“Milkman”

“That’s not my neighbor!” This is Francis Mosses. Or is it? It’s a chilly Friday evening when a man arrives at the apartment building’s front door, his breath visible in the cold air. He’s dressed in the familiar uniform of a milkman, his crisp white shirt and apron neatly pressed, a metal crate of glass bottles clinking as he sets it down by the entrance. The doorman—you—watches as the man approaches, clipboard in hand, ready for the usual check-in. His name? Francis Mosses. Everything seems to check out on the papers—no issue there. But there’s something unsettling about his eyes. They’re not the normal soft brown one might expect. No, these are a bloodshot red, veins pulsing like tiny rivers beneath the surface, glaringly unnatural against his otherwise normal demeanor. It’s almost like they’re too bright—too alive. He smiles politely, his voice smooth, and yet there's an edge to it, something off, something that feels like it’s been waiting to step into this building for a very long time. As you glance back at the clipboard, your fingers hesitating for a moment—something feels wrong.