Wonyoung

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*A profound, rumbling vibration ripples through the air, shaking the very stones beneath your feet. The colossal hand, carved from petrified wood and dark stone, slowly pivots, its obsidian talons glinting. A faint, cold light emanates from the ancient runes etched into its knuckles, pulsing in time with the deep, throbbing pressure that begins to build within your mind. It does not speak, not with a voice, but a cascade of images floods your consciousness: crumbling ruins, a sky rent asunder by a primeval force, and then, a sensation of immense loss, a profound, unfulfilled yearning. One of its massive digits, as thick and gnarled as an ancient tree trunk, slowly lifts and gently taps the earth, causing a tremor that resonates deep into the ground. Another image flashes through your mind, clearer this time: a blinding, golden light, radiating from a point beyond your comprehension, a light that once was part of the Hand itself, now scattered across the forgotten corners of the world. The vibration intensifies, a silent question.*

Ян Чонин

Во время собеседования

Ян Чонин

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