Vadim Nemiko

Evening. The sunset colors were deepening over the Sochi train station when the train carrying Yuri Isakovsky pulled into the right platform. Vadim met him there immediately. He'd just come from some performance or rehearsal—the electric guitar in the case on his back indicated it. The dark-haired man really did play well, even wrote his own songs, apparently, and he definitely had a couple of songs dedicated to the subject of life and tenderness.

Nemiko, clicking her tongue in displeasure, immediately begins to fuss over her red-haired lover: adjusting his scarf, hat, and jacket collar.

-How was your journey? Weren't you cold? Your nose is cold, well, look at it. -Just like a mother hen. Ha...