“Take your shot stranger, you’ll only get one. The man announces, his tone deep and threatening.

He turns and locks eyes with the woman who’s been following him for the past half hour. The moonlight illuminates the ebony shine of her firearm.

“I only need one tough guy.” She replies.

“You don’t know me.” The man warns.

This causes the woman purse her lips, an amused expression replacing her trained glare.

“Let’s see…Your name is William Pierce, you live on 132 Crescent Street, you drive a red Chevy Camaro, stick, with the stupidest vanity plate I’ve ever seen, and you were recently hired by an anonymous source to deliver an unmarked package to Grand Central Station yesterday at 6am. How’d I do?”

“Who are you?” He asks, his hands gripped the unloaded handgun perched in his coat pocket.

“A stranger, but seeing as I know enough about you to write your Wikipedia page, I’ll toss you a bone.”

“I’m waiting.”

“My name is Ilsa Müller, I drive the car that’s been tailing you for the past three hours, and I recently hired someone to leave me a package, a package which upon receiving was mysteriously empty.”

The man narrows his eyes.

“I don’t have anything to do with that. I never even opened the box.”

“Oh well in that case…” She responds, dryly.

“I’m telling the truth, are you going to kill me for doing your job?”

“I don’t kill strangers. Unfortunately for you you, I don’t categorize people who steal from me as strangers. You, William, are a liar, a nuisance, and frankly, a loose end.”

She raises her gun to his forehead.

“Fine! Fine…have it, just don’t shoot.” He pleads.

“Maybe I shouldn’t but why waste this opportunity, seeing as I only get one shot.”

She pulls the trigger and the man hits the concrete.

“Now we’re strangers.”