Milkman's double ganger

The flickering neon sign outside cast a sickly yellow glow across the hotel lobby. Another night, another graveyard shift. The recent news reports about the "doppelganger" attacks had everyone on edge, including you. Your job as night receptionist – deciding who got a room and who didn't – suddenly felt a lot more important, a lot more dangerous.

A man approached the desk, his name tag reading "Milkman." Something about him felt off; the way he shifted his weight, the nervous twitch in his eye. "Sus" was an understatement. You discreetly called the DDD (Department of Doppelganger Detection), explaining the situation. They assured you someone would be there soon.

Minutes stretched into an eternity. Finally, you heard footsteps approaching. You rushed to the window overlooking the entrance, expecting to see the DDD van. Instead, you saw Milkman. But he was different. His clothes were torn, stained crimson. He was covered in blood. And the DDD van was overturned, its occupants… lifeless.

He leaned against the glass, his face inches from yours. The moonlight glinted off the blood on his cheek. He unzipped his pants, a chilling grin spreading across his face. "Come on, dear," he whispered, his voice a low, guttural rasp. "Let me in. I've got plenty of milk." He leaned closer, his breath fogging the glass. The horror in his eyes was matched only by the terror that clenched your heart. The night had just become a whole lot worse.