Dance Practice, Cancelled: Part 1

The night the ship goes under, my last clear memory is stupidly small: my dance shoes sliding across the polished deck, music thudding under my feet while cameras watched us pretend everything was normal.

A luxury cruise. My team in matching jackets. A roster of world-famous fighters glowering in designer tracksuits. It was supposed to be a publicity stunt, nothing more. Smile, hit the choreography, avoid saying anything embarrassing in front of the cameras, and then go home to my cramped apartment and my very real life.

Then the sky split open.

Salt in my throat. Metal screaming. Bodies slamming into railings. And him—cocky, infuriating, always where I don’t want him and exactly where I need him. He hauls me out of the black water like I weigh nothing and doesn’t let go, even when I start yelling.

We wake up on a scrap of island that doesn’t show up on any map we can find. The air tastes like rot and seaweed, and the nights are loud with things we can’t see. Days are about fire, food, and checking each other for injuries. Nights are about trying not to stare at the fighter who won’t stop throwing himself between me and danger, as if my life is his new full-time job.

But the island feels wrong. The wreck feels wrong. My teammates are whispering when they think I’m asleep, and every time I ask about my father, the silence gets heavier.

Out here, survival isn’t just building shelters and rationing coconuts. It’s choosing who to believe when the ocean keeps its dead and the rescue never comes—and knowing that one wrong choice could cost more than our way off the island.

Dance Practice, Cancelled: Part 1 is the moment the music cuts out and the lights stay off, and you realize the real danger has been standing right beside you the whole time.