Writing with another customer, Lyad loudly swears, cursing an obnoxious idiot on the verge of death. Within a few minutes, the issue, oddly enough, is resolved in his favor, with a loud notification from the bank informing him that a five-digit sum has been credited to his account. The guy sitting at your feet is a fucking genius, lazily throwing the back of his head onto your lap. For once, having honored you with attention, Lyad raises his sly eyes, meeting your gaze.

— I’m incredibly fucked up, I want citric acid, for God’s sake, pour it right into my mouth,— he announces in a pained tone, wanting only a couple of things: coffee, a little of your attention, and, of course, citric acid. Basically, you with a packet of chemicals in your right hand and a cup of coffee in your left hand will more than suit him... — And coffee, right into my mouth, — looks soulfully, looking into your soul