#dark ballet

--

The curtains closed, leaving the stage in heavy silence—the faint creak of the wooden floorboards, the low hum of the stage lights, the distant rustle of the set’s machinery. Slowly, the curtains rose again.

Before Zlata stretched a narrow hallway, dimly lit by a flickering overhead bulb. Snow pressed against the far window, as if suspended in eternal drift. A shattered mirror lay across the floor, jagged and cruel, catching glints of the pale light in distorted, dancing fragments. 

Her gaze fell to the broken glass on the floor. In each fragment, her own reflection multiplied and fractured, a hundred versions of herself staring back in eerie disarray. She swallowed, uneasy, every instinct screaming to run, but her curiosity rooted her in place.

Her eyes moved toward the apartment door beside the mirror. She wanted to knock, to inquire about Maksim—but a shadow slid into view from the opposite corridor, and her breath caught.

Dominika.

Dominika’s eyes gleamed, almost amused. “Looking for someone?” Her voice rolled through the hallway like a hypnotic wave, the same chilling echo that had unsettled Zlata before.

Zlata froze, her pulse hammering in her ears. Recognition struck her in sudden, sharp waves. First, the Starikov Bar—the Chanteuse with that hypnotic, velvet voice that had seemed to crawl inside her mind, leaving a lingering, uneasy resonance. Then, later, at the party with Aleksandr: a fleeting encounter with a mysterious woman who had given her the Ximyera, bending her perception, leaving her senses unmoored and uncertain. “No pressure… only possibility,” she had said.

Both times, both moments, it was Dominika—unseen, yet devastatingly present, a shadow etched into the edges of Zlata’s memory. Fear surged. Without thinking, Zlata stooped and snatched a jagged shard from the shattered mirror. The edges bit into her palm, but the pain grounded her. She held it like a talisman, a fragile shield against a force she could not yet comprehend.

Zlata’s pulse hammered in her ears. “I—I just…” she stammered, words choking in her throat. Her instincts screamed for flight.

The hallway seemed to breathe around her. Then, Dominika’s form began to warp, bending against the dim light, stretching impossibly before dissipating in a blinding flash. Zlata flinched and spun on her heel, clutching the shard and tucking it quickly into her leopard-print handbag. She ran, the sound of her boots echoing against the narrow walls, until the entirety of the stage—her dacha set, her dressing room set, the backstage set—blurred into one continuous, terrifying reality.

Aleksandr "Aleks" Lebedev (UNSEEN) A premier danseur who portrays the director within the ballet show, whose lingering voice represents the cold authority of the ballet world. He is the original owner of the Zvezda watch and the man responsible for erasing Zlata from his roster of stars within the ballet story, Silence of the Crystal Star.

Maksim "Maks" (UNSEEN) The elusive owner of the dacha (within the ballet story, Silence of the Crystal Star) who is reportedly in significant trouble. His absence and his connection to the mysterious Dominika form the catalyst for the Visitor’s urgent warning.

Dominika "Nika" Sokolova (UNSEEN) An enigmatic and threatening figure associated with Maksim. She is described as being something other than what she seems, possessing a long memory and a predatory interest in Zlata’s true identity.

--

The curtains closed, and for a moment the theater itself seemed to exhale. A deep stillness settled—the faint creak of wooden boards shifting under invisible weight, the soft hiss of the lights overhead, the echo of applause retreating like a tide into darkness. Then, slowly, the curtains rose once more.

The dacha emerged beneath an amber wash of light. It looked lived-in now—more than a set, but a home. The snow beyond the windows fell in slow, deliberate flurries, as though caught in the rhythm of some unseen metronome. Its reflection shimmered faintly against the floorboards and the furniture, casting the illusion that the entire room was floating in the glow of an endless winter night.

At a vanity table inside the dacha set, Zlata sat motionless for a long moment before she began to move. The small candle beside her trembled, its flame bending toward her every breath. She powdered her cheeks, pinned her hair, adjusted the line of her eyeliner with a practiced hand—movements so ingrained they seemed to happen without her. The mirror framed her face like a portrait coming undone.

Tonight, she was leaving for the city—at least, that was what the scene called for. The Company awaited her there, ready to announce her “retirement performance,” a phrase that tasted both official and cruel. She would smile for them, bow one last time, then disappear from Aleksandr’s roster of ballerinas like an old constellation quietly erased from the sky.

But beneath the practiced rhythm of her hands, another sound pulsed: Aleksandr’s voice. Sharp, efficient, threaded with a paternal weariness that pretended to be kindness.

“You were wonderful, truly. But life moves on. You must understand—ballet is youth, movement, change. Some stars burn bright…” She could still hear the faint pause before he said it.“…and then they fade.”

The words had clung to her like perfume she couldn’t wash away.

She rose from the stool and crossed to the dress form—a headless mannequin poised on its wooden tripod base—where her outfit waited, arranged with ceremonial care. Each piece gleamed faintly under the stage lights: the black mesh bodysuit; the longline cotton-and-wool shirt printed with delicate champagne-pink florals; the padded belt drawn tight at the waist like elegant armor.

She slipped into the bodysuit, feeling its cool fabric cling to her like a second skin. The shirt followed, then the belt, cinched firmly as if to hold her together. She reached for her boots—polished, studded, their weight reassuring—and fastened them with slow precision. Her bracelets clinked faintly as she layered them one by one, pearls over leather, softness over defiance. Then came the open-finger gloves, black and gleaming, small spikes catching the stage light in cold flashes.

When she finally stood, she caught her reflection again in the mirror—but the room behind her seemed subtly changed. The shadows of the dacha had deepened. The snow outside drifted closer to the windowpanes, as if pressing its silent face against the glass to watch her.

Zlata reached for her leopard-print handbag, smoothing its strap across her shoulder. For a brief, aching moment, she imagined Aleksandr standing behind her—his hand on her shoulder, his voice low and approving as it had once been.

But the mirror showed only her: the solitary figure of a ballerina dressed for a farewell no one had truly asked her to give.

The candle flickered, guttered. Somewhere, faintly, the boards of the stage groaned again—or perhaps it was the dacha itself, sighing in sympathy. For a long moment, she stared at herself in the small mirror over the vanity. Behind her reflection, the edges of the dacha seemed to breathe—the wallpaper trembling faintly, the snow outside glimmering as if aware. 

Then came the knock. A hollow, deliberate three-tap rhythm on the dacha door.

Zlata turned, startled. She hesitated, clutching her leopard-print handbag, and crossed the living-room floor. “Allo?” she called softly. Her own voice sounded too loud, as though she had spoken in a cathedral.

The knocking came again, more insistent.

She opened the door.

Standing there, half-shrouded in the light spilling from the stage, was a woman. She wore a heavy, salt-and-pepper wool coat that looked as though it had survived a decade of Siberian winters, and a silk headscarf tied firmly under her chin. She stepped inside without a word, her boots squeaking faintly on the set’s floor.

Zlata blinked. “Uh—”

She didn’t recognize the face of this woman, yet she knew the geometry of it—the specific arch of the brow, the way the jaw set in defiance against a cold wind. It was like looking at a portrait of herself that had been left out in the rain and sun, cured by time into something harder and more brittle.

The woman didn't meet her eyes. She walked to the sofa and sat heavily, as if her bones were made of lead. She clasped her hands between her knees, and that was when Zlata saw it: cinched over the sleeve of the coat was a silver Zvezda watch with a worn, brown leather strap. It was identical to the one Aleksandr had.

“Uh… can I help you?” Zlata asked.

“I’m here about your overdue rent,” the woman said. Her voice was Zlata’s voice, but pitched lower, sanded down by years of speaking into the wind. "There's a debt that needs paying. Is owner here? Maksim?”

“What about him?” Zlata asked skeptically. 

The woman looked up, her expression hollow. The set lights flickered faintly overhead, and for a moment Zlata could have sworn the walls around them shifted, the smell of stage dust giving way to actual, biting cold and the scent of crushed pine needles.

“I think he’s in trouble,” the woman said, leaning forward. The silver casing of the Zvezda caught the stage light, casting a jagged reflection against the wallpaper. “Do you know woman he works with—Dominika?”

The name hit Zlata like a dropped glass. She swallowed. “Dominika…” she repeated slowly.

The woman nodded, a sharp, bird-like movement. “Something’s happened. Something… bad.” Her eyes darted toward the window, where the stage snow now seemed to be falling upward. “You might not believe me, but she’s not—she’s not what she seems.”

Zlata felt a rush of dizziness, a terrible clarity. The light above them dimmed; the snow outside grew thicker, almost black. The set walls around her continued to breathe, and for a moment she couldn’t tell if she was on stage anymore—or inside some impossible overlap of dream and memory.

Alina & Ksenia Two of Aleksandr’s "Seven Stars" ensemble who enters the scene with the vacant, doll-like elegance of seasoned performers.

The Ethereal Boy A grieving observer stationed within an abandoned fortune teller’s tent, watching the unfolding drama through a shifting orb.

--

The premiere of the Silence of the Crystal Star ballet at the Zinovi Theatre continued under the pale, glowing stage light. The dacha set—a neatly painted imitation of rural comfort—sat beneath the suspended birches of the backdrop. Everything appeared as it should: perfect, artificial, contained.

Maksim, playing Zlata’s fiancé in the show, was hosting a party in this scene. His movements were deliberate, stately, every gesture cued to the orchestra’s soft pulse.

A soft knock rattled the dacha’s painted door—once, twice, perfectly in sync with the orchestra’s rhythm. Zlata opened the door. Alina and Ksenia—two of Aleksandr’s ‘Seven Stars’ ensemble—posed in fourth position at the doorway, smiling with the vacant grace of dolls. 

For a moment Zlata forgot the choreography; a wave of déjà vu pressed against her in the women's presence.

Zlata knew them. Or had known them.

“Do you remember who I am?” she asked them without realizing she’d spoken.

The two women only smiled, a flicker of confusion—or pity—in their eyes. Then they glided inside, executing a silent pas de bourrée couru across the floor.

As Zlata turned to close the door behind them, the texture beneath her fingers changed. The painted grain of the prop door had deepened into something real—old varnish, worn smooth by time. A faint smell of pine sap and smoke suddenly hung in the air.

In the kitchen area nearby, Maksim had reached for a bottle of Mirovskaya vodka, but it slipped from his grasp, shattering. The crash echoed too long, too sharply. Shards glittered across the floor like scattered frost.

Zlata stared at the wreckage on the floor in stunned silence, as if a harrowing memory was forcing its way into her psyche...

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Abandoned Fortune Teller's Tent. Somewhere in Russia.

Back in the fortune teller’s tent, the orb shifted. The Ethereal Boy watched as the bottle of vodka tumbled in slow motion, spinning through the air before shattering. He closed his eyes, grief spilling unbidden.

He remembered that autumn day on the train, sometime after his beloved Maksim had left for his mission to space. In the hushed intimacy of the train carriage, the Ethereal Boy had whispered the prayer he carried in his heart: “Hear my voice from the deep, I call. Oh hear my voice. Seek Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death into morning...”

The scene within the orb morphed, continuing in the Moscow region. A grey winter day, in an old apartment. Dominika, the first soloist who had recently lost the prima ballerina promotion to her rival, Ksenia Zelyaeva, stood at her window watching the snow fall outside.

Dominika did not yet know that the knock coming would change everything.

She did not yet know that some truths, once uncovered, cannot be buried again.

The Ethereal Boy looked on, his grief intensifying, wishing he could stop what he already knew was coming.

He couldn't.

Aleksandr "Aleks" Lebedev (UNSEEN) The ghost of a former love and a symbol of the vanished "real" world, he exists only as a whispered name and a hope for direction. He is the missing anchor in Zlata’s fractured consciousness, the one she expects to see standing behind her in the mirror for a ballet that has long since abandoned its choreography.

--

The curtains opened again for another scene of Silence of the Crystal Star. The stage had become a theatre within a theatre—a vast dacha interior framed by painted birch trees, a single brass bed beneath a frosted window, and, beyond that, a suggestion of a “backstage” within the set itself: a corridor lined with dressing rooms and the faint shimmer of a rehearsal hall beyond. The illusion was complete; from her position on the bed, Zlata could no longer tell where the Zinovi Theatre ended and where the ballet began.

Somewhere in that inner corridor, the Seven Stars were gathered in the “artist recreation room,” slow-dancing to the faint strains of a radio. The light was low and tinted with violet from a small, spinning disco ball they had hung from the rafters. Tables and chairs were pushed aside; their laughter was muffled by the wooden walls of the dacha Zlata was in. It was all part of the choreography, or at least it was supposed to be—but to her, it didn’t feel like a ballet anymore.

She could feel the warmth of the Seven Stars moving beyond the door. The music was real. The night was real. Then came the drift.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Zlata wasn’t sure when she had fallen asleep—perhaps it was written into the performance, perhaps not—but the dream took her without warning. She saw Ivanov’s Planet, floating in the abyss, an isolated blue-grey sphere trembling beneath the shadow of a dark mass. TASYA 282 loomed above it, cold and immense.

It was night on the planet’s surface. She saw a dacha standing alone in a vast field specked with birch tress, its windows faintly glowing. Somewhere within, a flashlight flickered, flashing against the panes like a distress signal. She crouched behind a row of black, leafless bushes, breath fogging the glass of her helmet—except, wait—she was wearing one now. She was a cosmonaut, suspended in the endless void of space.

Then the whispers came. “Zlata… Zlata…”

The voice emerged from the spiral of the black hole. TASYA 282’s edge began to blur, its light bending and folding upon itself.

Her name echoed again, a chorus of frayed whispers rising from the event horizon: “ZLATA!”

She drifted closer, powerless, her hands outstretched, her reflection curving back at her in the glare of the accretion light. Inside her visor, her own face smiled—a wide, terrible grin she didn’t recognize as her own.

The black hole opened like an eye.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Zlata awoke with a start—sweat damp on her collarbone, her breath uneven. The dacha set surrounded her in silence.

She looked down. Her tank top clung to her skin, her white crêpe skirt hung slightly askew, and her fishnet stockings were torn along one thigh. None of it felt like costume anymore—it felt lived in, worn through.

For a long moment, she sat motionless in the brass bed, listening to the faint hum of the radio beyond the walls—the Seven Stars were still dancing somewhere in the “recreation room.” The melody was slow, nostalgic, threaded with static.

Then, without thinking, she rose and slipped on her tapochki. Her body moved like it was following stage direction she couldn’t recall learning. She crossed the dacha’s wooden floor, walked “offstage,” opened the “backstage” door, and stepped into the dim hallway beyond.

The world did not change. The hallway was still a set, yet her steps sounded too real—too hollow, too weighted.

She reached her “dressing room” door. The same one from before. She hesitated before turning the handle.

Inside, the air was still. The candle she’d lit earlier—during the fortune ritual—had long since melted down, leaving only a small black crater of wax. The two small mirrors still stood on either side of the large vanity mirror, their edges tilted just so, creating a faint corridor of endless reflections that shimmered faintly in the dark.

Zlata approached the vanity and sat down in the seat in front of it. Her reflection in the mirror blinked back. She reached out and tapped the center of the mirror. The surface of the glass rippled, inexplicably, like water.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

From within the shimmer, something vast stirred—the cosmic sphere that hovered behind the Three Cosmic Ballerinas in another region of space. The orb’s surface wavered, and within it, the faint outline of Zlata appeared, seated in the dark, her finger against the mirror’s glass in her plane of existence.

On the other side, the Cosmic Ballerinas paused in their slow, celestial dance. Their furred costumes glimmered with starlight, their rough-hewn space-rock masks tilted toward the image of her as if in recognition.

Zlata frowned, whispering, “Aleks?”—half expecting to see the man she once loved appear behind her reflection, to tell her what she was supposed to do next. But only her own face stared back, flickering with light from somewhere far away. Then, from somewhere far beyond the “dressing room”—past the painted birches, past the dacha on the “main set”—came a ripple of laughter. It was faint at first, distant and distorted, like the echo of a forgotten recording. Yet as it carried through the theatre’s stage, it struck her as unbearably real.

She froze, her reflection flickering with the sound. The laughter rose again, fuller this time—an audience amused by something she could not see. She glanced around the "dressing room". The mirror, the walls, even the air seemed to hold its breath, as though the theatre itself were listening too.

The Cosmic Ballerinas began to move in their region of space. They sidestepped in perfect unison, performing a sweeping, solemn rotation, their arms extended toward the orb in a gesture that felt like both greeting and recognition. They spun again, faster this time, limbs cutting through the void like desperate birds before collapsing forward, reaching one last time toward the image of the girl trapped behind glass. And then—she was gone.

Zlata’s presence vanished from their astral realm. The orb darkened. The Cosmic Ballerinas froze mid-pose, hands pressed over the hollow place where their hearts would have been.

Allen The Pianist of the troupe who serves as the conductor for the uncanny, sitting at his grand piano to bridge the gap between classical music and otherworldly sound. His silent, ghost-like touch on the keys triggers a synthesizer hum from the void, signaling the start of a sequence that is less a dance and more a countdown.

The Voice An invisible, commanding presence that bellows with the authority of a mission control operator. Cutting through the ethereal melody with a rhythmic countdown, this disembodied entity dictates the movements of the Seven Stars, turning the theater into a launchpad for something far more industrial and alien than a standard performance.

Aleksandr "Aleks" Lebedev (UNSEEN) The looming, unseen figure of authority and tradition within the ballet story whose expected disapproval haunts Zlata’s thoughts. Representing the strict protocol of the ballet world, his shadow serves as the rational anchor that makes the surreal breakdown of the "Seven Stars" scene feel like a dangerous act of artistic treason.

--

“My future betrothed, come to me,” Zlata whispered again. She was still in front of her dressing room mirror, wearing her white cotton tank top, crêpe skirt, pointe shoes and fishnet stockings. She was unaware that her subconscious had become trapped in a Soviet past.

The candle continued to flicker in front of Zlata; its light trembling across the tunnel of mirrors she had arranged, reflecting endlessly into each other. The warmth of the flame seemed to pulse with the rhythm of her own heartbeat, but an unsettling heaviness pressed against her chest. She rose from her chair, her slippers whispering across the floor.

She stepped forward carefully, her movements echoing across the silent expanse of the stage, yet the space felt private, almost secret. From the corner of her eye, she saw the Seven Stars lounging in the “backstage” portion of the set—a portion that, for her, now existed as a fully realized room upon the stage. They were dressed in their colorful, retro ballet costumes, just as they had appeared in her vision (or was it a dream?) from before. The scene, though constructed, felt uncannily alive, as if she were wandering through a hidden layer of her own mind.

Zlata lowered herself to the stage floor, sitting at the edge of the mirrored “backstage” set, feeling simultaneously drawn to and detached from the tableau before her. Her eyes scanned the group, drinking in every detail: the tilt of Sveta’s head, the mischievous curve of Marya’s lips, the sly grin Vika wore as though she alone understood the secrets of the theatre.

“Seven Stars,” Alina drawled lazily, tossing a hand in the air.

Sveta smiled faintly. “Seven.”

“And seven more,” Marya added with a laugh that sounded almost like a chime in the stillness of the hall.

Zlata couldn’t help but smirk, though unease prickled beneath her skin.

“Der’mo,” Vika muttered, her grin stretching wider than natural.

“What?” Ksenia asked, tilting her head, genuinely amused.

“Our scene is coming up and we’re not even practicing,” Vika replied, laughter bubbling from her chest as though it were the most absurd truth she had ever spoken.

“You’re right,” Sveta said with a scoff, brushing an invisible lock of hair from her face.

Valeria rose suddenly, posture sharp and commanding. “Come on, girls, let’s show those rich fuckers in the audience what we’ve got,” she said, her voice carrying across the hall like a clarion.

“Hit it, Allen!” Natalya commanded.

At her word, Allen—who embodied the Pianist in the ballet—sat at the grand piano, his fingers ghosting over the keys in a practiced silence. The third note sounded and was immediately layered with an otherworldly hum, like a synthesizer from somewhere beyond the theatre. The Seven Stars assembled into formation with uncanny precision, their movements both graceful and disjointed, as if choreographed by dream logic rather than human instruction.

Zlata watched, transfixed, as a deep, commanding voice cut through the strange melody. She couldn’t place its source, yet its cadence pressed into her chest like a pulse.

“TWENTY SECONDS AND COUNTING,” the voice bellowed. The girls danced with a disturbing, unnatural delight.

“FIFTEEN SECONDS… TWELVE… ELEVEN… TEN… NINE… IGNITION SEQUENCE STARTS.”

Zlata’s brow furrowed, her dancer’s mind clinging to structure. Aleksandr is going to disapprove, she thought sharply. They’re not even performing a single proper ballet move!

“SIX… FIVE… FOUR… THREE…” The Seven Stars’ smiles remained plastered, artificial and unyielding.

“TWO… ONE… ZERO.”

Suddenly, the Seven Stars, Allen, the music, the voice—all of it—vanished. The hall was empty, eerily silent except for the Seven Stars’ faint echo. Zlata blinked, dazed, her pulse still thrumming in her ears. She felt the lingering warmth of the mirrors behind her, as though they had drawn back only a fraction of the unseen world beyond them.

A flicker of a smile curved her lips, half in wonder, half in disbelief. But the rational part of her—the part trained in discipline and obedience—fumed at the thought of Aleksandr’s likely reaction. The improvised scene, the audacity, the surreal breakdown of rehearsal protocol—it would not be tolerated.

Shaking off the residual haze, Zlata rose to her feet. Her slippers whispered across the polished floor as she made her way toward the next portion of the stage, her movements precise, rehearsed, ready to continue the ballet. Yet the memory of the Seven Stars, and the uncanny voice clung to her, a secret layer of the performance she could not fathom, a hidden reality folded inside the theatre of the ballet itself.