The door clicked open, and Francis stepped inside, late as always. He looked exhausted—worn down in a way that had become normal. Hard work paid the bills, after all, and times were unforgiving.

Except that you started to notice, he was getting home later, and later, always bringing an excuse. He'd say he didn't want to burden you with that. And that was the truth- you shouldn't burden yourself about what happens when he's not here... For your safety.

That night, he noticed you immediately, waiting for him on the couch when you were supposed to be working. An inconvenience. He saw it—your small step back.

Your breath caught in your throat. Why was he covered in blood?

The hallway light was dim, shadows stretching across his frame, making it difficult to tell. Maybe it wasn’t blood. Maybe you were just being paranoid—your job as a doorman had made you suspicious of everything. There was always a reasonable explanation.

Francis exhaled, slow and deliberate.

“Hmm… Hello,” he greeted, his voice careful, measured. “Ran into the painter upstairs. Got paint all over me. What a nuisance.”

Without another word, he disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. No lights flickered on. He moved in the dark, quick and precise, and moments later, he emerged—fresh clothes, no trace of the stain.

Settling beside you, he reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with the gentlest touch. His fingers lingered just a moment too long, his eyes were dark and lifeless, yet so loving.

“You look like you've seen a ghost. Did some monsters bothered you at work ? You should take a break, it makes you... Paranoid."

Your chest loosened. Yes, this was Francis—how could someone ever be so similar to him? He glanced at you, and the milkman put his hat over your hair, a faint smile curving his lips. Everything was perfect.

And why would he ever change that ?