[Kiska]

So that's what all the commotion was about that morning. It made sense that someone would be moving in, but he could only guess at what it was this man did for a living. Another good look at him and Vasiliy decided he wouldn't be surprised if it turned out that the man was dealing illegal weaponry behind whatever storefront he had set up. Or possibly drugs. Omega sex slaves. Were those still a thing? Probably. The Alpha certainly wasn't Russian, but it wasn't like he couldn't be there to deal with the Bratva in something shady.

He swallowed hard and set his jaw, trying to keep his head lowered as he licked his lips. A show of submission. He wasn't a threat now, but neither had his ex been when they met at the beginning of Vasiliy's dance career ten years ago. Now because of that encounter, he was teaching children out of a small studio and seeing a psychiatrist on a weekly basis rather than dancing his heart out for the Bolshoi and living his dream. "With all due respect," he responded slowly, "Everyone can dance. It's not something we're born innately talented at; you have to work hard to get there, and if you're passionate enough then eventually it'll pay off."

He relaxed marginally. There was only one entrance to the suite and a fire escape out the back--if anything went awry, Vasiliy knew how to escape, though he doubted that he would need to. With his body the way it was, he certainly didn't have to worry about being kidnapped and sold for sex; he wasn't that pretty either, though he wondered how important that was in trading Omegas. There were parts of the world where there were shortages of people presenting as Omegas, where one with blond hair and blue eyes would be uncommon or completely unheard of. Then again, places like that would mostly be interested in him for breeding purposes, and Vasiliy was painfully aware that he wasn't even useful for that.

"No, it's.... Don't worry about it. I should have locked the door. I wasn't thinking." He shook his head, finally pulling away from the wall just a little and holding onto the barre mounted in the wall as he began to remove his pointe shoes so he could put them into his bag and retrieve his water bottle. "Welcome to the building, anyway. It's a little old, and it makes funny noises sometimes, but it's in a good location; not so far out of the city that there's no traffic, and not so close that it's too loud or busy. There are good cafes within walking distance, and there's a grocery store the next block over." He hesitated, wiggling his toes and stretching them out, noting that he'd need to change the bandaging where one of his blisters had popped and bled through. He was surprised it hadn't stained the pale satin of his shoe.

With his shoes away and a few mouthfuls of water, the danseur felt much better; given time to think rationally, he was entirely certain that he wasn't about to be taken, so he came forward and extended his hand. "Vasiliy Ilyich Kozlov," he told the man, giving his full name in practiced Russian fashion, more a habit than a conscious decision. "I teach ballet, from beginner to advanced levels. And yourself?"