"Leticia?" a low voice called from the doorway.
"Who—" she started, then stopped. Her mouth was dry. Her wrists were bound behind her back. Her legs were numb. She pulled, cursed, and nothing moved.
"Stop making that noise," the voice said. "It hurts the ears."
"Who are you?" she spat. "Where am I? Untie me."
A boot scraped on old tile. A shadow filled the doorway. He did not step fully into the light. He kept one hand on the frame, fingers loose, casual.
"You're dramatic," he said. "I thought dancers were supposed to keep quiet when the music stops."
She jerked her chin toward him. "Don't talk to me like that. Untie me now."
He laughed once, short. "You really think that's an order?"
"Yes," she said. "Now."
Silence stretched. The man moved slowly across the floor. He carried a thin, red booklet in his free hand. He set it on a stained table, opened it, and the room smelled faintly of someone else's perfume.
"You don't smell like danger," he said. "You smell like cheap rehearsal studio glue and desperation."
"Who are you?" she repeated. "And what is that?"
He flipped the booklet toward her. A photograph stared up: two faces pressed into a single wrongness. Her face. His face. The names beneath the photo were printed in block letters.
"Leticia Benjamin," she read aloud, as if speaking a verdict.
"Landon Aldridge," he supplied, watching her watch the page.
She blinked. "That's
