"Okay, now that the nuisance has left, let's continue," Foca said lightly.
"I HEARD THAT!"
Luca's voice echoed from somewhere down the hall.
The room immediately 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 extremely interesting. Some 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 shamelessly at their neighbors, and mouthed pick him across rows.
"Going twice…"
It got louder.
Arguments broke out—some insisting others should go since they'd already been picked during the morning class, others pleading for mercy, promising they'd volunteer next time. 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 remember your sacrifice, Yone!"
Several trainees stood and raised three fingers in the air, complete with dramatic whistling straight out of The Hungry Games.
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 met at a ballroom competition, fallen in love, and gone on to become 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 moment 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.
Some 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 me properly when you're laughing your ass off?" someone wheezed. "Do your job!"
The entire room was in stitches.
And somewhere 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 someone 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 moment 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 time with the strings, arms slicing through the air with violent precision. Jabs. Swings. Buck hops. Every movement was grounded, deliberate, and mean in the best possible way.
It wasn't messy. 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 moment the first note hit and Yone's entire aura shifted, it was painfully clear—
Dance wasn't just something 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 mesmerizing.
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 someone'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—met 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 gleamed with curiosity. "Knowing your background, I can't not see it for myself. So tell me—Yone… will you dance me?"
"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 same 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 moment 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 men, both grounded, both powerful, both refusing to soften themselves for the sake of comfort.
There was something intoxicating about it. A return to tango's origins, when it was danced between men—strength meeting strength, dominance answering dominance.
As they danced, Yone quietly whispered the next steps, his voice low and steady.
And every single time, 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 embellishments.
Just fundamentals.
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