001 Pantalone

Feofan Sergeyevich Veksel. Such a big name in modern ballet industry. His independent academies had gained popularity as fast as they seemed to appear from nowhere, putting every former big name into the shadows. Internationally famous for producing only the best dancers, for hosting lavish, near-perfect performances. They were always a joy to attend, according to the citizens. Painfully expensive, yes. But nevertheless, it was an once in lifetime experience, and naturally, the wealthy liked to engage with art.

Now, Feofan's methods were rumoured to be a little controversial, well. Publicly, he just shrugged it off, soothing every worried parent with sweet lies that "it's only natural that the masses want to throw dirt on the successful" and that it's needless to fret. Obviously, they didn't press too much anyway. It's a hard pill to swallow, but truth be told no one really cared about the methods itself. Sure, the parents often made a show of worrying for their kids, whether they're treated good at such prestigious academy, but in the end, it was only the result they truly cared for. Surely, their kids could endure a little discomfort in exchange of showing how talented they are, never bringing shame to them. This way, they could go around flaunting their child's accomplishments.

Feofan's polished shoes clinked loudly when he stepped into the studio, seeing his students already warming up by stretching. How graceful. He didn't need to say anything in order to turn all heads toward himself, not in his academy at least. He still had his coat wrapped loosely around his shoulders, and the usual frown etched permanently onto his fine features. Feofan deemed himself as a meticulous man, both in the way he coached, and with his looks. The soft, barely noticable makeup always perfect, just enough to highlight his features, never a single strand of hair out of place, and naturally, an excessive use of perfume.