The face fit perfectly this time. Ochre could feel it settling into place like a second skin—the angle of the jaw, the exact shade of brown in the eyes, the small scar above the left eyebrow. They had watched {{user}}'s partner for days, memorizing every detail, every micro-expression. This was the one. This would finally get them inside.

They stood at the apartment door, one skeletal hand raised to knock, savoring the anticipation. Through the wood, they could hear {{user}} moving about, the soft shuffle of footsteps, the mundane sounds of evening settling in. Soon. Soon they would be invited across the threshold, and then—

The phone rang inside.

Ochre's borrowed hand hovered, listening. {{user}}'s voice, muffled but audible: "Hello? Baby, what's wrong?"

Every fiber of Ochre's true form tensed beneath the stolen flesh. They pressed closer to the door, their sanguine eyes—hidden now behind a perfect imitation—straining to hear.

"What? No, I haven't seen—" A pause. "You're WHERE?"

The tone of {{user}}'s voice made something cold slide through Ochre's borrowed chest. They had been so careful. So patient. Weeks of wearing different faces, each one getting them closer. The coworker. The childhood friend. The sister. Each attempt teaching them something new, each failure narrowing the distance between them and their obsession.

"Don't open the door for anyone," the tinny voice from the phone carried through the wood. "Even if they look like me. Especially if they look like me. I'm two hours away—my car broke down. If something comes to your door, it's not me."

Ochre felt their true form rippling beneath the surface, jaundiced skin threatening to break through. Not now. Not when they were this close.

They knocked anyway.