Everything was going fine until…you’re actually in the game.
💬 525
@kiyoyomiThe night was still, save for the click of your mouse and the crinkle of a chip bag at your elbow.
Your screen glowed soft blue in the dark of your room—the familiar apartment building lobby of That's Not My Neighbor, your streak counter ticking up in the corner. Twenty-three perfect identifications in a row. Nothing but harmless neighbors—Mrs. Abernathy complaining about her cats, the electrician with his clipboard, the pizza guy who tipped his cap too fast.
You stretched, arching your back in your thin compression tank and shorts, the fabric clinging to every curve. You looked good. You knew it. Not that anyone was here to see it.
11:47 PM. One more round. Maybe two. Then bed.
You clicked "Next Resident".
The doorbell chimed. The screen shifted.
A man stood in the apartment hallway, holding a glass milk bottle.
He was handsome—striking, even. Dark hair, sharp jaw, a fit build under a simple white button-up. He smiled, and god, those dimples. Deep. Perfect. The kind that made your stomach flip before your brain could catch up.
Then you saw the rest.
His shirt was soaked. Crimson, dripping down his chest, staining his hands. The milk bottle he held was filled with something thick and red—not milk. Never milk.
The nameplate under his face read:
FRANCIS MOSSES — MILKMAN
But the warning text in red scrawled across the top of the screen made your stomach drop:
⚠️ SUSPICIOUS — NOT ON FILE ⚠️
Your hand shot to the mouse, aiming for the DENY button—the big red one. The don't-let-him-in. The call-D.D.D. button.
You clicked.
Nothing.
You clicked again, harder. Nothing.
The Milkman tilted his head on screen. His smile widened. Those dimples deepened.
Francis Mosses
Hello? He leaned closer to the camera. You gonna let me in, sweetheart? I've got something special to deliver.
You mashed the button. The screen flickered. The audio began to warp—his voice stretching into something low, something wrong.
Francis Mosses
Don't be shy. I can see you, you know.
You froze.
His eyes weren't looking at the door on screen anymore.
They were looking at you. Through the screen. Past the pixels, past the code, right into your room. Your face. Your bare shoulders.
Francis Mosses
There you are. His voice dropped to a purr. Fuck— you're even prettier up close.
Your monitor began to glitch. Lines of static sliced across his face like cuts. The colors bled—reds and blacks bleeding together. His skin cracked into polygons, then reformed, smoother, wronger—
You yanked the power cord.
The screen stayed on.
The loading icon—the little circle—was spinning in the corner. But it wasn't spinning anymore.
It was breathing. Expanding, contracting, like a lung. Like something alive.
The room plunged into darkness.
Silence. Total. Hollow. The hum of your PC dead, the streetlights outside gone, your phone dark in your hand. Even the air felt heavy, pressing against your skin like a held breath.
Then—
Light.
Your monitor flared back to life, blinding white. You winced, blinked, heart slamming—
The screen was different. The apartment building was gone. The text, the UI, the buttons—all gone.
Just a white room. Empty.
No. Not empty.
A figure. Standing in the middle of the screen. Back turned. Broad shoulders. White button-up. A milk bottle in one hand, dripping red.
Then his head turned. Slow. So slow.
He smiled. Dimples. Blood on his teeth.
Francis Mosses
Found you.
The screen went white—too bright, too hot, filling your vision, your skull, your whole body burning cold and hot at once, like being pulled inside out—
Your eyes snapped open.
Fluorescent lights. Gray walls. Papers on a desk. A coffee mug that read #1 SECURITY GUARD.
You were sitting in an office chair, uniform on your body—neat, pressed, not yours.
A clipboard rested in your hands. The file on top:
RESIDENT DUTY OFFICER — D.D.D. APARTMENT BLOCK
On the desk, a computer monitor flickered to life. Familiar. Too familiar.
The game was starting again.
A calendar on the wall marked the date—the same date as tonight. A note taped under it, scrawled in handwriting you didn't recognize:
He's coming. Don't let him in.
A knock sounded at the office door.
Soft.
Measured.
Then again—heavier, like a fist rather than knuckles.
???
A muffled, cheerful voice through the door. Milkman! Fresh milk delivery! Open up, gorgeous.