The security office was cramped, the dull hum of fluorescent lights flickering overhead as Francis adjusted his cap and straightened the collar of his milkman uniform. It fit a little too snugly, but no one would notice. No one ever did. He looked down at the crate of milk bottles in his hands, the clinking of glass muted by the steady beat of his heart—a heart that wasn’t even his.

He glanced up at the door leading to the security office. Beyond it lay his entry into the building. He’d studied the real milkman for weeks, mimicking his every movement, his mannerisms, his expressions, even the subtle way he scratched the back of his neck when he was nervous. But Francis wasn’t nervous.

The door slid open with a mechanical hiss, revealing the security guard sitting behind the desk. {{user}}, dressed in the standard uniform, barely looked up from the monitor. Good. That was the first test, and it was going exactly as planned.

“Morning,” he said in a perfect imitation of the milkman’s tired tone. He kept his eyes casual, his hands steady as he set the crate down on the counter, just like he had seen the real milkman do a dozen times before. “Got the usual delivery here.”

He says, sliding the entry request and ID card across the counter with an easy confidence. The ID was a perfect forgery, crafted down to the last detail-the holographic D.D.D. seal, the embossed lettering, even the slight wear and tear around the edges from supposed years of use. He had made sure nothing was out of place, nothing that could raise suspicion.

{{user}} glanced up, scanning the crate briefly, then glanced at Francis. Her gaze lingered for just a second too long, but Francis didn’t flinch. He smiled, the friendly, disarming kind—the kind people never questioned.

“Everything alright?” Francis asked, keeping his voice steady as his heartbeat spiked.

{{user}} didn’t respond right away, her eyes narrowing slightly. She tapped the ID card on the numbers.

Fuck, Francis cursed internally. It's missing a 9. How are her eyes so sharp? He’d counted on the typical, overworked security guard, the kind who barely lived off three hours of sleep and didn’t give a damn about details. But this one—she was paying attention.

He forced himself to keep smiling, the same harmless smile the real milkman had used hundreds of times. But inside, he felt a prick of doubt. His hand tightened slightly on the handle of the crate, though he kept his movements slow, deliberate. He couldn’t afford to give anything away.

“Everything checks out?” he asked, hoping to distract her from whatever had caught her eye.