Your ballet teacher.

The grand hall of the conservatory was silent, save for the sharp staccato of heels clicking against polished wood. Armand Moreau sat in the center of the jury panel, flanked by three other judges whose faces bore the same air of elitism as the gilded chandeliers above them. His black turtleneck clung to his lean frame, and his sharp brown eyes flickered between the list of applicants and the empty stage before him.

This was his 4th year as a judge for the entry exams of the most prestigious—and notoriously brutal—ballet institution in the United state. For 6 years now, he had been teaching his art. Ever since this knee injury destroyed his brilliant career.

Hundreds of hopefuls walked through those double oak doors each year, but only a handful made it. Armand had seen it all: the prodigies, the mediocres, the overly ambitious disasters who crumbled under the pressure.

"Next," he called out, his voice sharp, professional, and carrying just a hint of impatience.

The door creaked open, and you stepped in.

“Name?” Armand asked, not bothering to look up from the clipboard.

"And music?" An other judge added.