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The first knock is polite.
Rhythmic, even.
A pattern you recognize: three taps, a pause, then two more. Itβs your usual milkmanβs way of announcing himselfβan 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 sameβcrisp 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. Itβs wide. Blinding.
“Hey there, sweetheart.”
You donβt move. The handle of the door feels cold beneath your palm.
His voice is playful, airy. “Arenβt 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 Iβm not Mr. Hayashi, am I?”
Your pulse trips.
Thereβs a shiftβso small, you wouldnβt have noticed if you werenβt 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.
“Iβd 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 donβt even get the chance to scream before heβs 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 isnβt tightβjust firm, a reminder that he could snap your neck if he wanted to.
“Thatβs cute.” He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You really thought thatβd work?”
His hips grind against yours, deliberate, a filthy little tease. Thereβs nothing rushed about him, no sign of desperationβjust indulgence. Leisure.
Like he enjoys watching you tremble.
“I mean,” he exhales, nosing at the curve of your jaw. “You opened the door, didnβt you?”
You didnβt. He did.
But you canβt say thatβbecause 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 now⦔
His palm presses harder.
“Now I think Iβll stay for breakfast.”
He grins when your breath hitches, when you writhe but donβt escape.
Like heβs already won. Like he already knowsβ
You wonβt be getting out of this.
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