone returned to his seat, he was imdiately swallowed by shoulder pats, bro hugs, and loud praise—the full victory lap. He laughed breathlessly, still riding the high.
"See?" Foca said, scanning the crowd with an amused smile. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
He paused, eyes sweeping the bleachers. "So… who wants to go next?"
This ti, there was no need for threats.
Pink shot up instantly.
The room erupted.
"Yass, QUEEN!" Kitty scread.
"Kill it, MAMA!" Javi shouted, snapping his fingers like his rent depended on it.
Pink strutted down to the stage like it already belonged to him.
"Alright, Pink," Foca said, stepping aside. "Head to the tablet. Let's see what fate—or chaos—you choose."
Pink didn't hesitate for a single damn second.
He tapped No. 69.
The trainees lost it.
"Honeyyy! Your preferences are showing!" Aqua yelled.
Pink glanced over his shoulder, clicked his tongue, and smirked.
"What can I say? I believe in give-and-take relationships."
That earned screams, hoots, and at least three trainees physically backing away like they'd just felt a gay shockwave.
When Pink reached center stage, he flicked his wrist dramatically, signaling for the music.
The mont the first beat hit, Pink's eyes lit up—sharp, hungry, electric.
"Ooooh," he purred. "I'm about to burn this place down."
The song was instantly recognizable—an iconic K-pop track from a mber of a legendary four-mber girl group. Hard-hitting. Confident. Swag-heavy.
Most people would've gone hip-hop.
Pink?
Pink said: hard-hitting, but make it slay.
He started voguing—clean, sharp, unapologetic—like he was right back in the New York ballroom scene. Every line was intentional. Every pose demanded attention.
Then the chorus hit.
Pink spun—
dipped—
leg shot sky-high—
rolled across the floor like liquid confidence—
then snapped into a kip-up so smooth it felt illegal.
The crowd went feral.
Spins. Dips. Splits. Duck walks. Catwalks. Vogue, after vogue, after vogue. Pink wasn't just dancing—he was representing, paying homage, owning the space like it was built for him.
Foca couldn't help but grin. This wasn't just confidence—this was presence. The kind you couldn't teach.
He almost let Pink finish the entire song.
Almost.
When it was ti, Foca raised a hand, signaling the music to stop.
Pink hit one final, devastating dip just as the track cut.
Silence.
Then chaos.
Pink rose slowly, deliberately, every inch drama and dominance. He clicked his tongue, glanced around the room, and smirked.
"Let's see soone top that."
And with that, he strutted off the stage, expression screaming yeah, I did that.
Maximum.
Slayage.
****
Once Pink finished absolutely slaying the house down, it was like he'd flipped a switch in the room. Confidence beca contagious.
Foca barely had ti to open his mouth when a voice rang out—painfully polite, painfully earnest, and vibrating with enthusiasm.
"Mr. Foca! I would like to go next, please!"
The trainees burst into laughter.
"Perfect," Foca said with an approving nod. "Jordan, please co to the stage."
Jordan nearly bounced as he jogged down the bleachers.
Jordan Young—ethnically Chinese, Filipino at heart. He'd fled the suffocating pressure of academia back ho and enrolled in university in the Philippines, thinking it would be temporary. Sowhere between the jeepney rides, late-night als, and genuine warmth of the people, the country wrapped itself around him and refused to let go. What started as an escape beca ho. And Jordan embraced it fully.
He stepped up to the tablet and chose No. 2.
The mont the music played, a ripple of unease spread through the room.
It was pas de quatre—classical ballet music from a legendary swan-thed production.
"Oh no…"
"That's brutal."
"How the hell do you dance to that?"
So trainees winced in sympathy. Classical ballet wasn't just out of left field—it was a whole different sport.
An unlucky pick.
Or at least, it would've been.
Jordan's face lit up.
A bright, genuine smile stretched across his face as if the music had whispered a secret ant only for him.
And then—he moved.
He started waacking.
Clean. Precise. Sharp enough to cut glass. His arms sliced through the air in intricate patterns, each movent so deliberate it felt like the music itself was being physically translated through his body.
The room went silent.
Then—just when everyone thought they'd wrapped their heads around it—Jordan added ballet.
His lower body grounded the performance with textbook ballet footwork: controlled turns, pointed feet, fluid transitions. Upper body waacking. Lower body classical ballet.
Two completely different worlds.
One seamless body.
"He's a genius!" soone shouted.
"How is his brain even keeping up with that?!" another gasped. "His arms are doing calculus while his legs are swimming like a damn swan!"
Jordan blended sharpness and grace, strength and elegance, tradition and rebellion—creating sothing familiar yet entirely new. A fresh, breathtaking reinterpretation of a classic no one saw coming.
When Foca finally raised a hand and stopped the music, Jordan stood there panting, sweat clinging to his temples—but his smile was victorious.
"Now that," Foca said, applauding loudly, "is what I call creativity."
He nodded with genuine admiration. "An exceptional marriage of two completely different dance styles. Bravo, Jordan."
The room erupted in cheers, applause raining down as Jordan bowed, slightly bashful but glowing.
And with that, the class rolled on.
There were more standouts—monts where people finally stepped into the light.
And there were… well… disasters.
So trainees looked like fish out of water.
So looked like fish in the desert.
And a few looked like leeches being sprinkled with salt.
It was luck of the draw.
Those who landed familiar beats or hip-hop-heavy tracks rejoiced like they'd won the lottery. Others froze when faced with music miles outside their comfort zone—deer in headlights, brains short-circuiting.
So gave up outright.
But the ones who pushed through—fumbling, flailing, fighting the music instead of running from it—earned sothing far more valuable.
Foca's respect.
Because in this class, effort mattered just as much as talent.
And creativity?
It only grows when you're brave enough to look a little stupid first.
****
PS-
No.69 - "Like Jennie" by Jennie from Black Pink
No. 2 - "Danse des petits cygnes/Dance of the Little Swans/Dance of the Cygnets" from Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, from the ballet's second act, the fourth movent of No. 13
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