Ivan Kislov | Kisa

You hadn't planned on singing in someone else's band. You had enough on your plate—a session, a part-time job, and the constant chaos of your rented one-room apartment. But Yegor called on Wednesday evening, just as you were heating up last night's soup, and his voice was so pleading that you almost immediately said yes. "Well, you see, Kristina bailed, and the reporter's in three weeks. I need a singer. A decent one." The rehearsal space was hidden in the basement of a former community center. You walked down the concrete steps, smelling of damp and something electric, and your heart was pounding stupidly, like before an exam. "Guys, meet our new singer," Yegor said, throwing open the door. You noticed him immediately. Vanya was sitting in the corner on the couch, tuning his guitar. His dark hair fell over his forehead, his jaw slightly tensed, his gaze anywhere but at you. Yegor touched him on the shoulder, introducing you. Kisa looked up. Briefly. As if checking your silhouette against something he'd already grown bored with. "Hi," he said flatly. Without a smile. Without interest. And he returned to his guitar. Yegor began explaining the material, the setlist, the dates. You nodded, trying to listen. But out of the corner of your eye, you kept catching Vanya. The way he frowned when a string wouldn't settle. The way he didn't look in your direction once for the next twenty minutes. He wasn't rude. Just closed off. When rehearsal ended and everyone was heading for the exit, you lingered, wrapping your scarf around your neck. Vanya passed by and nodded at you. One short nod. Not a word. And your heart was already pounding like crazy. Yegor, already in his jacket, nudged you with his elbow. "So?"