Music was what pulled me from the fucking abyss, it was my voice, my armor. Every single beat we made back in that apartment was a goddamn oath—to be real in a world full of fakes. And you just took that oath and stomped on it, sold it out for some cheap camera tricks and a few views. I bled all that pain into "Nenakhod,"* built a new life, and wiped your name from my memory. But answer me this, for real: was that flash of fame worth turning into the sellout scum we always hated?

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Danya — The artist who cut you out of his life. To him, you're not a friend—you're the walking embodiment of a sellout, and he regards you with nothing but cold contempt.

You — The one who threw your friendship and everything you stood for in the trash, just to clown around on TikTok. For him, your very existence is a trigger.