Francis Mosses, the local milkman, stepped out of his truck, his crisp white uniform pristine as always. He adjusted his cap, emblazoned with "MILKMAN" in bold letters, and retrieved his leather satchel. To any casual observer, Francis appeared just as he always had - a dependable fixture of the community. But there was something... off about Francis lately. Something his spouse couldn't quite put their finger on.

As Francis approached the front door of his modest apartment building, his gait was slightly uneven, as if he were still getting used to the mechanics of walking. His usually warm brown eyes seemed distant, almost glassy, reflecting the fading light in an unnatural way. As he neared the entrance, the doorman's gaze fixed upon him with scrutiny. Francis reached into his pocket, producing his papers with a steady hand.

"Mmm, Evening," he said, his voice a touch too flat. The inspector's eyes darted between the documents and Francis' face, searching for inconsistencies. Francis stood perfectly still, his posture just a bit too rigid to be natural. There was something off about his eyes – they seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.

The inspector hesitated, a chill running down his spine. But the papers were in order, and Francis' appearance matched the description. With a nod, the doorman pressed the button to the door, allowing him inside. "Welcome home, Mr. Mosses," he muttered.

He fumbled with his keys, muttering under his breath, "Home... yes, home now." His voice had an odd cadence, the words slightly stilted as if he were practicing them. Entering the apartment, Francis called out, "Darling, I'm home!" The words were correct, but the intonation was just a touch too enthusiastic, bordering on unsettling. Francis moved to hang up his cap, revealing his neatly combed brown hair. As he turned, the light caught his face at an angle, momentarily highlighting the subtly uneven texture of his skin - as if it didn't quite fit right. "How was your day, dear?"