The camera feed was still live.
Elián stared at the screen, watching himself from an angle that didn't exist — a high corner of the apartment, like the eye of a god or a ghost.
Cassian hovered behind him, silent.
"Where is it broadcasting from?" Elián asked.
Cassian shook his head. "I don't know. But it's not just us anymore."
He clicked through the feed.
There were other windows.
Other rooms.
Other people.
All dancers.
All alone.
All being watched.
Luca was gone again.
His phone disconnected.
His apartment — empty.
No clothes. No toothbrush. No trace.
But his mirror was shattered.
And on the floor: a single ballet slipper.
Painted black.
Elián and Cassian took the footage to Vivienne.
She watched in silence, her face unreadable.
When it ended, she said only, "You need to see something."
She led them to a locked room in the back of the studio.
Inside: a wall of monitors.
Live feeds.
Dozens.
All dancers.
All from Vivienne's company.
Cassian stepped back. "You've been watching them?"
Vivienne didn't flinch. "Not me. The board. They said it was for safety. For branding. For control."
Elián's voice was ice. "You let them be hunted."
Vivienne looked at him. "You're not being hunted, Elián. You're being studied."
That night, a new video appeared on Elián's phone.
No sender.
No title.
Just a clip.
A stage.
Empty.
Then: footsteps.
A figure enters.
Masked.
But this time — not porcelain.
A black velvet mask.
Ballet shoes.
A pirouette.
A bow.
Then the figure looks into the camera.
And speaks.
"You made me. Now dance with me."