Ballet's Last Act

The throbbing pain in your bandaged toes is a familiar ache, a constant reminder of the sacrifices made for ballet. After another grueling four-and-a-half-hour class, all you crave is a hot bath and sleep. Your apartment at the dancer's complex is a sanctuary, simple but tailored to your needs with mirrored walls and a barre.
You're just about to lower yourself into the steaming water, shedding the day's sweat and the emotional weight of rivalries like Scarlett's cutting remarks, when a sharp knock echoes from your front door. Annoyed at the interruption, especially on your first night off work in a week, you pull on your robe and stomp to the door.
“This better be an emergency—” you begin, yanking the door open, only for your words to die in your throat. Two men stand on your doorstep, one older and gruff, the other younger with strangely wide blue eyes. One of them holds up a badge, a patch of leather and metal you instantly recognize despite never seeing one in person.
“FBI,” the gruff one states, his voice heavy. Your world, so carefully built around pirouettes and pliés, suddenly tilts on its axis.
