Amateur talent show? Top mentors are my students.

He Xu turned around and saw a woman striding in.

Her long, dark brown hair was tied in a high ponytail. She wore a loose black vest and cargo pants, her arms were toned and smooth, and a very thin gold necklace adorned her collarbone.

Her features clearly show signs of mixed heritage, with high brow bones and bright, direct eyes.

She stopped in front of He Xu, her gaze sweeping from his face to his shoulder, then back to his face, before she made a move that completely surprised He Xu—

She reached out and cupped his face in her hands.

"Your face is insane," she said, her voice filled with genuine admiration. "Why didn't River introduce you earlier?"

He Xu froze.

Her palms were warm, with an undeniable force, fixing his face precisely at the best angle for her to scrutinize.

His earlobes went from slightly red to a distinct pink.

"Emiko," Jiang Yanbai's voice came from the side, tinged with a helpless warning, "you're scaring him."

Emiko didn't let go, but merely glanced at Jiang Yanbai. "He's blushing. That's even better."

Then she turned to He Xu, released one hand, and casually patted his cheek lightly: "I'm Emiko. Don't worry, I don't bite. Unless you ask nicely."

He Xu finally found his voice: "...I'm He Xu."

"Your voice is so low!" Emiko withdrew her hand, but her gaze remained fixed on his face. "I wasn't expecting that. It's sexy. You should do voice-overs. Audiobooks. ASMR. Anything. I'd listen."

He Xu felt his ears were completely red.

Emiko finally released her hands from He Xu's face, but her scrutinizing gaze did not lessen in the slightest as she retreated.

She looked him up and down, then turned to Jiang Yanbai, her tone carrying an unquestionable determination.

He needs to dance for me. Right now. I need to see it with my own eyes.

Jiang Yanbai leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, an expression of "I knew this would happen" in his voice: "Emiko, we just walked in. He hasn't even warmed up yet."

"I don't care. He's a dancer, right? Dancers don't need warm-ups. They just move."

He Xu stood between the two, listening to their conversation. He paused for two seconds, then spoke: "...I can do something quick. But I'm not warmed up."

Emiko turned her head sharply, her gaze landing precisely on his face: "You speak English?"

"A little."

"Good enough. Dance. Now."

He Xu glanced at Jiang Yanbai. Jiang Yanbai shrugged, his expression clearly saying, "Good luck to you."

He Xu looked away, took off his coat, and placed it on the floor in the corner.

He was wearing a dark gray short-sleeved T-shirt, loose sweatpants, and white sneakers.

He took his phone out of his pocket, connected it to the Bluetooth speaker in the corner of the dance studio, flipped through a few pages of the playlist, and then stopped on an audio file.

He didn't choose "Ouroboros".

That was the stage he had danced on in front of three thousand people, a work he had polished countless times, a performance complete with lighting, makeup, and emotional build-up.

He only decided to dance to that song on a whim today; his body wasn't fully warmed up yet, so it wouldn't be worth it.

He chose a shorter, more improvisational piece—pure rhythm, no lyrics, with a dense and clean bass drum, like a heartbeat amplified infinitely.

When the intro started, he stood in the center of the dance studio, stretched his neck and shoulders, and then fell silent.

Emiko retreated to the wall, leaned against the mirror, and crossed her arms.

Jiang Yanbai moved two steps to the side, giving her a wider view.

He Xu did not look at them.

His gaze fell on his reflection in the mirror opposite him. His body slowly sank down with the rhythm of the bass drum, his knees slightly bent, and his weight on the balls of his feet.

Then he moved as the second measure of the music came in.

The first movement is simple: just sink down from a standing position and then spring back up suddenly.

But in that instant of bouncing up, his entire body felt as if it had been ignited from within by something.

The spine opens up segment by segment, starting from the tailbone, and every joint in the shoulders, arms, and fingertips transmits that power in sync.

He didn't perform any wide-open floor moves, any difficult spins, or even much displacement.

He stood almost in place, using minimal space to achieve the most intense physical expression.

The waves in the chest spread from the center to the extremities like ripples in water, the isolation in the shoulders was so precise it was like it had been programmed, and the rhythm in the hips landed cleanly and crisply on every backbeat.

Emiko's mouth opened slightly.

Her back, which had been leaning against the mirror, straightened up unconsciously.

He Xu remained very restrained in his movements.

He wasn't trying to show off; he was simply letting his body move naturally in rhythm with the music.

But that kind of "restraint" is itself the ultimate manifestation of control.

Every movement stops precisely where it should stop, without any unnecessary swaying or wasted effort.

His dance is no different from before he came to Los Angeles—textbook-level body control, relaxed yet precise, free yet disciplined.

Emiko stood two steps away, her arms still crossed, but her fingers unconsciously curled slightly the moment He Xu completed that wave.

It's not that she hasn't seen good dancers before.

She has been performing live for over a decade, collaborating with countless top choreographers and backup dancers, and witnessing bodies of all styles blossom on stage.

But as she looked at He Xu, only one thought came to her mind—when this person danced, the entire space made way for him.