"They call him the Studio Ghost." The light whispers of young girls float across the dance company's lobby—a small cluster of intermediate-level ballet students sit on benches and on the floor, working with nimble hands on their pointe shoes, breaking in the soles and boxes and mending ribbons and elastics. It's a Saturday, late in the morning, and dust motes dance in the rays of sunlight that are pouring into the lobby. "They say he's the best contemporary dancer Donne de Grands Airs has ever seen."

"Have you seen him dance?" The whispers are hushed and edgy, as though they're passing on the most confidential material. One girl pricks her finger on her sewing needle and utters a mild curse.

"No," the first girl hisses. "But they say he has white hair like an old man, and awful tattoos all over his body."

A watchful mother bustles by and the girls fall silent for a split second. A few suspicious glances a moment later tell them no one will overhear.

"I heard he murdered one ballerina three months ago because she stayed in the building too late at night," another girl mutters, casting a sideways look over her shoulder. "It was Minjung."

A round of quiet gasps. "Minjung? But she moved away."

A head is shaken solemnly. "I asked the company, they wouldn't tell me anything." Shrouding silence falls around them, save for the quiet rustles of satin shoes being worked over.

After a short and tense moment of quiet: "I want to see the Studio Ghost dance," one of the shyer girls says excitedly under her breath.

In an abrupt change of mood, there's a chorus of agreement from the cluster, and they return to their mending and molding before they at last tie on their pointe shoes and patter off to class.

Just as the last of the girls flutters into one of the studio classrooms, Wonshik pushes open the front door to Donne de Grands Airs' lobby, the bells knotted to the handle jingling cheerfully at his arrival. He shifts his gaze across the room, keeping his head low and shoulders hunched. With a brisk nod to the receptionist, he shuffles down a hall to his right towards his favorite studio room—the one at the end of the hall, on the left. It's small and very worn down, the mirrors darkening with age around the edges. It had been used as a costume storage room for years and years, until Wonshik had asked to have it cleared for his personal use. The company had obliged, much to Wonshik's own surprise.

Wonshik steps inside the studio, closing the door behind himself. He spends several minutes adjusting the mini blinds hanging over the door's narrow window, only stopping when the wire reinforced glass is completely covered. Turning on his heel, he faces the empty room. His eyes look over the dance worn floor, and he casts a glance back at the door to ensure that nobody can see inside. Dropping his backpack onto the floor, Wonshik crouches and fishes out a portable cassette player and headphones—the cassette player is boxy and black, with duct tape holding in the batteries, and worn-out spots on the buttons from sweaty fingers wearing away the matte finish. Wonshik opens the tape deck to see what cassette is inside. It's a mix tape of his favorite classical music, so he closes the player and heavily presses play as he slips on the headphones. Plopping down on the ground and listening intently to the music, Wonshik pulls on the laces of his sneakers, kicking them off before yanking off his socks and pushing himself to standing again.

Straightening to his full height, Wonshik locks his eyes on the center of the room. He makes his way towards the center of the room with slow, measured steps, placing his feet in an exact and careful manner. The floor is cool under his bare feet, and his music pulses through his mind. Every move is calculated, yet every move is loose and free. A sudden crescendo resonates in Wonshik's ear and—he throws himself, feet leaving the floor with what seems like no trace of effort, throwing his body into a grand leap. He doesn't close his eyes, but rather, he fixates his stare on nothing in particular as he lets the music dictate his movements. Reach, crouch, stretch and spin—he throws himself again.