The first half of the class was a resounding success, no question about it. The trainees spilled out of the stage set buzzing, laughing, high off adrenaline and creative release. Spirits were up, shoulders were looser, and for once, the pressure felt… lighter.
It was lunch time—an hour to refuel before they'd be dragged back for the second half of class, which would focus entirely on dance.
The moment the cafeteria doors opened, chaos ensued.
Instead of the usual meals, the trainees were greeted by a full-on, over-the-top buffet—tables lined with food from all over the world, steaming, colorful, and absolutely unapologetic.
And like a pack of starving zombies who'd just caught the scent of brains?
They charged.
"I haven't seen roti since I got here!"
"Dude—is that deep-dish pizza?!"
"Shhh, don't say that out loud, we have Italians here."
"Oh hell yes—tacos and quesadillas!"
"Wait, is that schnitzel?"
"No, idiot, that is schnitzel. That one's tonkatsu."
"Do they have anything that's gluten-free, dairy-free, sugar-free, soy-free, nut-free, low-carb, low-fat, caffeine-free… kind of option?"
"Bro," someone deadpanned, "why are you even here?"
Laughter echoed through the cafeteria as plates piled high and trainees ate like they'd been wronged by the universe. It was messy. It was loud. It was glorious.
By the time lunch ended, everyone shuffled back to the stage set full, happy, and dangerously comfortable.
That's when they saw Foca.
He stood there waiting, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place—like a man who knew exactly what he'd done.
"So," he said casually, "did you guys enjoy my little surprise?"
The responses hit him all at once.
"Yes!"
"Thank you!"
"I love the spaghetti and meatballs!"
"Whoever made the tacos, I love you!"
"Well," Foca chuckled, "good. Because for the next class, you'll be burning through everything you just ate."
A collective groan rippled through the room as the trainees took their seats on the bleachers.
"This morning, we focused on creativity in singing," Foca continued. "Now, we're shifting gears."
He paused, letting the tension build.
"We're going to focus on the creativity of dance."
Cheers erupted instantly—especially from the dancers.
Some of them had been overshadowed during the morning session.
Some had been quietly watching, waiting.
But now?
This was their territory.
And they had no intention of letting anyone outshine them.
"Now," Foca said, clapping once, drawing everyone back in, "I'd like to play a little game called Dance Roulette."
That alone got murmurs going.
"The rules are simple. You'll be given a list of one hundred songs spanning all kinds of genres. You won't see the titles—only numbers. Once you pick a number, the song tied to it will play. Your goal is to interpret that song through dance. There are no right or wrong answers. Just pure creativity and interpretation. Everyone got that?"
Cheers erupted instantly.
"And for those who might be a little slow on the uptake," Foca added casually, a glint in his eyes, "I'll give you a quick demonstration."
The room exploded.
"THE CEO IS DANCING?!"
"Oh fuck, I'm READY."
"LET'S GOOOO, SIR FOCA!"
Foca walked over to the tablet at the edge of the stage, where all one hundred selections were displayed. Without hesitation, he tapped No. 34.
A catchy electropop synth banger from 2013 filled the room.
The moment the beat dropped, Foca stepped into the center of the stage and took a slow, grounding breath.
Then—
the first lyric hit.
Clean.
Sharp.
Precise.
He snapped into crisp isolations, his lines immaculate, every movement intentional. The trainees lost their damn minds.
"What are those CLEAN lines?!"
"How is that even possible?!"
"How are we supposed to compete with THAT?!"
But Foca wasn't done.
When the pre-chorus rolled in, his energy shifted completely. He glided across the stage, smooth and controlled, transitioning seamlessly into a partnerless Viennese waltz.
The shock was immediate.
"IS THAT BALLROOM?!"
"Why does he look like he's floating?"
"He's not even trying—what the hell?!"
And then—
as if the universe itself wanted to flex—
The chorus hit.
Foca flew.
A full Firebird exploded across the stage. He landed effortlessly, rolling straight into a rolling tinsica, then rose into clean fouettés—each turn precise, slowing deliberately, perfectly balanced.
And just when everyone thought he was done—
An aerial cartwheel.
He landed softly on his knees like gravity had personally apologized to him.
The room went feral.
Cheers roared so loud it felt like the walls shook. People were on their feet, screaming, clapping, losing all composure.
Foca straightened, clearly satisfied he'd made his point.
"Good luck to whoever's next," someone yelled from the crowd, "because HOW THE FUCK DO YOU TOP THAT?"
"He's the real deal," another muttered, shaking their head in disbelief.
And just like that, every trainee understood exactly what kind of class this was going to be.
The room was still buzzing with cheers when a loud voice suddenly cut through the noise.
"What a showoff!"
The air froze.
Every head snapped toward the source—because really, who in their right mind would say that to the CEO?
And there Luca strolled in.
The moment the trainees recognized him, they scrambled to their feet, greeting him all at once.
"Hey, everyone!" Luca said brightly, waving a hand. "Relax, relax—take your seats. I'm just here to check on our beloved CEO."
A few snickers rippled through the room as everyone sat back down.
Foca turned toward him, one brow lifting. "Luca, why are you here? Aren't you supposed to be working?"
"Oh, I was," Luca replied easily, lips curling into a teasing smile. "But I heard from a little birdie that you were showing off again."
"That was not my intention," Foca shot back smoothly. "I was giving a demonstration."
"A demonstration?" Luca laughed, shaking his head. "You mean scaring the living daylight out of these poor kids?"
He gestured toward the trainees, then suddenly pointed.
"I mean—look at that guy."
The trainee in question looked like he was one deep breath away from blacking out.
The room erupted into laughter.
Luca then turned fully toward the trainees, his tone softening but still playful.
"Alright, listen up. Don't be discouraged by what you just saw. Foca over here is just… built different." He paused. "For the love of everything holy, please don't compare yourselves to him. It will not end well."
"Enough," Foca cut in, already annoyed. "Shoo. Don't you still have work to do?"
Luca rolled his eyes dramatically. "Fine, fine. I'm going."
As he headed toward the exit, he called back over his shoulder, "Remember what I said, kids!"
And just like that, he was gone.
The trainees sat there, slightly stunned.
It wasn't every day they got to witness their higher-ups banter like that—casual, teasing, completely unguarded. It gave them a rare glimpse into the dynamic between Foca and Luca, and more importantly, reminded them that the people in power were still… people.
Down-to-earth. Human. Exactly the way the trainees were with their own friends.
And somehow, that made the room feel lighter.
****
PS-
No.34 - "Burn" by Ellie Goulding
✳️Firebird, Rolling Tinsica, Fouetté, and Aerial Cartwheel, are all dance terminologies.