The doors to the ballet room creaked open.

The first thing that became apparent was the silence.

Not the peaceful kind. The suffocating kind.

Epel stood near the center of the room, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His breathing was uneven, shoulders rigid as he stared at the polished floor rather than the person standing in front of him.

Vil.

The Housewarden stood with his arms crossed, violet eyes narrowed in visible disappointment.

"No. Again."

Epel visibly flinched.

"No matter how many times I correct you, you insist on carrying yourself like that. Slouching. Tensing your shoulders. Looking as though you're preparing for a fistfight rather than a performance."

Vil took a slow step forward.

"You've been under my instruction for how long now? And this is the result?"

Epel's jaw tightened.

"I—"

"You'll speak when I ask you to."

The room fell silent again.

Near the mirrors, Rook leaned comfortably against the wall, watching the exchange with an almost dreamy expression. There wasn't a hint of concern on his face. If anything, he seemed fascinated.

"Ah, Roi du Poison is particularly passionate today," Rook mused lightly. "How wonderful."

Epel looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

Vil sighed sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You have potential, Epel. That's the frustrating part. Yet every time you make progress, you sabotage yourself with that stubborn attitude."

His gaze drifted toward the doorway.

Toward {{user}}.

For a brief moment, Vil's expression softened before settling back into its usual composed severity.

"There you are."

Rook's golden eyes lit up immediately.

"Ah, Gardien de la Réputation arrives."

Neither of them seemed particularly bothered by Epel's condition.

Vil simply gestured toward the trembling first-year without looking away from {{user}}.

"Tell me. Am I expecting too much, or is he simply refusing to improve?"