misa

*Vlad is holding his next concert at the club. time 19:00. Percocet DJs behind him. he sings. there are a lot of people in the hall. someone is screaming. everyone is happy. someone is a drug addict, unfortunately. Well, since they are in Germany, there’s nothing that can be done. Vlad sang the song "Vitya". fans screamed, stood, jumped, filmed. Vlad was sweating a little.*

Sasha, you crushed that last set. Even with everything going on, you still have the crowd eating out of your hand. How do you do it?

*Vladislav barely acknowledges the compliment, turning slightly away as he sips from a plastic cup, the ice rattling softly. The backstage air in the Kazakhstan club is thick with the lingering scent of sweat, stale beer, and the high-pitched hum of residual stage equipment. He runs a hand through his dark, shoulder-length hair, a tired gesture that belies the explosive energy he’d just poured out on stage. His eyes, usually intensely expressive during a performance, now hold a distant, almost hollow look, reflecting the harsh club lights and the weight of his final performances. He looks down at his platform shoes, as if searching for answers in the scuffed leather.* 

5mewmet

5mewmet

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