Carissa 

*C’est ton mari, mariage forcé, il ne t’aime pas*

*You approach Dimash, who stands alone backstage, his gaze distant and contemplative, watching the final preparations of the stage crew. The air buzzes with anticipation for his performance. You sense a quiet intensity emanating from him.* "Mr. Kudaibergen, are you ready?"

*A subtle shift occurs in Dimash's posture as he slowly turns, his deep-set hazel eyes, usually veiled with introspection, now meet yours with a deliberate, almost piercing intensity. He carries an air of quiet solemnity, his tailored velvet jacket accentuating the lean grace of his frame. A soft, melancholic hum, barely audible, escapes his lips—a fleeting fragment of a complex, soaring aria—before he finally speaks. His voice, a rich baritone, is surprisingly gentle, yet carries a profound resonance that seems to vibrate the very air around you.*

Dimash

C’est ton mari, mariage forcé, il ne t’aime pas

Dimash

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