In the bustling heart of Charlotte, North Carolina, where the skyline pierces the Southern sky and the hum of daily life promises fresh starts, Iryna Zarutska found a fragile slice of hope. At just 23 years old, this vibrant Ukrainian refugee had crossed an ocean and a war zone to chase what so many call the American dream. She laughed with friends over homemade meals, sketched designs for clothes that turned heads, and walked neighborhood dogs with a smile that lit up the block. But on a sweltering August evening in 2025, that dream shattered in a blur of violence on a light rail train, leaving her loved ones—and a nation—reeling from the brutality of it all.
Iryna’s story begins not in the neon glow of Charlotte’s breweries and coffee shops, but amid the thunder of bombs in her homeland. Born and raised in Ukraine, she grew up in a close-knit family, the eldest of three siblings, with parents Anna and Stanislav who poured every ounce of love into their children. Iryna was the artist of the family, her fingers always itching for clay or fabric. She earned a degree in art and restoration from Synergy College in Kyiv, where she honed her talent for sculpting intricate pieces and designing outfits that blended tradition with her bold, creative spirit. Friends remember her gifting handmade treasures— a sculpted figurine here, a custom dress there—as tokens of her generous heart.
But in February 2022, the world Iryna knew exploded. Russia’s full-scale invasion turned her life into a daily gamble with death. Sirens wailed through the nights, and the ground shook from artillery fire. “We lived with the constant fear that today might be our last,” a family friend later recalled, capturing the terror that gripped Kyiv and beyond. Iryna, then 20, watched her city fracture, her dreams deferred amid the rubble. By August 2022, with her country under siege, she made the agonizing decision to flee. Clutching her mother’s hand, she boarded a flight with her two younger siblings, Valeriia and Bohdan, leaving her father behind to hold the fort. They landed in the United States, sponsored by distant relatives, seeking sanctuary in the land of opportunity.
Charlotte welcomed Iryna with open arms—or so it seemed. The city’s vibrant South End neighborhood, alive with trendy apartments and lively eateries, became her new canvas. She dove headfirst into building a life, enrolling at Rowan-Cabarrus Community College to study English and pursue her passion for animals. Iryna dreamed of becoming a veterinary assistant, a role where she could channel her nurturing soul into healing furry friends. Days blurred into a rhythm of hard work: she landed a job at Zepeddie’s Pizzeria, donning the restaurant’s signature hat and serving slices with a warmth that earned her tips and loyal customers alike. Evenings were for classes, where she pored over textbooks, her determination shining through the language barrier.
What truly colored Iryna’s world, though, was love. Enter Stanislav “Stas” Nikulytsia, a 21-year-old with a quiet strength and a shared Ukrainian heritage that bonded them instantly. They met through mutual friends in the refugee community, their connection sparking like a long-awaited firework. Stas, who had also navigated the upheavals of immigration, saw in Iryna a kindred spirit—resilient, joyful, and full of life. “She was my everything,” Stas would later say in a raw outpouring of grief, his words echoing the depth of their bond.
The couple’s romance blossomed quickly. Iryna, still adjusting to American ways, leaned on Stas for everything from navigating grocery stores to practicing her English over late-night talks. He became her rock, especially when it came to learning to drive—a rite of passage she was eager to conquer. Her uncle had started the lessons, but the language gap made it tricky. Stas stepped in, patient and encouraging, taking her out on quiet roads until she built the confidence to handle the wheel. “She was so excited about getting her license next month,” her uncle shared, his voice cracking at the memory. “She’d saved up for her first car and planned her first road trip—to visit us.”
By early 2025, their relationship had deepened into something profound. Iryna and Stas moved in together, turning a modest apartment into a haven of shared dreams. Photos from that time show them beaming: Iryna in a sundress she designed herself, Stas wrapping an arm around her waist. They talked endlessly about the future—a wedding at the end of the year, perhaps in a sun-dappled garden overlooking the city. Iryna envisioned a simple ceremony, blending Ukrainian traditions with American flair, surrounded by family and the friends who’d become her chosen kin. “We’re building something real here,” Stas confided to a close pal. “After all she’s been through, she deserves this happiness.”
Iryna’s embrace of the American dream was infectious. She volunteered at local animal shelters, walking dogs for neighbors who raved about her gentle touch. Weekends found her sketching in parks or whipping up Ukrainian dishes like borscht for potlucks, bridging her old world with the new. Her family back home beamed with pride; video calls with her parents were filled with laughter as she shared stories of her pizzeria shifts and college triumphs. “She loved helping people,” her uncle said. “She wasn’t just surviving—she was thriving.” Even as she mourned the war’s toll on Ukraine, Iryna focused on gratitude, texting Stas one fateful night: “Can’t wait to be home soon. Love you.”
That text, sent on August 22, 2025, would be among her last. Iryna clocked out from Zepeddie’s around 10 p.m., her khaki pants and dark shirt still bearing the faint scent of pizza dough. Tired but content, she boarded the LYNX Blue Line at the Scaleybark station, a routine commute in a city where public transit pulsed with everyday commuters. The train rattled northward, the neon lights of Charlotte flickering past the windows. Seated quietly, Iryna scrolled her phone, perhaps dreaming of the wedding rings or her upcoming driving test.
Unseen danger lurked just behind her. Decarlos Brown Jr., a 34-year-old drifter with a shadowed past, fidgeted in his red sweatshirt. Homeless and battling severe mental health struggles, including schizophrenia-fueled hallucinations, Brown had cycled through the justice system for years. His record was a litany of violence: armed robbery, felony larceny, breaking and entering. Released from prison in 2020 after serving time for a brutal robbery, he spiraled further. Just months earlier, he’d misused 911, ranting about a “man-made” force controlling him. A magistrate judge set him free on a mere written promise to appear in court—no bail, no oversight.
Four minutes into the ride, horror unfolded. Brown pulled a knife from his pocket, his movements erratic. Without warning, he lunged, plunging the blade into Iryna’s neck and face. She gasped, clutching at the wounds as blood pooled on the train floor. Passengers screamed, some rushing to her aid, pressing napkins to stem the flow. But it was too late. Iryna slumped lifeless, her bright future extinguished in seconds. The train screeched to a halt at the next station, where Brown calmly exited—only to be tackled by waiting officers.
Stas waited at home, the clock ticking past midnight. When police arrived with the devastating news, his world collapsed. “She was supposed to walk through that door,” he later shared, his voice hollow. The couple’s apartment, once alive with her laughter and sketches, now echoed with silence. Iryna’s family, scattered across oceans, grappled with unimaginable loss. Her father watched her funeral via FaceTime, tears streaming as her mother clung to memories. In a poignant act of defiance against the tragedy, the family declined the Ukrainian embassy’s offer to repatriate her remains. “She fell in love with America,” her uncle explained. “This is where she wanted to stay.”
The killing ignited a firestorm. Surveillance footage of the attack, grainy but gut-wrenching, leaked online, showing Iryna’s final moments and fueling public outrage. Politicians seized on it, with former President Donald Trump decrying the “career criminal” on social media and calling for tougher laws. “Law and order must prevail,” he posted, amplifying calls to reform the justice system that had let Brown slip through the cracks. Charlotte’s mayor acknowledged the failures, while Brown’s family pinned blame on untreated mental illness and judicial leniency.
Amid the fury, Stas channeled his grief into quiet tributes. He posted a photo of the couple in bathing suits, their smiles radiant against a sunny backdrop, captioned only with a broken heart emoji. His Instagram bio shifted to a mushroom icon—Iryna’s favorite symbol—and another shattered heart, a subtle nod to her whimsical side. He reposted clips criticizing the judge who freed Brown, his anger simmering beneath the sorrow. “How could this happen?” he seemed to ask the world.
Then came the video—a beacon of light in the darkness. Shared by Iryna’s close friend Ulya on Instagram, the montage captured the essence of the woman she’d been: alive, joyful, unbreakable. Filmed during a group vacation just weeks before the attack, it showed Iryna frolicking poolside, her laughter bubbling as she splashed water at Stas. There she was, playing cards with friends under string lights, her competitive grin flashing. Clips of her cooking in the kitchen, stirring pots with flair, transitioned to beachside drinks, her arm linked with Stas’s. The video ended on a tender note: Iryna and Stas walking hand-in-hand, the ocean whispering promises of forever.
Hashtagged #forever young and #always loved, the post exploded with messages of condolence. “Thank you for letting us see her happy,” one viewer wrote. “She was an angel.” For Stas, watching it must have been both balm and blade— a reminder of the wedding they almost had, the life they were building. Iryna’s uncle, speaking through tears, echoed the sentiment: “She didn’t deserve this. But we’ll remember her for the love she spread.”
As Charlotte mourns, Iryna’s story lingers like a unfinished sketch. She escaped war only to meet a different monster, her American dream cut short by systemic blind spots. Yet in the hearts of those she touched—Stas, her family, her friends—her spirit endures. The wedding bells may never ring, but Iryna Zarutska’s light, once dimmed by bombs and blades, refuses to fade. In a world too often cruel, she reminds us to chase joy fiercely, love deeply, and hold our dreams close.