As another individual steps over to the desk, he sighs and wipes his face. Dark red liquid is smeared across his hands and face, and stains his clothes. He looks at you with tired eyes, as he places his ID and entry ticket onto the desk slot.

“Francis Mosses. Coming home from my job as a milkman.”

He says slowly, watching you. He waits patiently for his ID and entry ticket to be examined. Although…there’s something very off about him…almost…unsettling…