Dance.
The word jumps out from the schedule like it's written in gold.
Performance Arts - Advanced Ballet (Tues/Thurs 2-4pm)
Contemporary Movement Workshop (Wed 10am-12pm)
Individual Studio Reservation - APPROVED
I've been trying to get individual studio time for three years.
Threeyearsof requests denied, applications rejected, dreams deferred because packless Omegas don't get nice things, don't get opportunities, don't get to dance in proper studios with proper equipment because the academy has decided we're not worth the investment.
And now, suddenly, I have everything I've been begging for.
Just like that.
Because some Alphas signed a piece of paper.
"What does this mean?"
The question comes out smaller than I intend—confused, uncertain, the voice of someone who's been hurt too many times to trust good news without looking for the trap hidden inside.
I lift my head.
Ms. Chen is sitting across from me, behind a desk cluttered with papers and coffee mugs and the general debris of someone who cares more about her students than about maintaining a pristine workspace. Her expression is warm—kind, even, in a way that makes my chest ache—but there's something else in her eyes.
Hope.
Hope forme.
It's almost harder to process than the documents.
"A pack submitted their request to have you as an Omega," she explains, leaning forward with the enthusiasm of someone delivering genuinely good news. "The paperwork came through this morning—expedited processing, which is unusual, but apparently they have connections. With this approval, you've been given a completely new schedule."
She gestures at the papers still trembling in my hands.
"More importantly, you'll be permitted to participate in the Omega auditions."
My heart stutters.
Auditions.
The word echoes in my skull, bouncing off memories of ruined letters and rainy stages and a performance space hung with my own words like a gallery of humiliation.
"The auditions were rescheduled," Ms. Chen continues, apparently oblivious to my internal crisis. "Multiple Omegas were injured in the townhouse fire—a terrible tragedy, but the administration finally acknowledged that the timing was inappropriate. The auditions are now delayed by one week to accommodate recovery."
One week.
Seven days.
The math happens automatically in my brain, calculating and recalculating, trying to make the numbers make sense.
Seven days is longer than thirty.
No—wait.
That's not right.
