Noa felt her chest tighten a little at the praise, warmth blooming under her skin in a way she wasn’t entirely used to. Compliments still caught her off guard, but she didn’t shrink from it this time. Instead, she let it sit there, soft and steady, like something she was trying to learn how to hold onto. She ducked her head slightly, a shy smile tugging at her lips before she looked back up at her. “That means a lot,” she said quietly, her voice gentle but sincere. “I think I forget that sometimes. That it can just look nice without all the pressure behind it.” Her fingers fidgeted for a second at her sides, but she forced herself to still them, taking a small breath like she was stepping over an invisible line in her own mind. At the mention of not overthinking, Noa let out a soft, almost nervous laugh, her eyes flicking to the pole and then back again. “I’m really good at overthinking,” she admitted, a little sheepish, but there was a hint of determination underneath it now. “So this might be, um, a challenge.” Still, she stepped forward when guided, her movements careful but not hesitant enough to stop her. When her hand was adjusted on the pole, she focused, really focused, on the way her fingers wrapped around it, the pressure, the balance. “Like this?” she asked, glancing back briefly for reassurance before looking at her grip again. Her shoulders relaxed just a fraction as she adjusted, trying not to tense like she usually would. “Okay, trust my body,” she murmured softly to herself, almost like she was repeating it as a rule she wanted to believe. Then, with a small exhale, she let herself lean into it, just a little, testing the movement instead of analysing it. A tiny smile appeared, more to herself this time. Noa hesitated for a second once her hand felt somewhat steady, her gaze dropping to the rest of her body like she’d suddenly become very aware of all her limbs at once. She shifted her weight awkwardly, one leg bending slightly before straightening again, unsure where anything was supposed to go. “Um, ” she started softly, glancing back at her with a small, almost bashful smile. “What do I do with the rest of me?” She let out a quiet, self-conscious laugh, her long legs shifting again as if trying to figure it out on instinct and failing. “My legs feel like they’re just in the way,” she admitted, a little sheepish but still trying, still staying. “Do I keep them straight, or like hook them around this or do something else with them?”
"you look perfect, no matter what, trust me on that," she assured, a soft smile on her lips. she just wanted noa to relax, this was a safe space, no one was there to judge, they were all just trying to let go and feel good in their own skin. "you just need to switch your brain off," she chuckled gently, "i know it’s hard, but try not to overthink it." she stepped aside as noa reached for the pole. "yeah, that grip looks good," she nodded, "now just walk around it, or try something on your own, there’s no one right way to do it." she could see it, though, the way noa was overthinking, the tension in her body, the way she seemed hyper-aware of every movement, unsure where anything should go. betsa moved closer. "bring your inside leg in first, let your knee connect here," she said, lightly tapping the side of the pole. "you don’t need to squeeze as hard as you can, just enough to stay in contact." she waited for noa to follow, then adjusted her knee slightly. "here, closer, you’ll feel more stable," she smiled. for a moment, her attention drifted to a couple of girls whispering in the back. "someone has all her attention tonight," they murmured, quiet but not quiet enough. betsa heard it, every word, and she knew she was the only one who did. her heart started pounding, everything feeling sharper, louder, closer to the surface. she tried to keep it together. "see?" betsa said, forcing a small smile. "your hands guide you, but your legs are what hold you. once you get that, everything else becomes easier." she stepped back, swallowing hard. "i’ll be right back, girls, you’re doing great." she turned and walked out of the room, down the stairs toward the rink, heading for the bathroom but stopping just outside. she needed a moment, needed to breathe, to calm herself down. she knew what happened when she lost control, and tonight wasn’t helping, not with the brightness creeping in through the windows. the full moon. she covered her face with her hands and slowly slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor. the door opened upstairs. "i’ll be back… just give me a minute," she said quietly.
Noa let out a soft laugh at Betsa’s confession about never taking ballet. There was something refreshing about the way she said it, no insecurity, just fact. She shook her head lightly. “Honestly? Ballet isn’t as posh as people think,” she said, her tone warm but relaxed. “It can be brutal. Beautiful, yeah, but also brutal.” There was a knowing smile there, the kind that only came from years of blistered toes and early mornings. “And for what it’s worth, hip-hop takes a different kind of strength. Softness isn’t the only thing that makes a dancer good.” When Betsa teased her about already being ahead, Noa’s lips curved, but she ducked her head slightly. Compliments still made her a little shy. “I don’t know about ahead,” she replied. “Ballet gives you control, sure. But I’m very aware it also locks you into certain habits.” She rolled her shoulders subtly, as if already preparing to unlearn them. “That’s kind of why I’m here. I’ve been in that world since I was three. I don’t want it to be the only way I know how to move.” As they stretched side by side, Noa maintained her precision, but there was intention behind it now, she was trying not to look rigid. When Betsa said she must be really good, Noa exhaled a quiet laugh. “I’ve just done it for a long time,” she corrected gently. “Time doesn’t always equal talent. It just means I’ve fallen a lot.” There was humility in the way she said it, but also quiet confidence. Ballet had shaped her discipline, her posture, even the way she carried herself into a room. When Betsa told her she didn’t have to choose, that it could be both, Noa’s expression softened. That landed somewhere deeper than she expected. “I think I needed to hear that,” she admitted. “Sometimes ballet feels all-consuming. Like if you step outside it, you’re betraying it.” She paused, then smiled. “But I want more." At the comment about her legs, Noa laughed again, more freely this time. “Trust me, long legs are only glamorous until you’re trying to control them,” she said. “They have a mind of their own sometimes.” She glanced down playfully. “And five-foot dancers are terrifying, by the way. All power, no wasted space.” When Betsa asked if she did anything besides ballet, Noa tilted her head slightly, considering. “Not seriously,” she admitted. “Ballet’s always been the priority. But lately I’ve been trying to get out of my comfort zone. That’s why I’m here tonight. I don’t want to be what everyone wants me to be anymore. I've been that my whole life." Her gaze met Betsa’s, steady but open. “I want to see who I am without ballet." And then she noticed. Her foot. Still pointed. Even though there was absolutely no reason for it to be. A faint flush crept up her neck as she glanced down at her extended leg, toes elongated like she was waiting for a piano cue that wasn’t coming. Of course. Muscle memory. Years of being told that even resting feet should be alive. She let out a quiet breath through her nose, pretending she hadn’t just caught herself, and deliberately softened the ankle. The foot relaxed against the floor, well, mostly relaxed. It took a second try. She shifted her weight as she rose fully to standing, subtly rolling through the sole instead of lifting onto demi-pointe out of habit. It felt almost wrong which was exactly the point. She gave her shoulders a small shrug, cracked her neck too, physically shaking off some of that ingrained rigidity. Then she looked at Betsa, one brow lifting slightly, curiosity overtaking self-consciousness. “Alright,” she said, tone light but determined, “what’s the first rule of pole dancing?”
noa was someone interesting, she could tell as much by the way she spoke and carried herself around, so perfect, like a feather blown by the breeze. "i think i don't need to see you dance to know you're really talented," she nodded, a warm smile on her lips. "it's probably harder than i imagine, of course it is, but it's graceful and delicate on the outside, and that's what i see when i look at you," she said softly, "as a compliment, of course," she added with a playful hint of flirtation. as she told her how stepping outside meant betraying it, she shrugged, "you're not married to ballet, you can step out and have a little fun," she winked at her. "it's fair to want more, and that's what you're going to try tonight," she smiled, stretching her legs out in front of her. "all power, no space?" she chuckled, "i can't feel offended by that," she joked, a smile on her lips. then her attention moved back to her, listening to every single word she said about ballet, how it was always the priority for her. "tonight you can be whoever you want," she assured, a warm smile on her lips. "don't feel pressured, don't feel nervous, we have all started like this," she added gently. she noticed how noa's cheeks burned red as she pointed her foot perfectly. "you don't have to be worried," she assured, her hand moving to the other's ankle, giving it a gentle squeeze, reassuring, grounding without pushing. "what's the first rule of pole dancing, huh?" she smiled, standing back on her two feet and walking over to the pole. "you trust your body and you let yourself have fun," she said, resting a hand against the pole as she looked back at her, "no overthinking, no judging, just feeling the movement and going with it." she adjusted her grip on the pole, fingers wrapping firmly around it. "here," she added gently, guiding noa closer, "place your hand like this, thumb wrapped around, grip it like you mean it, but don't tense up too much," she encouraged, her tone soft. "give it a try, come on," she smiled, taking a small step back to give her space while still watching her closely, welcoming her to follow along.
Noa’s shoulders loosened a fraction when Betsa laughed, the tension easing out of her spine like a slow exhale. She gave a small, almost sheepish smile, eyes flicking down before lifting again. “Ballet is intense," Noa said softly, voice light but careful. “It looks calm, but it hurts in very quiet ways.” At the comment about grace, a faint flush crept up her cheeks. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, clearly not used to being talked up like that. “That’s kind of you,” she murmured. “I’m not sure how graceful I’ll be tonight, but I’ll try.” The word try landed with intention, like she was reminding herself as much as anyone else. When Betsa stepped away, Noa stayed where she was, hands clasped loosely in front of her, gaze drifting around the room. She looked a little out of place, like she was waiting for permission to exist there, but when Betsa returned, mic in hand, Noa straightened, grounding herself. As the introduction wrapped around her and the attention briefly settled in her direction, Noa gave a tiny nod, lips curving into a restrained smile. Once they were on the floor stretching, Noa folded forward smoothly, movement instinctive, familiar. That part really was muscle memory. “Yeah,” she said quietly, almost amused. “This part feels like home.” At the question, she paused, thinking, then answered honestly. “I danced from when I was three until… last year,” Noa said. “It was my whole world for a long time.” She shrugged lightly, still stretching. “I began to hate it. I just needed to see who I was without it." Her eyes flicked to Betsa, a little nervous but steady. “So this,” she added, gesturing vaguely at the pole, the room, the moment, “is me being brave. Or reckless. I haven’t decided yet.” Noa adjusted her position on the floor, then slowly extended one leg out in front of her. Her foot slid along the mat before lifting, ankle lengthening as she pointed through it with instinctive precision, arch rising, toes unfurling last, the movement clean and deliberate like she’d done it a thousand times before.
betsa had always been unapologetically transparent—what you saw was exactly what you got, minus the whole not-human-anymore detail she conveniently kept to herself. “i’ve never taken a ballet class,” she admitted with a small shrug. “too posh for my mom. she threw me into hip-hop when i was ten instead.” she smiled warmly. “so i don’t really have that softness you ballerinas carry… even when you’re destroying your feet.” her tone was teasing but fond. “don’t worry about being graceful on your first night here though. if you’ve trained in ballet, you’ll already be ahead of most—but don’t tell anyone i said that,” she added playfully, pressing her fingers to her lips like it was a secret. after briefly introducing noa to the class without making a big deal out of it, betsa outlined the plan for the session and naturally drifted back to her side, partly because it was her first day—but mostly because it just felt right standing there. she noticed immediately how noa stretched with precise control. “i can tell,” betsa murmured, switching off her mic and setting it on the floor before reaching for her own foot, mirroring the stretch beside her. when noa said she’d been dancing since she was three, betsa’s eyes widened. “that’s a long time, joder,” she laughed softly. “you must be really good.” she meant it. “and hey—you’re more than just a ballerina. this can be both. you don’t have to choose.” her gaze lifted from noa’s extended leg to her face, and she spoke without thinking, “i wish my legs were that long. tall girls have all my respect.” she chuckled at herself. “my five-foot-self could never.” she tilted her head slightly. “do you do anything besides ballet?”
Noa wasn’t used to being in places like this, and the dim lights and unfamiliar energy made her hyperaware of herself. Still, she forced herself to breathe and offered a small, shy smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “That sounds intense,” she said softly, then quickly added, almost as if to reassure herself, “but kind of exciting too.” Her fingers fidgeted at her side, betraying her nervousness, though her eyes flicked around the studio with clear curiosity. When Betsa mentioned saving her a spot, Noa’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Oh—thank you,” she said sincerely, following her toward the pole. “I was worried I’d get in the way or something.” She paused, then added, more honestly, “I’ve never done anything like this before. Ballet feels very far away from this.” Still, there was a hint of excitement beneath her nerves. She nodded as Betsa explained the class, swallowing before speaking again. “I’m nervous,” she admitted, meeting her eyes briefly, “but I wanted to try something new. Even if I’m terrible at it.” A faint smile appeared. “So I’m glad I came.” Noa slipped her jacket off her shoulders, her movements a little stiff with self-consciousness. She folded it carefully and set it to the side near the pole Betsa had saved for her, as if keeping it neat might help her feel more grounded. As she straightened up, her gaze drifted around the room. The other girls moved with an ease that made her chest tighten—stretching, chatting, laughing softly, completely at home in their bodies. They looked confident, comfortable, like they belonged here. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, arms hovering awkwardly before she crossed them loosely, then let them fall again. Part of her wanted to shrink back, to disappear into the wall—but another part, quieter and more stubborn, stayed rooted in place. “I’m glad it’s dark in here,” she admitted, glancing around at the other girls before looking back at Betsa, “so the other girls don’t see me make a fool of myself.”
betsa laughed when the other girl called her class planning intense. “oh, trust me, it’s not,” she assured her. “it’s all chill,” she promised. “if it makes you feel any better, i’d die if i had to be in a ballet class, that sounds intense,” she added with a warm smile. she could hear her own heart thundering in her chest, almost convinced she could smell the nerves coming off the girl, but at this point betsa figured she was overthinking it and her wolf senses were just playing a sick joke on her. “ballet is super far from this, but you have the grace of a ballet dancer, so you’ll make everything look pretty,” she reassured her. “and you’re flexible, you’ll be great. you’re definitely going to surprise yourself,” she smiled, trying to ease the girl’s nerves. “i’ll be right back,” she promised, giving her arm a soft, reassuring touch before moving off to greet a couple of other girls. she noticed how noa looked around, nervous, like she didn’t quite fit in, and betsa grabbed her microphone and walked back to her. “the other girls are busy doing their own thing, they won’t care if you mess up or anything,” she promised. she slipped the mic on around her head. “welcome, girls, to another pole class. i’m betsa, and i’ll try to make you feel sexy by the end of it,” she said with a smile, looking around. “tonight is going to be a lighter night—we have a new girl, and if you don’t mind, i’ll be teaching her the basics,” she added, smiling at noa. “so tonight’s the night you try things out and show me what you can do,” she said, hearing a few people clap. “let’s start with a warm-up, stretches and all that, you know the deal,” she continued, turning on the music, switching off the mic, and sitting down on the floor in front of noa. “stretching is probably your thing,” she smiled. “ballet dancers have that part memorized,” she added as she leaned forward to stretch one leg. “how long did you dance before you decided you wanted to do something else?”
Noa's cheeks flushed slightly at Betsa's words. She wasn’t used to compliments like that. She liked the way Betsa spoke, though, with so much confidence and ease. Noa was quiet for a moment, her fingers fiddling with the strap of her bag, but her voice was steady when she spoke. “Girl, your body is tea,” Noa said with a playful glint in her eye, her voice light and teasing. It was a little bold for her, but Betsa’s easy confidence made Noa want to match it, even if just for a moment. She was a little proud of herself for throwing the compliment back, even if it did make her cheeks burn brighter. She paused, glancing down at her own legs, and then added, “But seriously… thanks. I’ll try those heels." Noa’s smile grew wider, her nerves easing as she realised she was actually enjoying the conversation. Maybe she could do this, after all. The thought of tonight made her feel a little jittery, but Betsa’s reassuring smile and easy-going attitude made her feel more confident than she had all day. “Yeah… I’ll see you tonight,” Noa agreed, giving Betsa a small, shy smile as she adjusted her bag strap one more time.
Noa stood just outside the studio for a moment, feeling the cool night air on her skin as she hesitated. Her heart was racing, a mix of nerves and excitement. She tugged the jacket tighter around her, even though she knew she’d have to take it off once she was inside. Her sports bra and shorts felt a little too revealing, especially compared to the more confident energy she could sense just beyond the door. When she finally pushed it open, the low hum of music greeted her, and she immediately felt the difference in the atmosphere. The lights were dimmer now, casting everything in a sultry glow. The studio was full of women, all moving with that kind of fluid grace Noa had seen in videos but never thought she’d experience firsthand. Some of them were already warming up, stretching, while others stood in groups, chatting and laughing like they owned the room. Noa felt like she was intruding, like she wasn’t quite sure where she fit in yet. She tugged at the hem of her jacket, feeling a little out of place, but she didn’t want to back out now. As she stepped fully inside, her gaze caught Betsa at the front of the room. “Hey,” Noa greeted, her voice a little softer than she intended but full of quiet determination. “I made it… I, uh, didn’t know what to expect. But… I’m here.”
after her little chat with noa, betsa wondered if the girl would actually come to class or not; as far as she knew, it was completely out of her comfort zone, and she wouldn’t judge her if she didn’t show up—it was totally fair. after the dance class, she’d gone to grab some takeout and had dinner in the studio, something she did often because she liked the emptiness of the place. then came getting the class ready: thin mattresses under each pole, because while some people had been coming for a while, others—like noa—were just starting, and the last thing she wanted was someone slipping and landing on their head or butt. once everything was set, it didn’t take long for the girls to start coming in, greeting her warmly, and it made betsa happy—this group was always nice. she kept checking her phone, hoping noa would show up, and she was just about to lose hope when the girl walked through the door; the corners of her lips lifted into a smile, and she made her way over to her, her heartbeat thundering in her ears as nerves kicked in. “you can expect women in little clothes, low music, and dim lights,” she smiled, “i don’t bite—at least not unless you ask me to,” she joked with a chuckle. “i saved you a spot,” she added, leading her to one of the poles she’d marked with her things so no one else would use it. “it’s weird, it’s nothing like ballet, but we’ll take it easy—there’s a bit of warm-up, then some technique practice, you’ll love that,” she winked playfully, “and then we just try things out; i put music on, you practice what you’ve learned, and i give tips and stuff.” she shrugged lightly. “classes usually change, it’s not always like this, but… i hope you enjoy today’s one.”
Noa blinked, a small, startled smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She hadn’t expected that — not the compliment, not the warmth in Betsa’s voice, not the way her words made something flutter in Noa’s chest. She looked down for a second, smoothing an invisible crease in her sleeve, then looked back up, her gaze steady if a little shy. “I, um… thanks,” she said quietly, but with a sincerity that landed softly between them. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t waver. “That means a lot.” She paused, thoughtful, then added with a quiet kind of curiosity, “I’ve never really thought of dancing like that. Like something you can let go in. It’s usually more about… holding everything in place. Getting it right.” There was a hint of amusement in her voice now — self-aware, even a little self-deprecating. “It’s weird, I guess. I love the control. The discipline. But the idea of messing up and laughing about it? That sounds … kinda nice.” She hesitated again, then, more softly, “You make it sound… fun. And free.” She let the words linger between them, eyes flicking to Betsa with a mixture of uncertainty and intrigue. “I think I want to try it. If that’s okay?” Noa didn’t quite know how to respond to the “pretty” part — her cheeks had already turned a soft shade of pink — but she didn’t look away. Instead, she smiled, small and real. Not used to being seen like that. “And I’ll bring the shorts and sports bra,” she added, a little bolder now. She let out a soft giggle, the sound light and surprised, as if it had slipped out before she could catch it. She glanced down at her legs, one foot nudging at the floor shyly, and shook her head with a quiet laugh. “These legs in heels are going to look like I go on for days,” she said, a little wide-eyed at the thought. There was a pause — her gaze lingering on Betsa now, more curious than before. “You really think I could pull it off?”
it was clear that the idea of dancing they had in mind wasn't the same at all; she’d grown up thinking dance was about expressing herself, letting everything go and moving in ways that said more than words ever could, while noa seemed to have been taught that dance was supposed to be perfect. “i’m pretty sure the people who showed you that would find what i do scandalous,” she chuckled, because nothing in her classes was perfect— it was all about enjoying yourself, no discipline, just a group of people dancing, embracing themselves and vibing to music betsa honestly loved. “you’ll learn to laugh about it, i messed up once, started a part of the choreo when everyone else was doing something else, they cheered like i’d meant it, i laughed and kept going,” she shrugged, confident and knowing her group was there to have fun, no space for feeling bad or less than anyone just for making a mistake. “of course, free trial,” she smiled, happy to see confidence sparking in noa. pole dancing wasn’t easy, and some people only saw it as a job, but betsa actually loved it. “safe option, it’ll be great,” she nodded, smiling. “i’d die for those legs, of course you can pull heels off, girl, of course,” she assured with another grin. “i don’t think we’re the same size but i have contacts, i can get you a pair to try tonight if you want,” she added, thinking of texting bailey or deena, knowing they’d have those tall heels— not that she’d tell noa they were part of a striptease outfit, she didn’t want to scare her. “it’ll be fun, i promise,” she said as she slipped on her sweatshirt and grabbed her bag. “i’ll see you tonight?” she smiled.
Noa’s posture was as straight as ever, shoulders drawn back the way years of ballet had drilled into her, but her eyes betrayed her—bright with curiosity, flicking from Betsa to the poles and back again. She let out a small, nervous laugh, almost too prim for the wild energy Betsa carried so effortlessly. “Fun isn’t the word I'd usually use after a ballet class, but this was fun” she admitted honestly. “Normally it’s… correction, repetition, and silence.” Her lips curved into a faint smile, a little self-deprecating as she shook her head. “Watching you all laugh, get into the song, and still somehow make it work—it’s so different. I want to be more like that. Less rigid. More… free.” When Betsa mentioned the pole dancing, Noa’s brows shot up, her cheeks warming despite herself. “Less clothes, more heels?” she repeated, sounding scandalised at first, though there was no mistaking the intrigue in her voice. “That sounds—” she paused, lips pressing together before letting out another laugh, softer this time. “Terrifying. But maybe that’s exactly why I should try.” Her gaze softened as she studied Betsa, the mischief in her words making something tug in Noa’s chest. “You said seven, right?” Noa hesitated, her fingers tugging lightly at the hem of her top, betraying the uncertainty that her otherwise perfect posture tried to hide. “If I do come tonight…” she began slowly, eyes flicking back toward the poles, then to Betsa, “…what exactly am I supposed to wear?” Her voice carried that same careful precision she’d learned in ballet, but there was a thread of vulnerability woven through it. “Like—should I bring my usual workout things? Leggings, sports bra, that sort of thing?” She paused, her brow furrowing slightly as her mouth quirked in a wry, nervous smile. “Or is it more like… mini skirt, bralette, heels?” The way she said it made it clear she wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. She gave a small laugh, shaking her head. “I’m used to tights and leotards and being completely covered, so I have no idea what’s normal in your class. I don’t want to… show up looking like I’m in the wrong decade.”
betsa couldn’t stop watching her — the way she moved, like every step was intentional, every breath controlled. she was all poise and elegance, the kind of girl who looked like she belonged on a stage, not in a dusty old studio with flickering lights and squeaky floors. “okay, saying you dance ballet sounds fun,” betsa said with a grin, “but the whole silence and correction thing? yeah, that’s not my kind of party.” she laughed softly, her voice carrying warmth and mischief. “in my class, you get to mess up, sing along, and shake your ass — which, personally, i think makes it a lot better.” betsa always said what she thought; it was easier than pretending. she wasn’t going to tell anyone about the darker, wilder parts of herself — the things she was still trying to understand — but this part of her, the fun, honest part, that was safe to share. “it looks terrifying, i know,” she added, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “pole dance gets a bad rep, but it’s not for freaks or anything. it’s about control, and strength, and letting go. it’s… different, but freeing.” when the other girl asked what to wear, betsa’s smile widened. “shorts and a sports bra work great,” she said, eyes flicking up playfully. “but if you feel like going full glam, heels and all — trust me, no one’s gonna stop you. i say, do what makes you feel hot.” the girl’s vulnerability didn’t go unnoticed; it softened something in betsa. “think of it like this — the less you wear, the easier it is to grip the pole,” she teased gently. “it’s practical, not scandalous. but really, it’s all about feeling free. you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.” she paused, her gaze softening. “and for what it’s worth, i bet you’ll look amazing in whatever you choose. you’re really pretty, you know that?”
The day of the full moon started like any other — or at least she told herself that. She dragged herself through work with the same pasted-on smile, the same routine of scanning memberships, handing out towels, pretending that the mix of sweat, deodorant, and protein powder didn’t make her stomach twist. For weeks now, her body had been off. Stronger, quicker, sharper. She’d heard conversations through walls, smelled things she never wanted to smell, seen in shadows like daylight. But she’d learned to fake normalcy. She didn’t have another option.
The worst part was the hunger. Not for food, not exactly. Protein bars and salads filled her stomach but left her hollow. Sometimes she’d open the fridge at home and catch herself staring at raw meat like it was dessert. She hated herself for it. So she shut the door, slammed it, and swallowed down the ache.
That night, she was on closing duty. The rest of the staff clocked out one by one, offering casual goodbyes, leaving her with the keys and the checklist. She liked it usually. Closing meant quiet, the gym emptied of chatter and clanging weights. She could sweep through each room at her own pace, earbuds in, pretending the world wasn’t pressing so loud against her senses. Tonight, though, her skin was crawling. Every clock tick was sharp, like a nail against her eardrum. The lights seemed too bright, humming too loud. Her chest felt tight, her pulse heavy.
By the time she made it to the mirrored dance room at the far end of the gym — her favorite place, usually — her hands were trembling. She always lingered here, checking the floors, turning off the speakers, but also letting herself dance a little when no one was watching. Dancing was the one thing that still felt like hers, the one anchor she could cling to when everything else had been ripped sideways. But tonight she couldn’t even stretch without her spine feeling wrong. Her reflection looked wrong, too — pupils blown wide, skin feverish.
The moon was already high by then, silver light pouring in through the high windows. She knew it was full. She’d known it all day, felt it like static in her bones, restless and buzzing. But she hadn’t expected this.
The first wave hit so suddenly she collapsed against the wall, gasping like she couldn’t breathe. Fire tore through her back, down her arms, through her legs. Her hands curled into claws without her meaning to. Her nails scraped deep lines into the mirrored glass. She stumbled forward, caught her reflection, and barely recognized herself. Her eyes glowed faintly, veins rising dark beneath her skin, teeth bared in a sound she didn’t mean to make.
Then came the snap. Her knee buckled wrong, bone shifting. She screamed, the sound ricocheting off the mirrors, and fell hard to the floor. The burn in her blood turned into a crack, a grind. Her ribs stretched, her shoulders twisted. She clawed at the wood floor, leaving long, splintered gouges. Every joint popped like it was being torn apart from the inside. Her reflection fractured in the mirror when she hurled into it, glass shattering across the room. Her howl — raw, animal, terrified — echoed back at her.
The dance room became unrecognizable in minutes. Mirrors broken, floor scored by claw marks, the scent of sweat and blood sharp in the air. Betsa writhed on the floor, body convulsing, skin damp with sweat, voice torn ragged. Her spine arched so violently she thought it would snap. She smashed into a stack of yoga mats, tore through them with a strength that wasn’t hers. Her vision pulsed, dark then blinding white, and she could feel the wolf — whatever it was — pushing from beneath her skin, fighting to take over.
By the time the shift broke fully, she wasn’t Betsa anymore. Not entirely. She was something else, crouched in the wreck of the dance room, glass glinting on the floor like stars, claws digging into the wood, chest heaving. The world around her smelled too sharp, looked too bright. She shook her head hard, trying to hold onto herself, but her thoughts scattered like frightened birds.
And then, silence. The aftershock of it. Her breathing slowed. Her body stopped convulsing. She sat there in the wreckage, half-curled, hands still trembling with claws that hadn’t been there an hour ago. Tears stung her eyes, though she couldn’t tell if they were hers or the wolf’s. She was alone, and she had destroyed the only room in the gym that had ever felt like hers.
For the first time since the bite, she couldn’t pretend anymore. There was no hiding this. Whatever had bitten her hadn’t just marked her — it had remade her. And on nights like this, when the moon rose full, she was no longer just a girl who worked the front desk of a gym.
She was a monster.
When she came back to herself, the floor was cold under her cheek. The moon had drifted lower in the sky, its glow washed pale by the earliest thread of dawn. Her body ached like she’d been beaten from the inside out. Every muscle throbbed. Her throat was raw, her hands sticky with blood — though when she checked, it was only hers, cuts from glass and splinters. She sat up slowly, legs trembling, and looked around the room.
It was a nightmare. The once-polished dance floor was gouged, claw marks crisscrossing like scars. Shards of mirror glimmered everywhere, some driven into the wall, others scattered like dangerous confetti across the mats. The speakers were overturned. One of the bars along the wall was bent, snapped out of its bracket like it was made of plastic. And the smell — metallic, musky, sharp with adrenaline and sweat — was unbearable.
Betsa’s stomach lurched. Her first instinct was to run. Just run, get out, leave the keys on the counter and disappear. But reality clawed at her as hard as the wolf had: this was her job. Her one source of stability. She couldn’t lose it. Not now.
She spent the next hour on autopilot. Picking up glass, stacking what mats hadn’t been shredded, sweeping frantically. Her hands shook so badly she cut herself twice, but she didn’t care. Every scrape, every gash healed faster than it should have anyway. By the time the sun was fully up, she’d piled the worst of the broken mirrors into garbage bags, shoved them into the utility closet, and wiped at the floor until her knees ached. The claw marks were impossible to hide, long grooves ripped deep into the wood. Her heart pounded every time her eyes landed on them.
When the morning shift came in, she was already behind the front desk, hoodie pulled low, pretending she’d been there all night just catching up on paperwork. Her boss glanced at the dance room and froze.
Zeus wasn’t an easy man to fool. He had a presence that filled the gym the second he stepped in — tall, broad, with a voice that always sounded like it could boom if he wanted it to. Most people jumped to attention when he asked a question. Betsa, sitting stiff at the front desk with her hood up, felt her stomach crawl into her throat when he gestured toward the destroyed dance room.
“What the hell happened in there?” His tone wasn’t angry yet, but it was close.
Her mind spun. A storm. Raccoons. Anything. But those sounded ridiculous, flimsy, like excuses a child would come up with. What would sound human enough, messy enough to cover the impossible truth? The words slipped out before she’d even thought them through.
“My ex,” she said, her voice hoarse. She cleared her throat, tried again, steadier. “My ex showed up last night. He’s been… I don’t know, hanging around. He came here, wanted to talk. It got ugly. We argued. He threw the speaker, smashed the mirrors. I couldn’t stop him.”
Zeus blinked, his dark brows pulling together. “Your ex? He came here? At night?”
“Yeah,” she said quickly, pulling her sleeves down to hide the faint scar still burning on her wrist. “I know I should’ve called you. Or the cops. But it all happened so fast. I just tried to clean up before anyone saw it.” Her hands twisted together under the desk, nails biting into her palms.
Silence stretched. Betsa could hear his heartbeat, steady but heavy, the way it always was when he didn’t quite believe something. She forced herself not to fidget.
Finally, Zeus sighed. “Betsa… you should’ve told me. This place is your job, not your personal battleground. You can’t bring that kind of drama here.” His gaze lingered on her, sharp but not unkind. “Are you safe?”
The question almost broke her. Safe. She wanted to laugh, scream, confess. Safe was a word that didn’t exist anymore. But she nodded anyway, quick, desperate. “Yeah. He won’t come back. I’ll make sure of it.”
Zeus studied her another long moment before rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright. I’ll file the damage as vandalism, get the repairs sorted. But listen to me, Betsa—” His voice hardened, the way it did when he wanted something to stick. “If this guy shows up again, you call me. Or the police. No second chances. You understand?”
“Yes,” she said, too fast, too eager. “I understand.”
He gave a slow nod, still not entirely convinced, but turned toward his office. Betsa let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her whole body felt wired, thrumming, like the wolf inside her had been holding its own breath too. She’d bought herself time. That was all.
As Zeus’s door shut behind him, she pressed her hands over her face. The lies burned almost as much as the truth. Her ex hadn’t been there in months. But now, as far as her boss knew, he was the monster who’d ripped apart the dance room. And maybe that was easier than admitting the monster was her.
Noa’s eyes flicked up, catching Betsa’s grin with a soft smile that held a quiet confidence. She shifted her weight lightly, the grace of years in ballet still evident in the way she carried herself—controlled, poised, but ready to move at any moment. “That's the one - the poster with the hot pink set,” she said thoughtfully, a small laugh escaping her lips. When Betsa joked about the gorilla downstairs, Noa’s smile widened, amusement sparkling in her eyes. "Zeus, right? He seems a little scary." Hearing Betsa talk about making dancing sexy, Noa nodded, the faintest flicker of a challenge in her gaze. “Sexy’s a good choice, it suits you ” she agreed, voice steady. “I’ve always been taught about precision—every step, every move having it's own purpose.” Her expression softened as Betsa encouraged her to let go and feel the rhythm. “I used to dance,” Noa admitted, voice quiet but sure. “Ballet was my everything for years. Discipline, control, all that shit they drill into you." She glanced away briefly, a shadow flickering behind her eyes. “But this—this is different. It's out of my comfort zone, for sure." She gave a small shrug, fingers brushing lightly against her own arm as if grounding herself. “I’ve got the moves, yeah. Just figuring out how to loosen up a bit. Any ideas?"
betsa felt every second stretch out, every flicker of movement from the girl in front of her pulling her attention in like gravity. she could hear the shuffle of bags, the chatter of people leaving, but it was all background noise compared to the thrum of her own heartbeat. “that was really fun,” she admitted, still a little breathless, her lips curling into a grin. “zeus is scary, i’ll give you that—he’s all muscle and testosterone… and like, at least half protein powder,” she joked, shaking her head. the way the other girl spoke about ballet had her smiling softer, imagining the stark contrast between rigid control and the messy joy of her own class. “yeah, it’s really different,” she agreed with a laugh, “your teacher would’ve fainted with all the squeaky shoes, everyone smacking themselves, and me screaming lyrics like a maniac.” her grin widened as she leaned in conspiratorially. “and you see those poles? not just for keeping the ceiling from collapsing. twice a week i run the pole dance class.” she let the words hang for a beat before adding, “less clothes, more heels. maybe you should come and try it.” her eyes sparkled with mischief as she teased, “i swear i’m not a stripper—at least not anymore.” a laugh slipped out of her before she tipped her head, inviting. “class is later tonight at seven. come give it a try, first session’s on me.”
Noa had kept to herself for most of the class—not out of shyness, just calculation. She was new, and stepping into a room that pulsed with high energy and sweat, led by someone like Betsa, was… a lot. The instructor was magnetic, all effortless drama and confident control, commanding attention with every move. Noa had seen people like that before—people who could lead a crowd like it was nothing. She admired it, quietly. Now, with the session over, Noa was collecting her things at the edge of the room, toweling off her neck when she felt the shift. Noa straightened slightly, sliding one strap of her gym bag onto her shoulder, her expression calm, but her gaze steady. Not cold, not distant—just observant. She stood tall. Noa returned the smile, smaller but genuine. “Yeah,” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I saw one of your posters plastered around the city last week. Thought I’d check it out.” Her eyes lingered on Betsa’s face for half a second longer than normal. “You don’t make it easy to keep up.” A soft grin. Almost teasing. Instead, she shifted her weight and gave a quiet chuckle. “I’m used to being poised and not having the freedom to move all of my limbs however I see fit,” she admitted, gesturing vaguely with her hands. “I feel stiff right now. I'm a work in progress. I need to get myself out of what I have been taught my whole up until this point." There was a self-aware shrug at the end, and something about the way she said it made it clear she wasn’t fishing for reassurance. Just being honest.
being the life of the party was something betsa had loved ever since she was little. she’d been the popular girl in school, learned to live under the spotlight and… she bathed in it. ever since the bite, she had more energy, more stamina—she could run for hours without breaking a sweat. every single class she taught now was powerful. she remembered back when she used to take little breaks between songs because she was too busy looking fierce and hot to remember to breathe. now, she still took breaks—but for the others, not for her. it felt amazing, even if today was… different. as the other woman stood straight, betsa couldn’t help checking her height. seriously, where had those missing centimeters gone? when she mentioned the posters, betsa grinned. “which one? my solo poster? i love that hot pink set. or the one with my boss—you know, the hot gorilla downstairs. if you hear someone growling, that’s him,” she joked. when the woman said she didn’t make it easy to keep up, betsa just smiled. “if you make it easy, you don’t sweat,” she shrugged. “that’s the good thing about zumba—you dance however you want, as long as you follow the choreo. you’ll pick them up quick. you can make it more sporty, sexy… whatever you like.” she nodded. “i go for sexy, but that’s just me.” at her words, betsa’s expression softened. “you’re free to be whoever you want—let yourself go, feel the rhythm,” she said with a shrug. though, if she was honest, it was getting harder to focus by the second, and she had no idea how she was going to get out of this one. “but you used to dance, right? you’ve got the moves.”
The rest of the walk home was a blur, half-staggered, half-run. Her coat was soaked, her jeans clinging to her legs like ice, and blood was dripping steadily from the crescent-shaped wound on her wrist. The pain pulsed like a second heartbeat—deep, hot, unnatural. By the time she reached her apartment building, she couldn’t remember how many streets she’d crossed or how many people she’d passed. Everything after the bite felt smudged at the edges, like someone had taken a wet brush to her memory and dragged the colors until they ran together. Her fingers trembled as she unlocked her door. The hallway light buzzed above her, painfully bright. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she was just… off.
Inside, the warmth hit her too fast. It made her nauseous. She dropped her bag by the door, kicked off her shoes without bothering to untie them. Her whole body was shaking—not from the cold anymore, but something deeper. A tremble in her bones. In her blood. She peeled off her coat and stared at her wrist. The bite wasn’t deep enough to need stitches, but it was wide, angry-looking, already swollen and red around the edges. Puncture marks like fangs, bruising spreading like spilled ink. The skin around it throbbed and pulsed with each beat of her heart. She grabbed her first-aid kit from under the sink with clumsy hands, almost dropping it. She disinfected the wound—tried to. The second the alcohol touched it, she gasped, legs nearly buckling under her. It burned worse than fire. Worse than anything. She slapped a bandage on it, not even sure it would help, and stumbled to her bed still in damp clothes, dragging a heavy blanket over herself like it could shield her from what had happened. She barely remembered falling asleep. Her thoughts swirled in sick spirals—wolf. attack. bite. teeth. wrong wrong wrong—and then she was out.
When she woke up, sunlight was leaking through the curtains in narrow, sharp blades. The birds outside were loud. Too loud. She groaned and rolled over, but the sound of the sheets shifting was deafening—every thread moving sounded like it was tearing. Her heart beat faster. She blinked hard, sat up, and that’s when it hit her.
She could hear everything. Not just the birds—cars several blocks away, a faucet dripping in a neighbor’s apartment, footsteps outside her door. Someone was walking their dog two floors down, she could hear the leash jingling. She could smell it too—the faint trace of wet fur and sidewalk grime. Her stomach twisted violently. She wasn’t hungry. She was starving. Her mouth felt dry. Her skin tingled all over, and when she reached to check her wrist, her breath caught. The bandage was gone. Not peeled off. Gone. Like it had disintegrated overnight. And the bite… it wasn’t a wound anymore. It wasn’t scabbed or bruised or red. It was a scar. Already. Smooth, pale, slightly raised. Like it had been there for years, not hours. Her breath quickened. She stood—too fast—and slammed into the bedframe with her hip. The sounds hadn’t stopped. They were layered over each other—conversations through walls, a blender from a few apartments over, an old woman humming while washing dishes. She pressed her hands to her ears, but it didn’t matter. The sounds weren’t coming through her ears anymore. They were just there, like radio waves her brain had suddenly learned how to tune into.
She stumbled to the bathroom and flicked on the light. It pierced her eyes like a blade. In the mirror, she looked the same—but not. Her pupils were wide, devouring the brown of her irises, reacting to every flicker of shadow. Her skin was flushed, her lips too pink, like blood was rushing just under the surface. She breathed in deep and instantly regretted it—she could smell everything in her apartment. Every trace of herself. Of the night before. Of the blood. Of her old, now fading humanity. The scar on her wrist itched. Her spine felt like it didn’t fit quite right. Her legs felt heavier, stronger. Her senses—sight, smell, hearing—were overwhelming. She could feel the heartbeat of the person upstairs if she stood still. What the hell was happening to her? She staggered out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. She opened the fridge, hoping for something that would settle her stomach. The leftover noodles made her gag, but the forgotten package of raw beef in the back? Her mouth watered. She slammed the door shut and pressed her forehead to the cold steel. “No,” she whispered. “No. This isn’t real.” But it was. The scar said it was. The sounds in her head said it was. And Betsa realized with a terrible certainty: this was only the beginning.
The walk to work was worse. It was only a few blocks, but it felt like hours. She kept her hoodie pulled up, her eyes fixed on the ground, because every time she looked at someone, she knew things she shouldn’t. A man passing her had a toothache—she could smell the infection. The woman on her phone behind her had been crying that morning, perfume couldn’t hide it. A kid across the street had something sugary in his pocket—Betsa could almost taste it. The world wasn’t just loud now. It was loud inside her skin.
By the time she reached the gym, she was lightheaded from holding her breath too often. She opened the door and nearly doubled over. The smell. It hit her like a train. Sweat. Detergent. Body odor. Metal. Dust. Blood—someone had a scratch on their shin. Cheap perfume. Spilled pre-workout mix. Dirty towels. Soggy socks. Under all of it, that same chemical-clean citrus smell from the disinfectant they used every night, which had never bothered her before but now made her eyes water. She wanted to throw up. She practically bolted to the front desk, ducking behind it to hide her expression. Her coworker asked if she was okay—she lied. Said she was hungover. Or something. Anything but this. The machines were clanging like someone was hitting her in the eardrums. The music on someone’s earbuds three benches away was screaming lyrics in her brain. Every time someone breathed, she could hear their lungs flexing. She could feel their bones creaking. Her fingers trembled against the desk. She tried to keep her face neutral, tried not to cry, but she knew something had changed inside her. Something deep. Permanent. Wrong. Or right—depending on whose side you were on. And the worst part wasn’t the noise or the smells or the hunger twisting in her stomach. It was that, under all of it, she could feel something inside her waiting. Watching.
betsa walked past zeus, waving at the people around, her bubbly personality showing as always—the only difference was that she was actually nervous. not because of work, not because of how many people had signed up for her class. her problem was the class ending late. that had never been a problem, but it was now. why? she didn’t know if all those shows and movies she’d watched—trying to understand what had happened to her after a werewolf bit her—were true or not. her fear? that the full moon thing was actually something to worry about. she didn’t know if she was on edge because of that or just because she needed to know what to expect. “that was a hell of a class,” she clapped her hands, turning to look at the people behind her—she’d been watching them through the mirrors. she was sweating, long hair cascading down her back. tying it up in a ponytail never worked for her, she needed the effect her hair gave when she moved—the dramatics. she could feel everyone’s heartbeat in the room, every sigh, every comment. but something was different. there was someone new. she spotted her quickly and walked over to the tall girl now grabbing her things. “oh, hey,” she smiled, “it’s your first time here, isn’t it?” she asked, all her senses fixed on the tall girl, trying to ignore the anxiety building inside her—so out of character for betsa, and something she didn’t know how to control. @noa-anastasiou
trying. as the receptionist at olympus gym, she’s known for her sharp wit, biting sarcasm, and the kind of confidence that makes people both admire and fear her. she teaches kickboxing and dance classes with a fierce passion, mixing strength with style, and isn’t afraid to call people out or flirt first. most see her as a heartbreaker, but few know the layers beneath — the sweetness she only reveals when she truly wants to, the loyalty she fiercely guards, and the softer emotions she buries beneath her sharp edges. life has toughened her, especially after heartbreaks that hardened her once sweet nature, turning her into the unapologetic, strong-willed woman she is today.
but everything changed the night she was bitten. suddenly, the body that had always obeyed her was at war with something wild and ancient inside. she struggles to control her shifting—the glowing gold eyes that appear when the full moon hits, the sudden aches, the claws that start to poke through. she’s still learning, fumbling through each transformation like it’s some cruel test she didn’t ask for. it’s not terrifying, exactly — more frustrating and exhausting. she hates the loss of control, the way her body acts on its own, especially in front of others. so far, her family has no idea, and she’s determined to keep it that way.
one night during a quiet shift at the gym, the full moon hit harder than ever. she was behind the front desk, putting together a playlist for her dance class, when the pressure in her chest became unbearable. her vision blurred, and before she knew it, her eyes were glowing gold in the reflection of the glass door. she collapsed to the floor, clutching herself as pain and adrenaline coursed through her veins. her claws started to grow, but her stubborn pride refused to let her lose control — not in her workplace, not in front of anyone. after what felt like forever, the glow faded, the claws retracted, and her breathing steadied. she wiped the sweat and mascara from her face and laughed softly to herself, “guess that confirms it. i’m a damn werewolf.”
betsa doesn’t break down or seek sympathy. instead, she channels her frustration into hard workouts and sharp comebacks, all while quietly fighting to master this new part of herself. she’s fiercely independent, reluctant to let anyone in on her secret, and determined to keep living life on her terms. underneath the bravado and teasing, though, there’s a girl who’s learning to balance the wildness inside with the love and loyalty she’s always carried — someone who’s tough enough to face the beast but still wants to hold on to her heart.
