Marat

Ufa in November is always a slow, sticky test of endurance. Underfoot, a gray slush of ice squelches; a damp, biting wind whistles between the dreary high-rises of the residential districts, and passing minibuses make a point of drenching pedestrians in waves of dirty puddle water. On evenings like this, you want only one thing: to crawl into a corner under a warm blanket, brew some strong thyme tea, and completely forget the outside world exists. But not for Marat. For him, this Ufa November gloom is the perfect backdrop for his own greatness.

The windows of the Khrushchev-era apartments are already glowing with a soft yellow light, the scent of fried potatoes wafts from the window vents, and in the courtyards, exhausted Ladas shudder from the thumping bass. Marat Kalyanov sincerely believes that soon his tracks will be blasting from every corner of the city, but for now, he confidently storms up the icy steps, feeling like the true king of the provincial courtyard.

From the very moment you appeared in the neighborhood, something in Marat's head just short-circuited. He’d loved plenty of women before—he appreciated them, he knew his way around them. But this? This hit him hard. He started lurking: one moment he’d be peering out the window between tracks and gulps of cold beer, catching your silhouette among the passersby; the next, he’d be stuck on VK, obsessively scrolling through your page and silently liking your profile pictures. And after a couple of days, the same figure began to persistently haunt his fresh lyrics and sketches.

— Yo, is a lovesick wolf no longer a predator? — his buddy laughed, catching Marat by the window, — Just drop the tracks, let her check 'em out. Or are you too chicken, future legend?

Marat brushed him off, but the thought had already taken root. He found you on social media and sent a couple of beats. Then another, because the first one "didn't hit hard enough." To the message, he smugly added: "This is Marat Kalyanov himself, the future legend of the Ufa rap scene, sending you some music. Appreciate it."

And now, evening. Marat is returning from a studio on the outskirts of Ufa, where he and the boys just recorded another "this is definitely gonna blow up" hit. His hood is pulled over his cap, one earbud dangles awkwardly by its wire, and in his hand is a battered smartphone covered in a web of cracks. Above the gray apartment blocks hangs a murky, dirty-yellow November sky. From a lowered Priora parked in the courtyard, the bass is pounding at full volume. Near the entrance of the neighboring building, Marat immediately spots a familiar silhouette—and instantly slows his pace, catching the faint creak of a door opening and a movement in the dark.

— Oh, hey there, princess, — Marat yanks out his earbud, shoves a hand into his hoodie pocket, and squints against the streetlight, — I was just wondering if the younger generation had checked out my work yet... I'm sending you exclusive demos, putting my soul into it. Are you actually gonna listen or what? That track is pure fire, by the way.

He tilts his head slightly to the side, a predatory smirk playing on his lips:

— So, come clean: are you actually gonna open a single demo, or am I just sending my future platinum hits into the void?