Étienne—or Ji-hoon, as he stubbornly continued to call himself in his mind—sat at the edge of the ballet studio, staring blankly at the polished wooden floor. His body ached from hours of relentless training, his muscles screaming in protest. It was only midday, but he still had another four hours of lessons ahead. Ballet had taken over his life.
Every morning started the same: grueling stretches, intense barre work, and endless repetition of movements that made his legs feel like lead by the end of the day. Lucien's expectations hung over him like a sword ready to fall, each correction from his instructors feeling like a stab in his pride. They didn't see Ji-hoon; they saw a future maître de ballet, an heir to the D'Arcy legacy who was supposed to live up to Lucien's impossible standards.
"En pointe, Étienne," his instructor snapped, her sharp French accent cutting through the air. "Focus your energy into your toes. Again!"
He gritted his teeth, pushing through the pain as he forced himself back into position. Étienne, they called him, always Étienne. The name felt foreign on his skin, a title he didn't own. Yet every time it was spoken, he felt a little more of Ji-hoon slip away.
His foot trembled as he rose en pointe again, sweat dripping down his face, his calves on fire. He wobbled slightly, and the instructor's disapproving sigh only deepened the knot in his stomach.
"Not good enough," she muttered, pacing around him like a hawk. "If you want to live up to your name, you need to be better than this. Ballet is not just an art, it's discipline. Again, Étienne."
Ji-hoon lowered his heel, fighting the urge to collapse. He could feel the eyes of the other students on him—some sympathetic, most indifferent. To them, he wasn't a peer. He was Lucien's protégé, the boy who had everything handed to him but couldn't seem to grasp it.
But no one knew how much he hated it. The weight of living up to Lucien's reputation bore down on him, and the harder he tried to push it away, the more suffocating it became.
The moment the lesson ended, Ji-hoon bolted from the studio, ignoring the pain in his legs. He slipped into the hallway and leaned against the cool wall, gasping for breath. His hands shook, his mind spinning with exhaustion and frustration.
He was only sixteen. He hadn't chosen this. But here he was, being molded into something he never wanted to be.
He was about to head to his room for a moment of peace when he heard a voice—firm and authoritative—calling his name from the end of the hall. "Étienne, viens ici!"
It was Lucien.
Ji-hoon froze, his heart sinking. He slowly turned to face Lucien, who stood tall and commanding, his expression unreadable. Even out of his ballet attire, Lucien exuded elegance and grace, the embodiment of everything Ji-hoon was expected to become.
"Why are you here?" Lucien asked, his voice cold, yet not without curiosity. "You should be back in the studio. You're not done for the day."
"I needed a break," Ji-hoon muttered, not meeting Lucien's eyes. His frustration bubbled up, but he held it back, not wanting to ignite another confrontation.
Lucien stepped closer, his gaze piercing. "You don't get breaks in this life, Étienne. Ballet is about endurance, both physical and mental. If you cannot handle the pressure, you will never survive in this world."
Ji-hoon clenched his fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. "Maybe I don't want to survive in this world."
Lucien's eyes narrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line. "You don't have a choice. This is the path you were born to follow."
"I wasn't born to follow your path," Ji-hoon snapped, finally meeting Lucien's gaze, his frustration spilling over. "I'm not you. I never asked for this. You're forcing me to be someone I'm not."
Lucien's expression hardened. "You are a D'Arcy now. You have responsibilities. We are not ordinary people, Étienne. We are part of something greater. You are part of something greater."
Ji-hoon shook his head, the bitterness rising in his throat. "All I've ever wanted was to live my own life. To be who I am. But you're asking me to give all that up."
Lucien stepped even closer, his voice low but firm. "I am asking you to live up to your potential. To rise to the occasion, to fulfill the legacy you've been given. Do you think this is just about ballet? This is about our name, our history. Your life has a purpose, Étienne. Whether you like it or not."
Ji-hoon opened his mouth to retort, but the words stuck in his throat. He was too exhausted to fight. Too tired of trying to explain something that Lucien would never understand.
Lucien softened, but only slightly. "I see promise in you, even if you don't. But promise alone is not enough. If you want to succeed, you must be willing to sacrifice. And you must learn to speak the language of this world." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "Starting tonight, you will have French lessons with a tutor. Every evening after ballet."
Ji-hoon blinked, stunned. "French lessons? I'm already doing ballet all day. When am I supposed to have time to breathe?"
"You will make time," Lucien said, his tone brokering no argument. "French is the language of our culture, of the ballet world. You cannot remain an outsider if you want to be part of it."
Ji-hoon stared at him, disbelief turning to a slow-burning anger. Not only was he being forced to bend to Lucien's expectations in ballet, but now he was expected to abandon his own language, too? French was beautiful, sure, but it wasn't his.
Lucien turned to leave, but stopped at the door, casting one last glance over his shoulder. "I expect you to be ready for your lesson by 8 p.m. sharp."
As Lucien's footsteps faded down the hall, Ji-hoon felt a crushing weight settle on his chest. French lessons. Ballet lessons. All of it felt like chains tightening around him, squeezing the life out of who he used to be.
He walked back to his room, his steps heavy and slow, his mind racing. Once inside, he collapsed onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The room, like everything else in the mansion, was grand and luxurious—far too much for a boy from Seoul who once lived in a cramped apartment. Now, all of it felt like a burden, a reminder that he didn't belong here.
That evening, just before eight, Ji-hoon found himself sitting in a richly decorated study, a French tutor sitting across from him. The tutor was a middle-aged woman with a strict demeanor, and the first thing she did was open a thick textbook, speaking to him entirely in French.
"Bonsoir, Étienne. Nous allons commencer par les bases. Répétez après moi."
Ji-hoon's mind went blank. He barely understood a word, but it didn't matter. He was expected to learn, to absorb it all like a sponge.
The lesson dragged on, his head spinning with unfamiliar words and phrases. He struggled to keep up, the fatigue from ballet still weighing heavily on his body.
By the time the lesson ended, it was past ten, and Ji-hoon felt like he had been through a war. His body ached, his mind was numb, and his spirit felt crushed. As he dragged himself to bed, he couldn't help but wonder how much longer he could endure this.
How much longer could he survive as Étienne D'Arcy before Ji-hoon disappeared entirely?