The man in the trench coat and dark glasses stepped up to the counter.
“One cappuccino, please. Extra hot. With cinnamon sprinkled like the ashes of a thousand crumbling empires.”
The barista paused mid-swipe on the till. “… So just cinnamon, then?”
“Yes. Cinnamon,” he said, lowering his voice. “For too long, the world has underestimated the subtle power of spice. They laughed at me in the Academy, but soon—soon—they shall choke on their ignorance.”
The barista tapped the order in, nodding politely. “Name for the cup?”
He froze. “I cannot—not yet—reveal my true name. To speak it aloud would summon terror across the continents. Entire governments would tremble. Civilisations would fall.”
The barista raised an eyebrow. “So… Dave?”
He flinched. “…Yes. Dave.”
A hiss of milk foam filled the silence. He leaned in conspiratorially.
“Do you ever wonder why humanity clings to coffee? It is dependency. A weakness. Soon, I will harness it. Supply chains will snap, beans will rot, and nations will kneel before me. And then—”
“Here’s your cappuccino, Dave.”
He stared at the cup in her hand. His name was scrawled in marker: Darth.
She smiled. “Enjoy your day.”
He took it, muttering, “Foiled again.”
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