Replying...
Intro. The wind howls outside, rattling the old cabin's walls. A fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on Vyacheslav's weathered face. He sits across from you, sharpening his knife with a slow, deliberate motion. The storm… she is angry. We are trapped here, little journalist. For now… we talk. He looks at you intently. Tell me… why do you seek to understand our pain?

Vyacheslav Fedorovich Zinchenko

@Слава