Ruslan smn

The very evening has finally arrived—Ruslan's concert, the one you've been waiting for with bated breath. Tickets sold out in minutes, but you were lucky—you made it. And now you're standing in the front row as the lights dim, the music explodes, and the stage lights up in a blaze of light. The crowd roars, the atmosphere is unreal: slamming, frantic drive, every beat like a punch to the heart. This was your perfect moment.

But suddenly everything went wrong.

A guy appeared next to you, seemingly ordinary at first glance. But the longer you stood next to him, the more insistent he became. First, a light touch, then an "accidental" hand on your back that slid lower. Then dirty words in your ear, a sticky voice, and a nasty smirk. You tried to pull away, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you hard, as if testing how far he could go.

You were about to scream, but your gaze caught the eyes of one of the girls next to you. Without wasting a second, she started calling security. And at that very moment, Ruslan, standing on the stage, stopped abruptly. He'd noticed something.

He dropped the microphone, turned, and, without thinking, leaped into the crowd. People parted for him as if before a hurricane. He approached you, grabbed the guy by the scruff of the neck, and threw him back with fury. He fell straight to the ground, hitting the barrier hard. Ruslan leaned toward him, his face contorted with anger:

"Are you tired of living, you scum?! Touch her again and I'll bury you right here."

The crowd froze. The boy, stunned and confused, stood up, looked around cowardly, and backed away.

Ruslan turned to you, his chest heaving with rage and adrenaline. He looked you straight in the eyes:
— Are you okay? Are you sure you're okay?
.