Aria Ursula sat alone in the terminal, her ticket clenched between trembling fingers. The speakers hummed with soft airport chatter, and the glow of her phone reflected faintly in her tired eyes. After years of training, failure, and sacrifice, she was finally on her way to New York — to the stage that every dancer dreamed of but few ever reached.
She scrolled through her messages.
"We love you. Wish we could be there. You're gonna kill it, kid."
Her father's words made her lips curve into a small smile.
"Love you guys so much," she typed back, then stared out the window at the streaks of runway lights blurring in the dark.
Her body still ached from endless rehearsals at the Belle Academy. Blisters, bruises, strained muscles they had become her language, her badge of devotion. It had all come down to this one performance.
A voice broke through the haze:
"All passengers for Flight 227 to New York City, New York, we'll begin boarding shortly."
Aria rose, adjusting the strap of her duffel bag. Her reflection flashed in the terminal window elegant posture, perfect hair, calm eyes but beneath that, a quiet exhaustion.
Onboard, she watched the city lights fade as the plane soared through the clouds. New York shimmered beneath her like a constellation. It didn't feel real the skyline glowing in the night, the pulse of a thousand lives moving below. The thought of it filled her with awe and fear. Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered that dreams this big always came with a price.
The taxi ride to her hotel offered an even better view of the city.
Billboards flashed like comets, steam rose from the grates, and crowds moved like living rivers between the neon lights. She pressed her forehead to the glass, absorbing every detail — the honking horns, the street vendors, the chatter of people chasing their own destinies.
So alive.
She had never seen so many people in one place. The sounds, the smells, the towering buildings — to her, it all felt alien. It wasn't home, but it was the world she'd always longed to belong to.
At the hotel, she showered, letting the water run over her aching shoulders. The scent of soap and steam dulled her nerves, but couldn't wash away the tension. Tomorrow wasn't just another performance it was the performance. Everything she'd endured, everything she'd lost, had been for this night.
But one thing about Aria was certain: when it came time to perform, no matter the pain, no matter the fear she showed up.
Her mind was unbreakable.
The New York City Institute of Performing Arts glowed like a beacon against the skyline.
A digital marquee shone across the street:
"Live Solo Ballerina Performance — Aria Ursula."
Inside, the theater thrummed with anticipation. Velvet curtains, gold trim, the faint perfume of the audience. The seats filled with aristocrats, former artists, dancers, and scholars — all drawn to witness what critics were already calling the rebirth of classical ballet.
Backstage, Aria's makeup shimmered under the soft light of the mirror. She adjusted her hairpiece, her heartbeat syncing with the distant hum of the orchestra. In her reflection, she saw not just the woman she had become — but the years that made her: the missed birthdays, the skipped family vacations, the relationships she'd watched wither away.
All of it — every sacrifice, every lonely night — had led her here.
Tonight, she would become what she was always destined to be.
"And now, performing her piece Ardens Caelum — ladies and gentlemen, Aria Ursula."
The lights dimmed. The crowd quieted.
Then came the first note of the piano delicate, trembling, divine.
Aria stepped into the light.
Her movements flowed like water, each step born from pure instinct. The air seemed to bend with her, the music wrapping around her body like silk. Years of pain, sweat, and perfection coalesced into something transcendent. Every motion was seamless. Every spin, divine.
In that moment, Aria wasn't just dancing she was becoming.
The rhythm consumed her. There was no audience, no theater, no world only her, the piano, and the heartbeat of the stage beneath her feet.
She ended her performance with a final, graceful flourish — a motion that seemed to echo forever.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then the audience rose as one, applause crashing like thunder through the hall.
Aria exhaled, tears gathering in her eyes. She had done it.
And then FLASH!
A blinding light swallowed everything.
The crowd that had once filled the seats was gone.
In an instant, the grand theater stood in ruin its walls fractured, its ceiling collapsed. The velvet curtains hung in tatters. Dust drifted like ash through the air, and a putrid stench filled her lungs. It smelled of rot, rust, and something alive.
Aria stumbled backward, clutching her chest.
Her heart thundered, her mind reeling.
This couldn't be real. She had to be dreaming — or worse, drugged.
But the pain in her lungs was real. The cold under her bare feet was real. The silence absolute and deafening was real.
She took one trembling step forward, her heel echoing through the ruin.
Thus it begins.