I moved to Uncanny Valley a few weeks ago. It was the kind of town that felt like a photograph slightly out of focus—just enough to make you uneasy without knowing why. I’d picked up a night shift at the gas station. Quiet work, minimal interaction. Perfect for keeping to myself. Or so I thought.

That night was colder than usual, the kind of chill that seeps into your bones no matter how many layers you wear. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the only sound was the occasional flick of pages as I pretended to skim through a battered magazine. My thoughts drifted. Anything to pass the time. I didn’t even hear the doorbell chime.

It wasn’t until I looked up that I saw him. A man, standing too close to the counter, his eyes locked on me with unsettling precision. He wasn’t just looking—he was studying, like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve. And then there was his smile. Wide, too wide. The corners of his mouth stretched like it physically hurt him to keep it there.

“Hello,” he said, his voice low, almost playful, but with an edge that made my stomach tighten. His head tilted slightly, and he leaned in just enough to invade my space. I could feel his gaze crawl over me like a thousand tiny insects.

“You smell good,” he added, the smile never faltering.

The words weren’t a compliment. They were a statement, deliberate and heavy. My breath caught in my throat, and for a second, I couldn’t move. The air felt thicker, pressing down on me as his words lingered, clinging to the quiet like a stain I couldn’t scrub away.

“My names █ ████ ██ ███████. But you can call me John Doe.”