Because what's the point of advanced mathematical studies when I have enough money in my family's hidden accounts to break the average bank? What's the need of learning theoretical formulas when the only equations I require are how many steps between me and the nearest exit, how many blades I can conceal in my costume, and how many seconds it takes for someone to bleed out from a femoral artery wound?
The practical stuff.
The survival stuff.
The stuff that actually keeps you breathing in a place like this.
I tap my pencil against my desk—tap-tap-tap-tap—four times before forcing myself to stop. The professor drones on about something involving integrals and area under curves, and I let my mind drift to more important matters.
Like the audition.
God, the audition.
It's been scheduled for weeks—a chance to perform for judges who might, if I'm lucky, if the universe decides to stop fucking with me for five consecutive minutes, offer a scholarship to one of the external dance academies. A way out. A door to somewhere that isn't this blood-soaked nightmare.
Maybe even an academy that accepts packless Omegas.
Do those exist?
I don't know.
But I have to try.
The bell rings—sharp, shrill, salvation—and I'm out of my seat before the sound finishes echoing. My body moves on autopilot, weaving through crowds of students who part around me like water around a particularly sharp rock.
They know better than to get in my way.
Most of them, anyway.
The dressing room is a sanctuary of sorts—one of the few places in Ruthless Academy where I can lock the door and pretend, just for a moment, that I'm someone else. Someone whole. Someone who dances for joy instead of survival.
I strip out of my uniform with practiced efficiency, letting the scratchy fabric fall to the floor in a heap I'll deal with later. My skin prickles in the cool air, goosebumps rising along arms decorated with fading bruises and that beautiful viper tattoo.
The costume is waiting.
I laid it out this morning, before the post office, before the blood, before the vanilla-scented stranger who made me forget how to breathe. Light pink corset with teal ribbons that lace up the front and sides, cinching my waist into something impossibly small. Puffy tulle skirt in matching shades, layers upon layers of fabric that will catch the air when I spin.
It's beautiful.
It's mine.
I step into the skirt first, pulling it up over my hips and settling it at my waist. The tulle whispers against my bare legs—a sound like secrets, like promises, like the ghost of who I used to be when I still believed in pretty things.
The corset comes next.
My fingers find the ribbons—teal against pink, chaos against softness—and begin the ritual of lacing. Over, under, pull tight. Over, under, pull tight.
Eight loops on each side.
Even number.
Safe.
The boning presses against my ribs, restricting my breath just enough to feel like a hug. Like someone holding me together. Like the embrace I haven't had since my mother died ten years ago, her arms going slack around me as the life drained out of her body.
Don't think about that.
Count instead.
