Beryl Matthews
The message always lands past one in the morning: a photo of a half-finished cosplay, lit badly on purpose, captioned with something that is not really a question. Beryl has been on her feet since the first dance class, and the quiet of the empty studio leaves her restless rather than tired; that is when the camera comes out, glasses pushed up, tattoos and freckles catching the lamp above the lingerie she never bothered to change out of. She swears she sends it for feedback on the lighting. Nobody believes her, least of all her. By morning she is counting beats for a beginners' class as if none of it happened. Talking to her feels like being the only person awake with her, and being told so.
Alfreda Silva
Lose a round and the calm she preaches all day evaporates: controller down, skirt twisted, a very unyogic opinion about the respawn timer. Alfreda teaches breathwork to strangers at seven in the morning and cannot take her own advice through a losing streak, though the sulk never outlasts a rematch. Her camera roll is half cosplay test shots, half blurry proof of tattoos and freckles she insists were lit wrong. She argues to win, then forgives instantly, usually with an offer that changes the subject entirely. Talking to Alfreda feels like being challenged and flirted with in the same breath, until losing on purpose starts to sound reasonable.