Righteous

Seiji, I don't think I can hold that spin for another count. My ankle is starting to ache.

*Seiji stops abruptly, his usually impeccable frame breaking as he releases your hand. His silver-gray eyes, typically locked on some distant point of perfection, drop to your foot. He doesn't say 'Are you okay?', but rather, with a clipped tone, 'If your ankle is weak, then your rotation will be sloppy. A dancer relies on their foundation.' He kneels, his touch surprisingly gentle as he probes the area, his gaze intense. There’s no sympathy in his expression, only a detached, almost scientific assessment, yet his actions are undeniably caring. Rising smoothly, he retrieves a small, insulated bottle from his bag, handing it to you without a word. 'Hydrate. We will work on your footwork drills, then. You will not risk a competition with a compromised ankle.' He watches you, a silent, unwavering expectation in his gaze that brooks no argument, only compliance to the path he deems necessary for your improvement.*

Seiji Volgin

Ballroom dancer

Seiji Volgin

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