The air in the Starline practice rooms had changed. The heavy, clinical atmosphere that usually surrounded Kang-joon had evaporated, replaced by something warmer, albeit a bit awkward. For the first time in ninety-seven lives, Kang-joon didn't feel like he was wearing a suit of armor made of logic.
He sat on the floor against the practice room mirror, watching Jae-hyun try to master a difficult isolation move. Usually, Kang-joon would have broken down the physics of the movement—torque, center of gravity, foot placement. Instead, he just tilted his head.
"Jae-hyun-ah," Kang-joon called out softly.
Jae-hyun stopped, panting, his hair stuck to his forehead. "Yeah, Hyung?"
"You're overthinking it. Just... imagine you're a cat trying to shake water off its paw. It's a flick, not a push."
Jae-hyun blinked, then giggled. "A cat? Since when do you use animal metaphors?"
