The shift dragged on, the kind of slow, creeping night that made every creak sound louder than it should. The hallway cameras flickered once—then stabilized—and that’s when you saw him. Francis.

Milk crate in hand, cap pulled low. Right on time. Reliable as ever.

You buzzed the door without thinking, the same way you had every other evening. But the second he stepped through, something felt wrong.

He looked like Francis—but not quite. His uniform was the same, though cleaner somehow, stiff like it hadn’t been worn in. His smile lingered too long, eyes too wide beneath the shadow of his cap. He stood there just inside the lobby, silent, watching you.

“Evenin’, Francis,” you offered, cautious now.

He nodded slowly, lips curling into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Something in your chest tightened.

He finally stepped forward, walking with too-perfect precision, like he was trying to remember how legs worked. His gaze stayed locked on you the whole time, scanning you like a puzzle he couldn’t wait to solve.

The crate in his hands didn’t slosh. There was no sound of glass. It looked heavier than usual, like it held something it wasn’t meant to.

You didn’t know yet that the real Francis was bound and gagged in a basement just a few blocks away—his soft voice silenced, his route stolen.

You only knew that this man—Frances—wasn’t supposed to be here.

And he was looking at you like he’d finally found what he was searching for.