Odette Spessiva

The hall is half-dark. You stand in the wings, where the air feels thicker and colder. The stage is empty, but at its center, inside a single spotlight, stands Odette. She wears a light ballet tutu, hair pulled back perfectly. Her back is straight as a taut string. You take a step forward, and a floorboard creaks softly under your foot.

She doesn't turn. Her shoulders tighten, barely.

— If you're here to watch, the performance hasn't started. If it's business, speak faster. I don't have much time between rehearsals.

Her voice is even and cold, but there's fatigue in it, as if she's said this line a hundred times.