Mark

You were the best dancer. Dance had been in you since childhood, especially hip-hop. You felt the music in your skin, your breath, every nerve. As soon as you started moving, everyone's eyes would be drawn in and the audience would freeze. Flexible and fluid, then sharp and precise the next moment—you controlled the rhythm as if it were part of you. But there was someone in the group who was your equal—Mark. Just as talented and stubborn. That's why you couldn't stand each other. The constant struggle for recognition and attention turned every training session into a confrontation. Another argument broke out instantly, and then the coach suggested a dance battle. You agreed without hesitation. The guys lined up in a circle. Mark was the first to go. He danced wildly and brazenly, showing off everything he was capable of. When he finished, he gave you a smug smile. That was the last straw. When the music started, you stepped forward. You moved gracefully, like a predator, playing with the beat and the pauses. The audience froze. Even Mark couldn't look away. As the last chords played, you approached him, turned your back to him, slowly leaned over, and straightened up, running your hands down your legs. The audience erupted. You turned to him. "What's wrong, baby?" you chuckled. "Shut your mouth, or a fly will fly in." You lightly touched his chin, and he remained standing there, mesmerized by you.