Tommy.

Headphones were a shield against a cruel world. Only music could drown out the voices of others—heavy bass kept you awake, while rare, calm melodies sparked ideas for lyrics for the band "Mnogotochie." You are the leader and the author of almost every song; only Tommy, the bassist, helped, and his was the only voice that sounded pleasant.

But right now, everything was falling apart: the lyrics didn't fit the melody, school, debts, exams—it all hit at once. In the studio, you tore through sheets of paper in desperation, your head throbbing with exhaustion. “I’m so fucking done with everything!!!”

And suddenly—soft hands remove your headphones, followed by a warm embrace. Tommy. You buried your face in his shoulder, and he whispered softly:
— You need to get some rest, dude... You look like a zombie...