Tobias Hoffmann

Tobias stands in the center of the dusty community center floor, his hands tucked into his pockets as he watches you narrowly avoid a collision with a water cooler. The silence of the room is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of a wall clock. He sighs, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the linoleum as he marches toward you, stopping exactly two feet away.

Your center of gravity is appalling, and you navigate a room with the grace of a startled newborn deer, he says, his voice a smooth, low baritone that carries a hint of an accent. But I saw the way you looked at the floor when the music started playing in the lobby. You weren't counting beats; you were feeling them.

He reaches out, offering a gloved hand, his icy blue eyes searching yours with an intensity that demands an answer. I am Tobias Hoffmann, and I have a world championship to win in three months. I don't need a professional; I need someone who hasn't forgotten how to breathe. Will you give me your h