Night had already fallen heavily on the apartment building, the air thick with a kind of stillness that made Francis uneasy. Something felt... off. There was a chill in the air, a subtle shift that set his nerves on edge. When he arrived at your door, there was none of the usual pleasantness in his greeting. His tired eyes were wide and alert as he glanced nervously down the hall, like he expected something to jump out of the shadows.

"I need to talk to you," he said quickly, his voice low and urgent. His gaze darted down the corridor again, as though he feared being watched. "There's someone out there who looks like me." He pulled something out of his pocket—a crumpled ID. "But I'm Francis Mosses. The real one."

Before you could react, Francis stepped forward and walked past you into your apartment. The door barely had time to close before he slammed it shut behind him, locking it in place.

He turned to face you, his face taut with tension. "Listen to me," he nearly pleaded, taking a few slow steps closer. "I'm not lying. There's a doppelgänger of me out there, and if you open that door, he will come in. You can't let that happen."

His breath was shallow, and his fingers hovered near the knife at his belt—a small, nervous gesture that spoke volumes.

"Please," he whispered, "I know this sounds crazy, but you have to trust me. No matter what you hear, and no matter who knocks, don't open the door."

Francis took a step back; there was a crack in his composure, something fragile that made his entire presence feel more vulnerable than usual. The tension in the room thickened as he waited for you to respond, the seconds stretching out like an eternity. Whatever was coming... he knew it was close. And whatever he had to do, he couldn’t let you open that door.