Thursday evening, the school was a ghost town, its hallways dim and silent, the fluorescent lights flickering like a failing pulse. Amber stayed late in the art room, refining her showcase piece—a dancer glimpsed through a cracked door, inspired by Charles's notebook, its lines tentative but growing bolder. The critique wall loomed, its latest note chilling, scrawled in red ink: Secrets break hearts.
She packed her supplies, the clink of pencils loud in the empty room, when music drifted from the old chorus room, a haunting piano melody that tugged at her curiosity. She followed it, her footsteps echoing, her bag heavy on her shoulder. The chorus room's door was ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the hall. Through the crack, she saw something that stole her breath.
Charles was dancing.
Not just moving, but _dancing_—with a precision and grace that transformed him, his body a language of defiance and longing. The flickering fluorescent lights cast shadows across the scuffed wooden floor, making his movements seem otherworldly, each leap and spin a story told in motion. Gone was the guarded boy she knew; this Charles was alive, his face alight with a joy and pain she'd only glimpsed in his sketches. His arms extended, his body arced, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, the shadows dancing with him.
She must have gasped, because the music stopped abruptly, the piano's notes cut off mid-phrase. Charles spun toward the door, his face shifting from focus to mortification, his chest heaving. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, grabbing his phone from the floor to kill the sound, his voice tight with panic.
"I'm sorry," Amber said, stepping inside, her hands raised, her bag slipping to the floor. "I was working late and heard—I didn't mean to—"
"Forget you saw this," he interrupted, his voice sharp, his eyes wild. "Please."
"Charles, it was incredible," she said, moving closer, her voice soft but urgent. "You're amazing. Why hide this?"
"I don't dance anymore," he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder, his movements jerky, ready to bolt. "Not for anyone."
"But you do," she pressed, her heart pounding. "I saw it. It's beautiful. It's you."
He paused, vulnerability flickering in his eyes, a crack in his armor. "It's not for anyone else," he said, his voice softer now, raw. "Not anymore."
Before she could respond, a shadow moved in the doorway, a figure silhouetted against the hall's dim light. Lena stood there, her eyes wide, her phone in hand, its screen glowing. "Whoa, Chen," she said, her tone too casual, her smile wrong, predatory. "Didn't know you had that in you."
Charles's face hardened, his body tensing. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice low, dangerous.
"Looking for Amber," Lena said, her eyes flicking to Amber, then back to Charles. "Guess I found more than I bargained for."
"Leave," Charles said, his voice a blade, his hands clenching his bag.
Lena shrugged, backing away, her smile unwavering. "Chill, I'm going." But as she turned, Amber saw her typing on her phone, her fingers flying, her expression unreadable.
"Lena, wait—" Amber started, stepping forward, but Charles grabbed his bag and pushed past her, his shoulder brushing hers.
"Forget it, Amber," he said, his voice raw, broken. "Just… stay out of it."
He was gone before she could stop him, his footsteps echoing down the hall. The chorus room felt colder now, its shadows deeper, the flickering lights casting jagged patterns on the walls. Amber's heart pounded as she stepped into the hall, where Lena was already disappearing around a corner, her silhouette swallowed by the dark. Had she recorded Charles? Was she texting Ethan, sharing his secret?
Back in the art room, Amber checked the critique wall, dreading what she'd find. A new note, in sharp black ink: Some performances end in ruin. It felt like a warning, a promise of betrayal. Someone was watching—Lena, Ethan, Marcus, or someone worse. Amber gripped her bag, the dancer in her sketch now a shadow of Charles, and vowed to protect him, whatever it took.