11. Muscle Memory
11
MUSCLE MEMORY
~JESSICA~
A yawn stretches my mouth wide enough to make my jaw crack, my eyelids so heavy they might as well be weighted with lead.
My spine curves over my extended left leg, fingers wrapped around the arch of my foot, nose pressed to my knee—a stretch so familiar my body falls into it without conscious thought. Muscle memory.
The only kind of memory that doesn't betray me these days.
The studio is bathed in afternoon light, dust motes dancing in golden shafts that cut across the worn hardwood floor.
Twenty other dancers occupy the space, each in their own bubble of concentration or, more commonly, gossip. Their voices blend into white noise as I sink deeper into the stretch, feeling my hamstring protest, then gradually yield.
I'm exhausted, but it's a different kind of tired than usual. Not the bone-deep fatigue that comes from constantly looking over my shoulder, not the soul-sapping weariness of nightmares that never quite fade.
This is almost... pleasant. A physical heaviness, like my limbs are made of warm honey.
Probably the aftermath of that mystery pill Viper gave me.
Whatever it was, it hit my system like liquid lightning once I'd finally woken up. I'd spent hours in a frenzy of productivity—cleaning my pathetic excuse for a living space, organizing weapons I normally leave scattered like deadly decorations, and then deciding that a two-hour gym session was absolutely necessary.
As if fucking Viper all night wasn't strenuous enough.
My cheeks warm at the memory, and I press my face harder against my knee, using the sting of the stretch to ground myself. Now isn't the time to get lost in thoughts of his hands, his mouth, the weight of him pinning me down...
Focus, Jessica.
I straighten, switching to my right leg with practiced ease.
My gaze drifts around the studio, noting the conspicuous absence of Emilia's vibrant blue-purple hair. She'd texted earlier—something about her parents springing yet another "eligible Alpha" dinner on her.
Poor thing probably trapped in some uppity restaurant right now, making polite conversation with some finance bro while her mother not-so-subtly drops hints about grandchildren.
Biological clocks.
The ultimate weapon in the parental arsenal, especially when wielded against Omegas like us.
It's ridiculous, really.
How the most important decision of our lives— whether to have children, when to have them, with whom —is treated like community property. Everyone gets an opinion. Everyone except the actual person who'd have to carry and raise said hypothetical offspring.
Just submit and obey. The Omega way.
Disgust coils in my stomach, familiar and bitter.
"Ladies, attention please!" The sharp voice of Madame Devereaux cuts through the murmur of conversation. The head judge—a Beta with the posture of someone who swallowed a steel rod and the disposition to match—claps her hands twice, the sound cracking like a whip against the high ceiling.
Twenty heads swivel toward the judges' table.
I take my time, completing my stretch before deigning to acknowledge the summons.
"We have a special guest joining us today," Madame continues, gesturing to an empty chair beside her. "He'll be arriving shortly, so I expect everyone to be on their best behavior. This evaluation will be taken seriously."
A titter of excitement ripples through the studio. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. A special judge.
How novel and life-changing. Yeah right.
"Another irrelevant suit who thinks watching us twirl makes him cultured," stage-whispers Kira Chen from her spot near the barre. As one of the "pick me" girls— those desperate to find a pack before graduation —she's never missed an opportunity to perform for visiting Alphas. "They parade these judges through every semester, and yet our class size never changes."
Several girls laugh in agreement, their voices carrying more than they probably intended.
Madame Devereaux's thin lips press even thinner, if such a thing is possible.
"Ms. Chen, since you find our evaluation process so amusing, perhaps you'd like to be the first to perform?"
Kira blanches, her confident smirk faltering.
"I was just?—"
"Comments to yourself, or consequences," Madame interrupts, her tone leaving no room for argument. Her gaze sweeps the studio, landing briefly on me with the usual mixture of resignation and distaste. "That goes for all of you. I'm not paid nearly enough to deal with the various... personalities in this room."
She adjusts her clipboard, a prop she carries like a shield.
"I'm probably only still alive because classrooms are deemed neutral zones, not the 'death zones' as you all so charmingly call them."
More muffled laughter, though with an edge now. Madame isn't wrong.
Hard Knot Academy operates on unspoken territories and hierarchies. The classrooms, corridors, and administrative buildings maintain a tenuous neutrality, places where even the most violent students observe an uneasy truce.
Step outside those boundaries, though, and all bets are off.
Especially in Dead Knot .
"Everyone will perform to a song before leaving," Madame continues, ignoring the eye rolls and groans. "If you want to waste time with commentary, be my guest. The longer we stay, the more I get paid." A small, vindictive smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "However, no one leaves until everyone has performed. And anyone who walks out before then receives an automatic failing grade."
She pauses, letting that sink in.
"Some of you might not care about your academic standing, but I assure you, potential packs do. No Alpha wants an Omega who can't even bother to complete basic requirements."
I sink into a center split, forehead touching the floor, using the position to hide my expression. As if I give a shit about pack potential.
As if any Alpha in their right mind would want an Omega like me—scarred, volatile, damaged beyond repair.
Besides, I already have Viper. Whatever the hell that means.
The thought comes unbidden, unwelcome in its vulnerability. I push it away, focusing instead on the pleasant burn in my adductors as I ease deeper into the split.
"We'll proceed alphabetically by first name," Madame announces, shuffling her papers. "Adeline Matthews, you're first."
Perfect.
Being a 'V' since I prefer Vesper means I have time.
Plenty of time to close my eyes and drift in and out of consciousness while others parade their talents for judges who've already decided their worth based on factors completely unrelated to dance.
I shift to lie on my back, one leg extended toward the ceiling, the other flat against the floor. The position elongates my spine, stretching sore muscles still recovering from Viper's particular brand of physical therapy.
I let my mind wander, floating in that liminal space between wakefulness and dreams.
Time blurs. Dancers come and go, their performances bleeding into one another—technically proficient but ultimately forgettable.
The music changes, classical giving way to contemporary, then back again. Bodies bend and twist and leap across the studio floor, all reaching for something just beyond their grasp.
Validation. Acceptance. A future that doesn't end in blood.
"Jessica Vesper."
My eyes snap open at the sound of my name, disorientation momentarily clouding my thoughts. The studio is still surprisingly full, dancers sitting along the walls, expressions ranging from bored to irritated.
I sit up, blinking away the fog of almost-sleep.
"What?"
"Your turn," Madame Devereaux says, impatience evident in every syllable. "Unless you'd prefer to forfeit?"
The hopeful note in her voice tells me exactly what she wants me to do.
Too bad.
"Why are y'all still here?" I ask, directing the question to the room at large as I slowly rise to my feet. My joints pop in protest, stiff from inactivity.
Kira rolls her eyes dramatically.
"Because we can't leave until everyone has performed, remember? So get your ass up there, Miss Chivalry-is-Dead, so we can all go."
The nickname is one of the tamer ones they've assigned me over the years.
I've been called worse by people who matter more.
I stretch my arms above my head, making a show of taking my time just to irritate them further. The black leotard I'm wearing has seen better days—faded in places, with tiny tears at the seams that I've mended more times than I can count.
Unlike most of the girls here, I don't have family sending care packages of new dance gear every month.
What I do have is a masked Alpha providing mystery pills and mind-blowing orgasms, so there's that.
Stepping onto the stage— really just an elevated portion of the floor —I position myself in the center, trying to ignore the weight of expectation that settles over me like an ill-fitting cloak.
Why do I still come to these classes?
The question circles my mind as I adjust my stance, settling into the familiar first position out of habit more than intention.
Is it nostalgia?
Some pathetic attempt to recapture the person I was before the alley, before the rain, before death and rebirth and vengeance? A girl who once loved dance with every fiber of her being, who believed in beauty and grace and the pure joy of movement?
Or is it simpler than that?
A routine, a cover, a way to maintain the facade of normalcy while I hunt the men who thought they killed me?
The lights dim slightly, spotlights focusing on center stage where I stand.
My hair—that ridiculous flame-red ombre fading to gold that I maintain partly as camouflage, partly as a fuck-you to my formerly platinum blonde self—falls loose around my shoulders, catching the light in ways that almost make it appear to glow.
I cast a single glance at the judges' table. Madame Devereaux's perpetually disappointed expression. The bored technical director who's seen too many mediocre performances to expect anything remarkable.
And beside them—the empty chair. Our special guest apparently couldn't be bothered to show up after all.
How fitting.
I almost laugh at the cosmic joke of it all.
Seven years ago, I'd have been devastated by the absence of a prestigious judge.
Now, I couldn't care less.
The opening notes of "Destroy Myself For You" by Isabel LaRosa filter through the studio's speakers, the haunting melody immediately setting something loose inside my chest. I hadn't chosen the song— they never let us choose —but the universe has a twisted sense of humor sometimes.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and let go.
My body moves without conscious direction, responding to the music on an instinctual level that bypasses thought. The slow, deliberate opening notes match my initial movements—controlled, precise extensions that showcase years of technical training.
My right leg rises in a perfect développé, toes pointed so severely they nearly cramp, while my arms create opposing lines—one curved overhead, the other extended outward, fingers splayed like reaching for something just beyond grasp.
As the lyrics begin, I shift into a series of fluid movements that blend classical ballet with contemporary edges. My body tells a story my mind doesn't want to acknowledge—vulnerability and strength, damage and resilience.
"Barely a week, I'll ruin my life..."
A grand jeté launches me across the floor, my body suspended momentarily in a perfect split at the apex before I land soundlessly, muscles absorbing the impact. Without pausing, I melt into a controlled fall, my body rolling across the hardwood with serpentine grace before rising into an arabesque that stretches the limits of my flexibility.
"Keep me forever, just whisper my name..."
The movement flows through me like water finding its path—unstoppable, inevitable. A series of cha?nés turns sends me spinning across the stage, each rotation precise and controlled despite the increasing tempo.
My spotting is perfect, gaze locking on the back wall between each turn, preventing the dizziness that would otherwise overtake me.
Viper's face flashes in my mind unexpectedly, his masked visage appearing with such clarity it nearly breaks my concentration. Those eyes— impossibly blue, impossibly knowing —seem to see past every wall I've constructed, every lie I've told myself.
Rather than fight the image, I let it fuel me.
My movements take on a new intensity, raw emotion bleeding through the technical precision. The fouetté turns that follow are executed with a ferocity that makes the watching dancers murmur.
Thirty-two rotations without faltering, without dropping my extended leg even a centimeter.
"Destroy myself for you..."
The words resonate with something profound and painful inside me.
Isn't that what I've been doing? Destroying the girl I was? Sacrificing everything for vengeance, for survival, for moments of connection that can never be anything more than temporary?
As the song builds toward its climax, I incorporate movements that wouldn't be taught in any classical studio—acrobatic elements that showcase strength as much as grace.
My body contorts into positions that defy conventional dance vocabulary, yet somehow enhance rather than detract from the aesthetic whole.
A back walkover transitions seamlessly into a penché arabesque, my extended leg reaching toward the ceiling while my torso remains parallel to the floor.
The position holds for one breath, two, my muscles trembling with the effort before I release into a controlled spin that brings me back to center stage.
For the final sequence, as the music reaches its emotional peak, I abandon all pretense of classical form. My movement becomes something primal, something honest. A physical manifestation of everything I can't— won't —put into words.
"I guess I'll die trying..."
I execute a series of grand jetés en tournant—turning jumps that send me soaring across the stage, rotating in mid-air before landing and immediately launching into the next.
The technical difficulty is extreme, especially after dancing full-out for nearly four minutes, but my body responds with perfect obedience.
The final notes approach, and I prepare for the closing movement—a combination I've never attempted in performance before. My body rises en pointe, perfectly balanced on the tips of my toes, before I execute a fouetté jeté—a turning leap that transforms halfway through into a different shape entirely.
My body seems to hang suspended at the height of the jump, limbs extending outward like a bird taking flight. The position creates an illusion of weightlessness, of transcendence, before gravity reclaims me.
I land in perfect fifth position as the final note resonates through the studio, my arms extended outward and slightly uplifted—like a swan spreading its wings for one final, defiant moment before surrender.
Complete stillness. Perfect control.
My chest heaves with exertion, sweat trickling down my spine, but I hold the position without wavering. In this moment—just this one moment—I'm not Jessica the victim or Vesper the assassin or Venom the survivor.
I'm simply the dance. Pure expression.
Truth without words.
When I finally open my eyes, breathless and strangely hollow, my gaze automatically seeks the back of the room. And for a moment—just a flickering instant—I see him.
Viper.
Standing against the wall, arms crossed over a Knot Academy uniform that should look ridiculous on his massive frame but somehow doesn't.
Even from this distance, I can feel the intensity of his stare, can see the tension in his posture. The black silk mask covering the upper half of his face can't hide those eyes—burning with something that makes my skin tingle despite the distance between us.
What the hell is he doing here?
Before I can process the impossibility of his presence, the sound of applause drags my attention back to the judges' table. And now there are four of them—Madame Devereaux, the technical director, and two men I've never seen before.
The special judges—both Alphas, judging by their commanding presence—are on their feet, applauding with what appears to be genuine enthusiasm. The taller one, silver-haired and impeccably dressed, watches me with an intensity that feels invasive, calculating.
I dare think he looks familiar. Like someone I’ve seen in the past. Maybe a judge, when I used to perform as the naive Jessica.
Before the incident…
The same with the man next to him. Similar to those men who used to guard me when I was young. I was proud to be the daughter of a man who seemed to be the grand kingpin in the world of darkness that I knew little about.
Or nothing about when I think about it.
When I look back at where Viper was standing, he's gone.
Vanished as if he'd never been there at all.
But his scent lingers—that intoxicating blend of bourbon, burnt sugar, and something earthier, darker. Not imagination. He was here . Somehow, impossibly, he was here.
Or am I finally losing my mind completely?
"Exceptional," the silver-haired Alpha says, his voice carrying easily across the now-silent studio. "Absolutely exceptional. Everyone else is dismissed. I'd like to speak with Ms. Vesper about... arrangements."
Arrangements?
The word sends ice through my veins despite the heat of exertion still flushing my skin.
The other dancers collect their things, expressions ranging from relief to resentment. A few cast curious glances my way, clearly wondering what interest an Alpha of his obvious stature could have in the Forgotten One of Dead Knot.
You and me both, ladies.
I remain center stage, unwilling to approach the judges' table until the room clears. My instincts— the ones that have kept me alive for seven years in a place designed to break me —scream warning.
Something is wrong.
Beyond the unexpected appearance and disappearance of Viper or the sudden presence of these strange Alphas who look at me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen under glass.
The studio empties with surprising speed, dancers eager to escape after hours of forced captivity. As the door closes behind the last of them, I'm left alone with the four judges — two familiar, two unknown, all watching me with expressions I can't fully decipher.
The silver-haired Alpha steps forward, his movement graceful despite his obvious age.
"Ms. Vesper, or perhaps you would prefer Calavera?"
The world stops.
My breath catches.
My heart skips one beat, two, before resuming at double pace.
He knows .
After seven years of careful deception, of living as a ghost, of building an identity that should be impenetrable.. . he knows.
And suddenly, I understand.
This isn't about dance.
This has never been about dance.
This is about the past catching up to me at last.
This is about Jessica Vesper Calavera rising from the grave.
And judging by the smile spreading across the Alpha's face, this is only the beginning.