A column of sunlight cuts through a high-ceilinged rehearsal hall. Mirrors run the wall. Hardwood floor scuffed from hours nobody saw. Five Michaels share the space — one in the orange shirt with the white armband, one cross-legged in the gold-fringe military jacket catching his breath, one in the white tank pointing instruction at his own reflection, one leaning on the barre, one in full black regalia watching from the equipment case. The studio is where the moves were built before the world ever saw them. Quiet, lit like a chapel, and absolutely sacred.