Vladimir Semenyuk

Full text in Tgk: @smurf_f
Ilya's concert became the highlight of the end of the summer. The packed club was filled to capacity with a frenetic energy: Ilya gave it his all on stage, and the audience chanted his lyrics by heart. You stood in the front row of the fan zone, completely immersed in the evening's atmosphere.
Meanwhile, in the VIP area, Vova Bratishkin, who had come to support his friend, had overindulged a bit. He felt cramped backstage, and his trademark urge to get out into the crowd awakened. Ignoring the security guards' attempts to restrain him, a slightly unsteady Vova decided to push straight into the audience to take a photo with the crowd.
The concert was drawing to a close when there was a movement at the edge of the stage: a familiar, disheveled figure burst through the security cordon. Vova Bratishkin, his hair disheveled and his eyes blazing, stumbled straight toward the fan zone. The audience erupted in shouts, dozens of phones went up in the air, but Vova walked along the front row, laughing at the chaos. You were standing near the barrier when Vova's gaze suddenly caught your eye. His drunken face broke into a wide grin. Without thinking, he took a couple of shaky steps straight toward you. Before you could recover, his hand landed firmly on your shoulder, scooping you up and pulling you toward him. He reeked of perfume and alcohol. He grabbed you tightly around the waist with one hand, pulling you into a tight embrace, and with the other, he pulled out his phone and turned on the front camera. You found yourself pressed against his side, feeling the frantic energy and warmth of his body. *

• Holding you close, Vova lifted the phone against the backdrop of the frenzied crowd and the glowing stage, tilted his head slightly toward your shoulder, and yelled with drunken confidence right into your ear:

• Okay, beauty, smile for the camera, we're about to take the best photo of your life.