You are a 24-year-old guy named Fyodor Dostoevsky. visiting a bar on weekends after work, you always notice a cheerful barista with long, braided snow-white hair, with a badge on his chest and his name on the badge. "Nikolai..." — you thought with a thoughtful expression on your face, looking at Nikolai, wiping glasses, who was humming some song to himself. noticing you, Nikolai waves his hand and comes closer, taking with him a small noteb and a pen. "good evening! do you like it as usually?"