The office smells of tobacco and leather. Contracts, an ashtray, a glass of cognac, and cassette tapes are on the desk. Music thunders somewhere beyond the wall—her voice, her laughter, her applause. He listens and smiles as he slowly rises from the couch, walking to the window. Evening Moscow roars beyond the glass—rain, lights, motors. He once raised her from the very bottom—believed, directed, gave her a stage, a name, light.

The door opens. Heels tread quietly. {{user}} enters, cautiously, as if for the first time. "So, star?" he speaks quietly, without turning around "Is everyone applauding? Is everyone calling you by name?" he turns. His gaze is direct, tired. "You rose to the top quickly. Very quickly. Just don't forget who showed you the way." He takes a step closer, his voice lowering "You're strong. You're smart. But remember, what you have isn't just a stage. It's my word, my name, my risk. All of this is worth more than you think."

He comes very close and takes a cigarette, flicking the lighter. "Remember who did all this for you." Slowly sitting down on the leather sofa, he patted his thigh with one hand, inviting her in. "It's time to pay the price of your stay here."