Page 17 of Dance of Deception

I fumble to obey, clumsy, my breath coming too fast. The moment the earbuds are in my ears, a female voice crackles to life.

“You’ve done well so far.”

I nearly jump at the sound.

“You’ll be escorted shortly. Relax and trust the process.”

My stomach flips, but I take a slow breath, forcing myself to stay calm as a hand brushes my elbow, guiding me forward.

I move carefully, barefoot, the cold floor sending bites of chill up through my legs. The woman leading me says nothing as she leads me with a steady, unhurried pace. I don’t know how many turns we’ve taken, how many doors we’ve passed, only that we’re going deeper.

Farther away from the world I know. From reality.

The air changes suddenly. It’s heavier here, charged, like stepping into a hushed church before a sermon. Except even blindfolded, I can tell there’s nothing holy about this place. I don’t know how I know, but I do. It’s like an ominous, unsettling feeling quivering on my skin.

My breath is loud against the serene classical music playing in my ears. There are no outside noises. No coughs, no whispers, no shuffling of feet.

But Brooklyn was right. I can feel them. I can’t see the audience, but I know they’re there.

Watching.

A delicate shiver chases up my spine. My instincts are screaming at me to turn back, but it’s too late for that. I have nowhere to gobut forward. The woman guiding me finally slows, adjusting her grip on my arm.

The voice in my earbuds crackles to life.

“In a moment, you’ll be led into a cage,” the soothing voice says.

I stiffen, my blood chilling instantly.

The woman beside me nudges me forward until my hands brush metal bars, cool and unyielding.

“If this is your first night with us,” the voice continues smoothly, “do not be alarmed. This is merely so that when you dance, you’ll be in a confined area and will not hurt yourself, or others. The insides of the bars are padded for your protection.”

Fuck.

I don’t like this.

But five thousand dollars is five thousand fucking dollars.

I let the woman guide me inside, my body brushing against the metal as I step forward. It’s not small, not cramped, but it’s…contained.

Controlled. Like everything about this entire experience so far.

The voice continues, soft and serene. “The music will begin in a moment. Dance however feels natural. You have an audience. Please note that it is vitally important that you do not try to remove your mask or earbuds. Doing so will result in immediate expulsion, and other consequences.”

My stomach twists.

I want to askwhat consequences,but something tells me I’m not sure I’d want to know.

The music starts and with a small smile, I realize I recognize it: “Brotsjór”, a modern piece by the Icelandic composer Ólafur Arnalds. I danced to it last year as part of a contemporary ballet anthology the Zakharova put on.

For the first time since arriving here, I feel something close to steady.

I know this piece. I know how to move to it.

I can do this.

For five grand? I can do this on a bed of fuckingnails.

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