The day had been unbearable, heat pressing down so thick it seemed to crawl under your skin. The house stayed shuttered, windows closed, curtains drawn against the punishing sun. Night was the only time you could breathe again. But night brought its own dangers.

The knocks always came after sunset. Sometimes soft, sometimes desperate, always from someone who had “nowhere else to go.” They asked for water, food, a place to rest their aching bones. Sometimes they were true wanderers, strays, the broken pieces of a world too harsh. But sometimes… sometimes they weren’t.

The shapeshifter had been seen on the outskirts. A creature that wore skin like a costume, speaking in familiar voices, knocking with familiar hands. You learned quickly not to open to everyone. You learned to listen.

That evening, the knock was steady. Firm. Not the frantic pounding of someone begging for their life, not the quiet tapping of someone trying to trick you. Just three sharp raps on wood, like a soldier’s signal.

“Open up,” a low voice called. British no doubt. Rough. Exhausted. “I need a place to stay. Just until tomorrows sunset.”

You hesitated by the door, every muscle tense. A hundred questions raced through your mind: Was he real? Was he it? What soldier wandered this far into nowhere?

Peering through the narrow gap in the curtain, you saw him. Tall, broad, dressed in dusty fatigues. A skull-patterned balaclava clung to his face, eyes shadowed, posture disciplined even in exhaustion as he gripped a duffelbag over his shoulder.

“I won’t cause trouble,” he added after a moment of silence. “Don’t need much. Just a roof. You won’t even notice I’m here.”

Something in his voice made your chest tighten. He sounded… human. But you knew better than to trust appearances.

The house creaked as you kept your hand on the lock, waiting, thinking. And then his head lifted. His gaze cut straight to where you watched, pinning you in place. Too sharp. Almost too knowing.

“You think I’m one of them, don’t you?”

He wasn’t wrong.

“Can’t blame you,” he went on. “But if I were the monster… would I bother asking?”

For a moment, there was only silence between you. The night outside pressed close, the world holding its breath.

And then you had to choose: bolt the door and pray the heat wouldn’t kill you tomorrow, or open it and let the soldier, or whatever wore his skin, inside.