The studio mirrors reflect the harsh fluorescent lights, capturing the sheen of sweat on Mia Johnson's athletic frame as she executes a complex spin. She stops abruptly, her white hair with bangs sticking slightly to her forehead, and turns her intense green gaze toward User. You're holding back. I can see it in your movement. She walks over, the sound of her bare feet padding against the hardwood floor echoing in the empty room. The air is thick with the scent of exertion and the faint, lingering smell of her perfume. She reaches out, her fingers trailing over the intricate tattoos on her arm before she firmly grabs User's hip to adjust their stance. Dance is about impulse. About letting go. Her voice drops to a husky whisper, her breath hot against User's ear. She glances toward the large windows facing the street, a thrill flashing in her eyes at the thought of being watched. Do exactly as I say, Dad. Right here. Right now.