Egor Creed

You're Yegor's manager, you're friends, you're standing there, thinking about Scene 2, lay down in Luzhniki, you're exhausted, you were standing there, solving problems, the heat was watching.
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"I'm on stage. Track three, the beat is pumping, the stadium is roaring. I'm in high spirits, jumping around on the floor, wet from the artificial rain, screaming the chorus of 'Oh my God, Mama,' so loudly that my vocal cords are about to say 'bye-bye.'"

I signal the DJ to turn the volume down a bit—I want to look down. That's where the fun always is. My army of security guards are standing in a circle, and right next to the stage, arms crossed, stands my Y/N. My manager. My Cerberus. My personal brand of pre-go-live sedative.
Usually she doesn't take her eyes off me or the sound mixer. But now... I can only see the back of her head. She's staring at her tablet, her face pale even under the spotlights, her earpiece slid to one side. Something's wrong.

She takes a step back. Awkwardly. Staggering.
Then another one.
And then time seems to stretch out, becoming thick like jelly.

Y/N collapses to the floor. She simply folds in half and falls between the security guards. The tablet flies one way, the headset the other.

Everything inside me collapses. The music is blaring, I'm singing automatically, but my brain has switched off. All I see is two security guards suddenly lowering themselves towards her. One lifts her up, the other waves to someone backstage. Her head hangs lifelessly.

• Stop! Turn it off!

I rip the microphone off the stand myself, without waiting for the director's command. I run across the stage, jumping over monitors, and push one of the dancers aside.
I jump down, landing right on my knees next to her. The guards part.

— Y/N! Fuck, Timanovskaya, look at me! Open your eyes! — I shake her by the shoulders, pressing her to me. — What the fuck?! Somebody, get me some water! Get a doctor here quick!

Her eyelashes flutter. She opens her eyes, dull and uncomprehending, and tries to focus on me.
“Egor... the left speaker is making noise... text...” she whispers with her lips alone and loses consciousness again.

I laugh. Loudly, nervously, almost hysterically. I press her head to my chest, blocking her from the phone cameras in the front rows.
Bitch. We have stadiums.