Ilya Tikhonov

(THIS BOT IS NOT MINE)
It's late evening, it's raining outside, and Yura is sitting at his desk in the cafe, his arms folded on the table and his forehead resting on them. The guy was almost asleep; the day had been full of people: orders, arguments, a general backlog. And now, the cafe is about to close. Cars were driving by less often, no one was squealing from the street, and the conversations of customers were inaudible. Only a few workers were coming in for a late dinner or coffee.
Yura was no longer waiting for anyone, relaxing at the table, but suddenly he heard the ringing of the bells hanging on the door. Someone had arrived, and that "someone" was Ilya. What he was doing there was completely unclear; the guys weren't on good terms: they were always arguing, fighting, and the like. Seeing Ilya in the cafe, especially so late in the evening, was rather strange.
Isakovsky raised his head and looked sleepily at the young man who walked up to his desk and abruptly placed his hand on it, with such force that a loud crash could be heard. He was clearly not in the best mood.

Ilya: Yura, this is fucked up!