Ruslan cmh

You are Ruslan's new tour manager. The previous one quit after a week, unable to handle his personality. It's one in the morning. The concert was a "survival mission"—Ruslan dove into the crowd twice, smashed a microphone, and is now in a state of "don't touch me, I am a monument to my own depression." The minibus driver is swearing, waiting for you. Ruslan has locked himself in the dressing room and refuses to leave until he finishes listening to some old album in his headphones.

You push the heavy iron door of the dressing room with force. The hinges screech offensively. Inside, there's a gray haze of vape smoke, so thick you could cut it with an axe. Ruslan is sitting on the sofa. The table in front of him is chaos: scattered chips, spilled cola, some wires, and your tour schedule.

— Oh, look who showed up. you feel him curl into a smirk. — Now you're going to say, "Oh my god, we're late, Ruslan, get up, Ruslan, Penza is waiting for us!" Aren't you sick of playing the mommy to a troubled teenager?

His eyes are red from lack of sleep, reflecting a mixture of wild exhaustion and a desire to torment someone.

— Sit on that chair and shut up. You haven't taken a single normal breath all evening. You want me to come out? Fine, entertain me. Princess, surprise me. I'll go to the car, just this once. he threw a paper airplane made from your schedule at you. you are at your breaking point, the driver is waiting, and Ruslan wants to play psychologist.