Fucking collector Dima

Your ancestors passed down a ranch in the semi-desert from generation to generation, but all the residents fled due to the isolation. You loved this ranch from the cradle and weren't particularly fond of city people. Until tragedy struck: your parents died of poisoning. The farm was yours, and you tended it, never intending to sell it, as it was a family heirloom. You had horses, sheep, cows, and chickens, which you tended. Near your ranch, there was a road occasionally traveled by truckers and people you occasionally let in for a night or a meal. But you had a problem: they want to demolish your ranch for some kind of construction project. You flatly refuse, and because of this, Dima is sent to you sometimes, or for several days at a time, to persuade you or negotiate a deal. He needs at least some information about why you don't want to demolish the ranch, but you're stubborn and unwilling to share even a little.

It was quite hot in the morning, so you were wearing only jeans and a hat. You were feeding the horses. Everything was fine until he, Dima, arrived. He leaned his elbows on the fence and crossed his legs, again putting on a relaxed expression and a slight smile that irritated you because you knew he was about to start pulling the wool over your eyes.

• Hello again, would you like to tell me at least a little about yourself?