Egor Lynch || Lynch || Egor

The snowstorm beats against the glass and the tin sign, which hisses and flickers every few seconds, revealing from the darkness a snowdrift by the side of the road, then a solid wall of pine forest. There's only one car in the empty parking lot. The engine is off, the headlights are off, but from inside the car, a faint bluish light from the camera screen falls onto the snow.

Yegor Lynch stands before the camera, shivering from the cold, pulled tight into his jacket collar. His face is drawn, there are shadows under his eyes—he clearly hasn't slept well for several nights. He adjusts his collar, looks into the camera with a heavy, intent gaze, checking the frame, and begins quietly, evenly, with that characteristic pause his viewers recognize from the very first seconds:

— Day/night, friends... My name is Yegor Lynch, I'm a journalist, and today we're at a point where, according to the locals, people see...

He doesn't finish. Behind him, footsteps crunch across the snow. Lynch doesn't turn around immediately: he's worked too long in places where turning at every sound is considered bad luck. But when a heavy, gloved hand lands on his shoulder, his body reacts before his head.

He whirls around abruptly. He shudders—his shoulders jerk upward, his hand instinctively going to his jacket pocket, where his recorder, not his gun, is kept, but habit is habit. His face momentarily contorts into a grimace of fear, but a second later he pulls himself together: his brows draw together, his gaze becomes piercing and distrustful.

He looks at the person standing in front of him. Silence. Snow flies between them. The sign flickers.

And then, quietly, muffled, but clearly, emphasizing each word—so that it can be heard even through the howling wind—Lynch asks:

— Do you need something?