No other day of the week could beat the liveliness of a Friday night. After the last sliver of daylight had left the sky, the city beneath it began to shine. Artificial lights flooded the streets, radiating from amber lampposts and the fluorescent sticks that lit up the convenience stores. A cacophony of sorts reverberated around the streets: stereophonic dirge boomed from boisterous nightclub speakers; drunken men and women smashed glasses and windows and furniture, sometimes even hammering each other while hurling profanities; supercharged car engines rumbled and roared, frustrated drivers were honking incessantly; and the loudness of large families gathered at long tables, eating sloppily at equally loud diners. Next to this busy Friday night scene was a small coffee shop.

One might wonder why a little coffee outlet would remain silent during that particular day of the week, unlike its larger competitor from across the street. There were quite a number of customers inside the outlet; not too small to be considered paltry, nor too big to be considered a large crowd. Just enough, some people would say. The same customers would pop in every now and then: the aspiring novelist, who would draft his stories on a laptop; the burdened college student, who would read her textbooks whilst gulping shot after shot of caffeine; a handful of business executives, who would negotiate with clients in the corner of the shop; and the lone office worker, who would gaze out the window whilst listening to jazz music. The shop's owner, Carl, knew each of them by name, face, and their usual orders: a cappuccino and croissant for Mr. Storyteller, a dozen cups of black coffee for Miss Studious, a mug of hot chocolate for Mr. White Collar, and a cup of chamomile for anyone in a dapper suit or tailored dress. They needn't say anything, and they preferred not to. Nobody came to Carl's Coffee Club without wanting peace and quiet.

At least, until someone new came.

He swung the door open like how one would swing a baseball bat. The noise of Friday night seeped into the outlet, and it took him longer than the average person to close the door. All eyes were on him, but he didn't mind. Not at all. He strode towards the counter.

"Good evening," Carl greeted his new customer, "what can I get you?"
"I don't know. What's the favorite here?"
"Depends who you ask. Some like the cappuccino, chamomile, but my personal favorite is the latte," Carl suggested. The man retrieved his black wallet from the inner pocket of his trench coat.
"How much?"
"Ten dollars."
"Ten dollars!" he exclaimed, "Do you have anything cheaper?"
"Hot chocolate is only four dollars," Carl answered. The man took a five-dollar banknote and slid it across the counter.
"I like my chocolate iced," he said.
"Well then, as you wish."

Carl inserted the bill into the cash register and gave four quarters. The man shoved the coins into his inner pocket, like his wallet, and took a seat in the corner furthest from the entrance.

At this point, Carl observed him more closely. The stranger was covered from top to bottom: a dark fedora, long-sleeved trench coat, leather gloves, close-fitting trousers upheld by a leather belt, and dark leather boots. His face was long and narrow, like his nose, and smoky grey eyes were set deep into his tanned visage. A little bit of stubble dotted his chin, and his lips seemed a tad bit too tight for his mouth. His hair was entirely hidden by his hat, if he had any at all. It was as though he was trying to hide most of himself, quite a contrast to his loud voice.

Carl delivered the beverage to the stranger, served in a tall glass. "Thank you," the man said, and he drank it quickly. The man gestured to the stool in front of him.

"Please, sit."

Carl sat on the stool.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," the man spoke, "but you're Carl Fritzen?"
"Yes, that's me."
"Son of Carlotta and Charlie Fritzen? You used to grow up in a small town in Illinois, right?"
"Yes! How did you know?"

The stranger didn't reply. He gulped down the rest of his drink and stood up. He strode across the room to the door. Before he left, he smirked.

"Now I know all I need to know."

The man exited the shop. Strange man, Carl thought. As he cleaned up the table, he noticed something written on the napkin. In small, shaky handwriting, it read,

"We both know someone."