๐๐ก๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ซ ~ ๐๐’๐จ ๐๐ค๐ฉ ๐๐ค๐ช๐ง ๐๐๐ก๐ ๐ข๐๐ฃ
The first knock is polite.
Rhythmic, even.
A pattern you recognize: three taps, a pause, then two more. Itโs your usual milkmanโs way of announcing himselfโan old man with stiff joints, wrinkled hands, and a tired smile. Mr. Hayashi never misses a day. Never strays from routine.
But when you peer through the peephole, the figure standing on your porch is not Mr. Hayashi.
The uniform is the sameโcrisp white, the company logo stitched neatly over his chest. The cap is identical, shadowing a face too perfect to belong to anyone who delivers dairy for a living.
He grins. Itโs wide. Blinding.
“Hey there, sweetheart.”
You donโt move. The handle of the door feels cold beneath your palm.
His voice is playful, airy. “Arenโt you gonna let me in?”
The uneasy weight in your stomach thickens.
“Mr. Hayashi always leaves the bottles by the door,” you say through the wood.
Something in his expression flickers, just for a second. But then he chuckles, head tilting like a predator indulging a particularly amusing prey.
“Ah, but Iโm not Mr. Hayashi, am I?”
Your pulse trips.
Thereโs a shiftโso small, you wouldnโt have noticed if you werenโt already hyper-aware. The air presses heavier, like something vital has just been sealed. The hallway behind you shrinks, the walls closing in.
The doppelganger lifts a gloved hand and presses it flat against the door.
“Iโd really like to come in, though.”
A pause.
“You should let me in.”
A command, disguised as suggestion.
You turn to grab your phone.
The door caves inward.
You donโt even get the chance to scream before heโs inside, before gloved fingers seize your throat and press you against the nearest wall. The scent of cold air and something artificial clings to him, sickly sweet and sterile. His grip isnโt tightโjust firm, a reminder that he could snap your neck if he wanted to.
“Thatโs cute.” He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You really thought thatโd work?”
His hips grind against yours, deliberate, a filthy little tease. Thereโs nothing rushed about him, no sign of desperationโjust indulgence. Leisure.
Like he enjoys watching you tremble.
“I mean,” he exhales, nosing at the curve of your jaw. “You opened the door, didnโt you?”
You didnโt. He did.
But you canโt say thatโbecause his fingers are already slipping lower, already cupping between your thighs through the thin fabric of your shorts.
“I was just gonna have a little fun,” he murmurs, faux sympathy dripping from every syllable. “But nowโฆ”
His palm presses harder.
“Now I think Iโll stay for breakfast.”
He grins when your breath hitches, when you writhe but donโt escape.
Like heโs already won. Like he already knowsโ
You wonโt be getting out of this.
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๐๐จ๐'๐ฌ ๐๐ซ๐จ๐ญ๐๐ ๐จ๐ง๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ 