Chapter 6
Completed
~VICTORIA~
The music finds me before I find it.
The first notes emerge from the auditorium’s speakers with a warmth that the space itself doesn’t possess—rich, unhurried, carrying the particular resonance of a song recorded by someone who understood that silence between notes is as important as the notes themselves.
The sound fills the empty seats and the high ceilings and the dust-filtered columns of light with something that almost resembles tenderness, which is a dangerous thing to introduce into an environment built for anything but.
My body responds before my mind gives permission.
That’s the thing about dance—the thing that no amount of emotional fortification or practiced numbness can account for.
The body has its own memory, its own language, its own relationship with music that operates independently of whatever psychological architecture you’ve constructed to keep yourself from feeling things.
My spine lengthens. My weight shifts. My arms begin their ascent from my sides with the slow, deliberate grace of something unfolding after a long compression, and the new ballet shoes—Hawk’s impossible, beautiful, Parisian ballet shoes—grip the marley floor with a whispered promise of movement.
Back like we never left
Been waiting on the better version of you
The lyrics arrive like a letter addressed to someone I used to be.
I move into the opening sequence—a series of slow, sustained port de bras that transition into a controlled développé, my right leg extending from passé to full height with the measured precision of a limb that has performed this motion ten thousand times and can execute it now without conscious instruction.
The extension is clean, the line unbroken from hip to pointed toe, and the stretch pulls at the bandages beneath my bodysuit with a dull reminder that the body currently producing beauty was bleeding on a kitchen floor twelve hours ago.
I don’t care.
The pain is background noise.
The music is everything.
You used to be tethered to an old truth
We were worn like leather in an old shoe
The lyrics settle into my bloodstream like the pain medication I swallowed this morning—chemical and efficient, bypassing the rational mind to reach something deeper.
Tethered to an old truth. The phrase catches in my chest and holds, because it’s accurate in a way that the songwriter could never have intended and that I could never have predicted when I pressed Shazam on a cracked phone screen while bleeding against concrete last night.
I was tethered.
To an old truth.
To the truth that being born an Omega in the Sinclair family meant being born into a war I didn’t declare and couldn’t opt out of.
I transition into a series of glissades that carry me across the stage—sliding, weightless, the balls of my feet barely kissing the marley surface before lifting again.
The motion is lateral, expansive, and it opens the space around me the way the music is opening something inside me that I usually keep sealed.
My arms flow through second position with a fluidity that owes nothing to my current physical condition and everything to years of training that have embedded these movements so deeply into my neuromuscular pathways that even damage can’t dislodge them.
How would life have been?
The question rises unbidden, carried on the melody the way smoke is carried on wind. Not a new question—I’ve asked it in a thousand variations during a thousand sleepless nights on a thousand cold floors. But the music gives it a different texture today. A different weight.
How would it have been if I hadn’t spent five years hiding?
If the cliff had been the end of it—push the sister, claim the empire, walk forward into the life I was born to inhabit?
I execute a tombé pas de bourrée into an arabesque, my supporting leg rooting into the floor with the stability of something that has learned to hold weight through damage, my working leg extending behind me in a line that stretches from the base of my skull to the tip of my pointed toe.
The arabesque is high—higher than the stab wound wants to permit, the extension pulling at muscles that are connected to muscles that are connected to the healing tissue beneath my ribs—and I hold it there, suspended between gravity and defiance, because that’s where I’ve been living for five years.
Between gravity and defiance.
Between falling and refusing to.
My dreams went on hold the moment I was pushed off that cliff.
Not because the fall killed them—it would have been cleaner if it had.
But because survival consumed every available resource: the mental bandwidth, the emotional capital, the physical energy that might have gone toward building something if it wasn’t being perpetually redirected toward not dying.
The Sinclair empire—the vast, glittering constellation of wealth and influence and power that my birthright entitled me to claim—sat waiting like a throne room with no occupant, begging to be taken by anyone bold or foolish or connected enough to stake their claim.
So many wanted it.
Treated it like a valuable possession to be seized.
And yet I—the one it was built for—didn’t need it.
Never needed it.
I was plagued with the duty of it. Burdened by a birthright that demanded this hidden life because I wasn’t old enough to defend it, wasn’t skilled enough to protect myself from those who would take it by force.
I drop from the arabesque into a controlled descent—fondu, my supporting knee bending with deliberate slowness as my body lowers toward the floor in a movement that turns collapse into choreography.
The transition is seamless, my torso folding forward as my legs extend into a floor sequence that uses the marley the way water uses a riverbed—flowing, adapting, finding the path of least resistance while maintaining absolute control over direction and speed.
But I know better now.
The years in Knot Academy taught me what the Sinclair name never could.
Not through curriculum or instruction—through observation.
Through the silent, obsessive cataloguing of behavior and strategy and survival that became my primary occupation from the moment I entered these walls as a ghost wearing a dead girl’s face.
I watched Hard Knot.
Studied the way its inhabitants moved through the world—the manipulation, the cunning, the particular brand of social warfare that turned every interaction into a chess move with consequences three steps ahead.
The way they could smile at someone while dismantling their reputation in whispered conversations that spread like poison through the Academy’s corridors.
The way they leveraged relationships as tools and discarded them when their utility expired, all while fighting for survival in a system that rewarded strategic cruelty and punished genuine vulnerability.
Hard Knot taught me that love is a weapon.
Use it correctly, and it opens doors.
Use it incorrectly, and it buries you.
I rise from the floor in a controlled spiral—a chainé turn series that begins low and ascends, my body winding upward like a spring releasing stored energy.
Each revolution adds height and momentum, the marley spinning beneath my shoes in a blur of black that I navigate by internal compass rather than visual reference.
The world becomes rotational, centrifugal, and for a suspended series of heartbeats I am nothing but motion and music and the particular freedom that comes from trusting your body to do what your mind cannot.
Then there was Dead Knot.
The sector where death was as easy as breathing—as casual as a handshake, as unremarked upon as a change in weather.
I watched from the periphery, never crossing the boundary that separated their territory from the relative safety of my own, but close enough to observe the economy of violence that governed their existence.
In Dead Knot, killing wasn’t a last resort.
It was a productivity metric. A way of clearing space for your own ambitions, of eliminating obstacles with the same pragmatic efficiency that other sectors applied to paperwork.
Death was currency.
And life was borrowed time—useful only for as long as your selfish goals and needs had fuel to burn.
Dead Knot taught me that survival isn’t passive.
It’s the most active, aggressive, relentless thing a person can do.
The music swells, and my body answers with a grand jeté that carries me across the stage in a single, airborne arc.
My legs split in midair—full extension, toes pointed, arms open wide—and for that fraction of a second where gravity loses its claim, I am weightless.
Untethered. Free from the floor and the pain and the five years of accumulated damage that my skeleton carries like a filing cabinet carries records.
I land softly. The balls of my feet absorb the impact through a plié that deepens into a reverence, my body bowing forward with a grace that the stab wound transforms from effortless to earned.
And then there was Ruthless Knot.
Borderline insane. All of them. The residents, the staff, the architecture of the sector itself—everything about Ruthless Knot operated on a frequency that the other sectors found disturbing and I found fascinating.
Their particular brand of psychosis wasn’t chaotic.
It was systematic. Organized. A collective agreement that the normal rules of human behavior were suggestions rather than requirements, and that the resulting freedom—to feel excessively, to act impulsively, to love with an intensity that bordered on pathological—was not a flaw but a feature.
Ruthless Knot taught me that madness and devotion wear the same face.
And sometimes, the only way to survive is to stop pretending you’re sane.