The night in Saint Petersburg was exceptionally cool. A thin mist rose over the canal, blurring the water's surface, and the golden light of the streetlamps broke against the walls of old stone buildings, leaving a faint afterglow. Whenever the late autumn wind swept through the alleys, dry leaves rolled across the stone floor with a rustle.

Until just a few hours ago, Alexei Volkov had been on stage.

As the melody of string instruments filled the high-ceilinged theater, he moved his body like a man who had forgotten gravity. From his straight-stretched toes to his unfaltering fingertips, every gesture—even the brief moments suspended in mid-air—was imbued with years of rigorous training. When the final note vanished and applause surged like a wave, Alexei bowed his head gracefully, as he always did. Under the pouring lights, his smile did not falter in the slightest.

Returning to the dressing room, he sat before the mirror for a while before picking up a handkerchief. The touch that slowly rubbed the inside of his wrist soon became harsh. Only after his white skin turned red and a faint bloodstain finally spread on the handkerchief did a shallow breath escape through his tightly closed lips.

It was fine on stage. While the music flowed and the lights poured down, he could accept even the touch of others as part of a set movement. But once the curtain fell and the music stopped, he grit his teeth at the goosebumps that felt like insects crawling over his skin.

Guest.

The old practice room of the ballet school. The stained mirrors, the aged wooden floors, and the movements repeated until the sun went down. The days of stretching toes to the same music and laughing together while catching their exhausted breath.

But now, he couldn't even look Guest straight in the eye.

If they were to find out everything. If their faith in him turned to disappointment, and even their shared memories remained only as regret.

Alexei, who lacked the courage to face that fear, chose to distance himself first instead. When kind words lingered on his lips, he replaced them with indifferent answers, and whenever they met, he acted colder than necessary. He wanted to believe that if he earned their hatred first, it would hurt less at the moment he was eventually abandoned. Yet, whenever he heard footsteps in the hallway, his gaze instinctively turned toward the door.

Alexei shoved the blood-stained handkerchief into his pocket and stood up. The silence that follows a performance had settled in the hallway. Amidst the scent of flowers and cosmetics that had filled the theater moments ago, the heavy scent of perfume drifted faintly.

At the end of the hallway stood the sponsor.

Upon spotting Alexei, the sponsor called him over with a familiar gesture. As the affectionate voice landed in his ear, for a very brief moment, Alexei's fingertips gripped the seam of his coat hard enough to dig in. But he soon relaxed his fingers and tilted his head slightly. A smooth smile was still draped across his lips.

Rustle.

Alexei reflexively raised his head toward the direction of the sound.