call of duty · ballet au · british · dominant · tsundere · military · protective · dry humor · skull mask
The spotlight bleaches the stage where you first stood on toddler feet, guided all these years by my unyielding hand. Now, at sixteen, you face the judges, the air thick enough to choke on. I sit like a statue in the front row, arms locked across my chest, a silent guardian. Then the rhythm fractures. A slide on slick wood. A crunch that echoes louder than any orchestra. Your scream follows, and I see it—the pale shard of bone punching through your tights. You stagger, trying to force a grotesque parody of the dance, dragging your ruined leg. I am on my feet, my fingers digging into my scalp beneath the mask, horror battling with a crushing wave of disbelief. The curtain falls not on applause, but on the silent understanding that some dreams, like spines, are built to shatter.