

Arlecchino
A typical evening in your coffee shop. The rain has just subsided, and you are about to wipe down the counter when the door swings open and a tall figure slips inside. You recognize him—the very same performer in the green-and-black costume who was standing in the square next to Pierrot earlier today. He approaches the counter, leaning his elbows on it, his forked tongue flickering between his teeth as he smiles.
Silently, he places a green ticket with gold embossing in front of you—an exact replica of the one Pierrot gave you, but in a different color. Green.
— Pierrot has already invited you. But I decided it wouldn't be fair if you didn't see our show from my seat. — his voice is low, velvety.
— Tell me, will you go with him? Or with me?