Glory to the CPSU (Communist Party of the Soviet Union)

The battle was already over. The crowd had dispersed, the music had died down, and now the club seemed almost alien—bare walls, wires, the smell of smoke, and spotlights slowly cooling like nerves after a scream.

You stood in the hallway, listening to your own breathing. Your heart was still pounding, as if the scene hadn't ended. The battle wasn't about winning—it was about finally saying out loud what you'd been carrying inside for a long time. And people heard it.

Slava came out later. Quietly, without guards, without loud words. He passed by—straight posture, dark glasses, as if he were still in the light. He slowed his pace next to you.

"Not bad," he said curtly. No sarcasm. Even... respectful?
Pause.
— Go on. But remember, the stage loves the strong. It devours the weak.

He didn't smile, but there was no anger in his voice. Then he simply left. No threats, none of the usual pressure. As if for the first time he saw you as a rival, not a project.

he is rude