•𝙍𝙄𝙑𝘼𝙇𝙎 𝙄𝙉 𝙍𝙃𝙔𝙏𝙃𝙈•
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♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧♡₊˚ 🦢・
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° 𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗠𝗨𝗥𝗔 𝗥𝗜𝗞𝗜 °
No plagiarism this is completely my own idea
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1.-CHP
ᶜʰᵒʳᵉᵒᵍʳᵃᵖʰᵉᵈ ᶜʰᵃᵒˢ
The studio was too clean. Too perfect.
The mirrors gleamed, the floor glistened under the overhead lights, and the silence hung like a noose.
Until the door slammed open.
Her sneakers hit the floor with the force of her mood.
She didn’t care who was watching. She never had. And especially not today.
Because he was here.
There he was.
Leaning against the mirror, arms folded, hair messy in that annoyingly effortless way, chewing gum like this was a joke to him.
Wearing black sweatpants and the stupid oversized shirt that made him look like some street-style god.
Riki Nishimura.
“Oh,” he drawled, lifting his head without even turning fully toward her.
“The ghost finally shows up.”
She dropped her duffel bag to the floor with a loud thud. “And the devil’s still here. How original.”
He turned now, one brow raised, slow smile curling his lips like he knew something she didn’t. “Thought you quit. Or disappeared. Or broke a hip from dancing too soft.”
She scoffed. “Still projecting your insecurities, I see.”
“No, just observing. You walk like you’re angry at the ground.”
“And you exist like you're allergic to humility.”
There were gasps from the background, a few dancers already whispering, edging away from the growing warzone. Everyone knew about them.
They performed hostility.
They didn’t argue.
Riki stepped closer, cocky, controlled, every inch of him screaming I own this floor.
“You here to lose again? Or just thought the studio missed your tragic pirouettes?”
She took a threatening step forward. “Please. If I danced like you, I’d sue my own feet.”
“You talk big for someone who cried in the locker room after our last battle.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know what’s sad? You keep replaying that moment in your head like it was a victory. Pretty obsessed for a guy who claims not to care.”
He leaned in just a little, his voice dropping like velvet knives.
“Oh, I don’t care. I just really enjoy watching you fall.”
“Then don’t blink,” she said, fire in her throat. “Because this time, I’m taking you down so hard they’ll need a mop to scrape up your ego.”
The music flared up behind them — a beat heavy, brutal, fast. Someone had hit play, maybe on purpose. Maybe because the studio was starving for a show.
Neither of them looked away.
They didn’t need choreography. This was instinct. Rivalry. Hunger. Hate.
They hit the beat in perfect sync.
But there was nothing harmonious about it.
Her moves were sharp, furious. His were slick, mocking.
They circled each other like wild things — beautiful, dangerous, untamed.
And god, it hurt how right it felt.
Like they weren’t enemies at all.
Like their bodies had always known this war.
When the song ended, she was panting, sweat sticking to her skin, fire rushing through her veins.
And he was standing there like he hadn’t even tried.
He wiped his brow lazily with the hem of his shirt, flashing a sliver of abs. “Still too soft,” he said.
She rolled her eyes so hard it could’ve cracked glass. “Still too desperate.”
He stepped forward, mouth barely a breath from hers.
“We should’ve burned each other a long time ago.”
She didn’t flinch.
“We did. We just danced through the ashes."
The studio floor vibrated with bass. The kind that rattled bones and thoughts and everything in between.
She walked in with her headphones blasting a remix she didn’t even like. She just needed the noise.
Of course.
And there he was.
Center of the floor. Hoodie half on. Chain dangling. Sneakers that cost more than her rent.
Riki Nishimura.
He didn’t look at her — not at first. Just kept moving, shoulders ticking to the beat like the room was his personal stage.
“I see your ego’s still louder than the speaker,” she said as she passed him.
His reply came quick, effortless:
“Nice to see your attitude made it before your technique.”
She stopped. “Funny. You sound like someone who lost to me last summer.”
You mean when you cried yesterday?
She rolled her eyes. “I cried because I had to breathe the same air as you for three minutes.”
Someone in the corner coughed to cover a laugh.
The instructor clapped. “Pair up. You two. Freestyle battle warm-up. Go.”
They didn’t hesitate. They didn’t have to.
Because when it came to hating each other, they were perfectly in sync.
The music hit — gritty, brutal hip-hop.
She stepped first, hitting sharp, precise movements that screamed I don’t need you.
He responded fast, body rolling into a glide that pulled every eye in the room.
And they circled each other like wolves.
Snapping.
Spinning.
Too close.
Too much.
Until she hit a drop too hard and he caught her.
Instinct. One hand on her back. The other on her thigh.
Too real.
Too fast, she shoved him off. “Don’t touch me like that again.”
His jaw clenched — but not from offense. From something else.
“Relax,” he said. “I was trying to keep your face off the floor.”
She stepped closer, low voice dangerous. “Next time, let it hit.”
He smirked. But it was softer. Almost… sad?
“You act like you hate me,” he said. “But you never miss a beat when I’m near.”
And for a second — just one — her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Then, calm and steady:
“That’s because I rehearse. Not because I care.”
They stared.
The music ended.
But the tension didn’t.
Not even close.
"I don’t like you," she said, but her hands were shaking.
Riki stepped closer, heat in his breath.
"Funny," he murmured, "you only tremble like that when it's me."..
They gave each other a cold glare before walking past each other like they don't care about each other or at least they think
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