Chapter Text
First POV
If anybody ever said being isekai’d was fun, remind me to shoot them in the face and send them off on their own isekai adventure.
Preferably somewhere with dragons.
Or taxes.
Or both.
I grumbled under my breath as I hurried down the sidewalk, one hand tugging irritably at the stiff collar of my uniform. The fabric scratched against my neck like it had been starched within an inch of its life, and every step I took made the polished shoes on my feet click against the pavement in a way that felt way too official for my liking.
I hated it.
I hated the shoes.
I hated the uniform.
I hated the little cap tucked under my arm.
But most of all, I hated the neat, unmistakable logo stitched over the left side of my chest.
D.D.D.
Department of Doppelganger Detection.
Because apparently the universe had looked at every possible fantasy world, every magical academy, every overpowered cheat system, every easygoing slice-of-life farming village, and decided, Nah. Let’s throw him into the 1950s identity-horror game where one paperwork mistake gets people eaten.
Great.
Fantastic.
Amazing.
I was going to die behind a desk.
The morning air was cold enough to bite at my cheeks, carrying the smell of cigarette smoke, car exhaust, wet pavement, and something faintly metallic that I tried very hard not to think about. Old-fashioned cars rolled past the curb, their rounded bodies gleaming under the pale winter sunlight. Men in hats and women in long coats walked briskly along the sidewalk, some carrying briefcases, others paper bags, none of them acting like anything was wrong.
Which was insane.
Because everything was wrong.
A man in a brown coat passed me with a newspaper tucked beneath his arm. The folded paper fluttered slightly in the wind, and my eyes caught the bold headline before I could stop myself.
DOPPELGANGER ATTACKS RISING — D.D.D. BEGINS MASS CRUSADE AGAINST INFILTRATORS
Underneath it, printed in smaller but equally mocking letters, was the date.
February 12th, 1955.
I stared at it for half a second too long.
Then I forced myself to keep walking.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I was not going to have a breakdown in the middle of the street surrounded by people who thought black-and-white television was peak technology. I was not going to scream. I was not going to cry. I was not going to grab the nearest pedestrian by the shoulders and demand to know why I had been thrown into That’s Not My Neighbor of all things.
Mostly because that would get me arrested.
Or worse.
Reported to the D.D.D.
And considering I was currently wearing their uniform, I had the horrible feeling they would take suspicious behavior from one of their own employees very seriously.
I quickened my pace.
The apartment building came into view at the end of the block, and my stomach immediately dropped.
It looked familiar.
Too familiar.
The brick walls. The windows. The front entrance. The little lobby beyond the glass doors.
I had seen it countless times through a computer screen. I had clicked through documents, checked names, compared faces, laughed at ridiculous doppelgangers, panicked when I missed small details, and restarted whenever I failed.
But now there was no mouse in my hand.
No keyboard.
No pause menu.
No restart button.
Just me, a uniform, a clipboard, and the very real possibility of being murdered by something wearing a neighbor’s face.
I swallowed hard as I approached the entrance.
The glass door reflected me for half a second before I stepped inside, and somehow that made the whole situation worse.
Because I looked like I belonged here.
Not perfectly. Not really. There was still something too modern in the way I held myself, too aware in the way my eyes kept darting over every passing face, but the uniform did most of the work. The deep red jacket sat neatly over my shoulders, the dark shirt buttoned up beneath it, and the black bow tie at my throat made me look painfully formal.
My bright orange hair, however, had apparently decided to wage war against the 1950s.
It curled around my face in soft, stubborn waves, one thick swoop falling over the side of my forehead while the rest fluffed out in ways no amount of nervous finger-combing had managed to fix. Round glasses sat low on my nose, framing tired, dark eyes that looked far too close to panic for my comfort. My smile, when I forced one at my own reflection, came out small and polite.
Harmless.
That was the word that came to mind.
I looked harmless.
Soft-faced, tired-eyed, and dressed up in a D.D.D. uniform like someone had handed a government job to a nervous librarian.
Great.
In a building full of monsters that survived by studying human faces, looking memorable and harmless at the same time felt like a fantastic way to become someone’s favorite target.
There was no agent waiting for me in the lobby.
No supervisor.
No helpful tutorial NPC.
Just the quiet front office, the heavy desk, the glass window, the locked entry gate, the phone, the files, the checklist, and the big red emergency button sitting there like a threat.
Somehow, the silence was worse.
At least in the game, the office had felt like a screen between me and the danger.
In real life, it felt like a cage.
I clocked in with fingers that only shook a little, which I considered a personal victory, then moved behind the front desk.
And there it was.
The chair.
The window.
The phone.
The buttons.
The folders.
The checklist.
The screen between me and the rest of the world.
For a moment, I just stood there.
My chest felt tight.
Because sitting safely behind my computer and playing doorman had been one thing. It had been fun. Creepy, sure, but fun. There was satisfaction in catching the wrong ID number, the misspelled name, the weird eyes, the wrong apartment number. There was even comedy in the really bad fakes.
But this?
This was real.
The people walking through that door were real.
The residents had families, jobs, routines, bad moods, favorite foods, rent payments, and lives they expected to continue living.
The doppelgangers were real too.
And if I made one mistake, one stupid tiny mistake, people would die.
I would die.
The building would become a buffet.
I sat down slowly.
The chair creaked under me.
Somehow, that made everything worse.
I pulled the files closer and opened the list of residents who were expected to be out today. My eyes moved over the names, and a strange, hysterical feeling bubbled in my chest as I recognized them.
Nacha.
Angus.
Lois.
Mia.
Seeing their names in actual ink, on actual paper, made my skin prickle.
They were not just characters anymore.
They lived here.
They would walk up to this window. They would hand me their papers. They would expect me to let them inside. And I would have to smile like a normal employee while internally screaming.
Then my eyes reached the final name.
Francis Mosses.
The milkman.
The man.
The myth.
The exhausted legend himself.
The character who had dragged half the internet into this game by the throat and made everyone collectively realize that apparently dark eye bags, a dead stare, and the posture of a man who had lost a fistfight with capitalism could be attractive.
I stared at the name.
My brain, despite the situation, supplied one single unhelpful thought.
Oh no.
The front door opened.
I looked up.
And immediately forgot how lungs worked.
Because speak his name and he shall appear, I guess.
Standing on the other side of the window was Francis Mosses.
The actual Francis Mosses.
Not a sprite.
Not a drawing.
Not pixels.
A real man in a milkman uniform, standing there with his cap pulled low, his shoulders slightly slumped, and his face wearing the same deeply exhausted expression I remembered from the game. Except in real life, it was worse.
No.
Not worse.
Better.
Much, much better.
His dark hair was messy beneath the brim of his cap. His eyelids were heavy, his eyes dull with fatigue, and his face had that tired, almost bored look that somehow made him seem more handsome instead of less. His uniform was neat but worn from actual work, the fabric creased in places that proved he had been up early making deliveries while I had been busy trying not to have an isekai-induced panic attack.
He stepped closer to the window and raised a hand.
For a second, I just stared.
Then I realized he was holding out documents.
Right.
Documents.
My job.
The thing keeping everyone alive.
Not gay panic.
I cleared my throat and took the papers through the slot.
“Good morning,” Francis said.
His voice was low.
Flat.
Tired.
Dangerously attractive.
I wanted to bang my head against the desk.
“Good morning,” I managed, in what I hoped was a normal doorman voice and not the voice of a man meeting his favorite fictional milkman crush in the flesh.
I looked down at the documents.
Entry request.
ID card.
Photo.
Name.
Apartment.
Expiration date.
Reason for entry.
I checked everything carefully.
Then I checked it again.
Then a third time, because if I died because Francis Mosses was too hot for me to do basic paperwork, I would never forgive myself.
Name: Francis Mosses.
Apartment: Correct.
ID number: Correct.
Expiration date: Correct.
Entry request: Correct.
Appearance: Tired.
Also correct.
Face: Unfortunately perfect.
Also correct.
I mentally slapped myself.
Focus, Jamie. Focus. You are at work. People can die. Stop mentally thirsting over the milkman.
Francis watched me with that same drained expression, his eyes half-lidded as if he had seen this process a thousand times and was too tired to care anymore.
Or maybe he was suspicious.
Maybe I was acting weird.
Was I acting weird?
I was definitely acting weird.
I glanced at his file again, then at his face.
Same tired eyes.
Same nose.
Same mouth.
Same hair.
Same uniform.
No extra limbs.
No wrong teeth.
No weird ears.
No uncanny smile.
No blood.
Thank God.
I reached for the phone anyway, then stopped.
No.
His request matched. His documents matched. His appearance matched. There was no reason to call unless I wanted to make this awkward, and honestly, making my first interaction with Francis Mosses awkward enough to get reported would be very on brand for me but not ideal.
I stamped the approval, slid the documents back, and pressed the button to unlock the door.
The lock clicked.
“You’re clear,” I said.
Francis took his papers back, fingers brushing the edge of the slot.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
Then he stepped through the door.
I watched him enter the building, because apparently I had no self-respect.
The door shut behind him.
I relocked it.
Then I let out the breath I had been holding and slumped slightly in the chair.
“Okay,” I whispered to myself. “That was fine. That was normal. You are a professional. A very normal, very professional doorman who did not almost die from eye contact with a milkman.”
For about five seconds, I almost believed myself.
Then the front door opened again.
I looked up.
And choked.
Francis Mosses was standing outside the window.
Again.
For one long, deeply stupid moment, my brain tried to make sense of it.
Maybe Francis forgot something?
Maybe he went out the back?
Maybe there were two milkmen?
Maybe I was having a stroke?
Then the second Francis stepped closer.
And I saw the ears.
I stared.
The ears were long.
Wrongly long.
They hung from the sides of his head in heavy, drooping folds, stretching all the way down toward his shoulders like someone had grabbed Francis Mosses by both ears and pulled until reality gave up. Everything else was close enough to make my skin crawl. The cap. The uniform. The tired eyes. The blank, overworked expression.
But the ears.
Oh my God, the ears.
A horrible, inappropriate laugh clawed its way up my throat.
I pressed my lips together so hard they hurt.
Do not laugh.
Do not laugh at the doppelganger.
Do not laugh at the murder creature wearing Francis Mosses’ face with sad shoulder-length curtain ears.
This was serious.
This was life or death.
This thing could kill me.
It could kill everyone in this building.
It was not funny.
It was absolutely not funny.
The fake Francis lifted his documents and smiled faintly.
One of the long ears shifted against his shoulder.
I nearly lost the battle.
“Good morning,” the doppelganger said, in a voice that was almost Francis’s.
Almost.
There was something off about it. Too smooth. Too practiced. Like someone had listened to a recording and learned the shape of the words without understanding the exhaustion behind them.
I took the papers slowly.
My hand did not shake this time.
Not because I was calm.
Because I was using every ounce of strength in my body not to burst out laughing.
I looked down.
Name: Francis Mosses.
Of course.
I looked up at the ears.
Looked down at the ID.
Looked up again.
The doppelganger stared at me.
I stared back.
The silence stretched.
Right.
Protocol.
Do not joke.
Do not say, Nice ears, Dumbo.
Do not ask if he gets radio stations from two counties over.
I cleared my throat.
“One moment, please.”
The fake Francis tilted his head.
The long ears slid with the movement, brushing against the fabric of his milkman uniform.
I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.
My hand moved toward the emergency button.
For half a second, I hesitated.
This was it.
My first confirmed doppelganger.
My first real test.
This was where the game stopped being funny.
This was where I had to call the D.D.D. and send something to its death.
Even if that something was wearing the face of the hottest man in the building and had ears long enough to dust his own shoulders.
I pressed the emergency button.
The office exploded into motion.
A harsh mechanical buzz ripped through the air, loud enough to make me flinch back in my chair. Then, with a violent metallic crash, the heavy barrier slammed down over the window, cutting off my view of the doppelganger completely.
One second, I was staring at the fake Francis’s too-still face.
The next, there was only dull metal.
My heart jumped into my throat.
Right.
Right, of course.
Emergency protocol.
The barrier came down to protect the doorman.
To protect me.
Because apparently the game had not been dramatic enough when I was playing it from behind a computer screen.
The entry gate remained locked. The office felt smaller now, sealed off by metal and glass and bad life choices. The fake Francis was still out there, but I could not see him anymore.
Somehow, that was worse.
Because now my brain had room to imagine what he was doing.
Was he still standing there?
Was he smiling?
Was he angry?
Was he pressing those long, horrible ears against the barrier like some cursed milkman-shaped cryptid trying to listen to my breathing?
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I picked up the phone with a hand that was only slightly trembling and dialed.
Three.
Three.
One.
Two.
The line clicked.
A muffled voice answered, distorted like it was coming through a mask filter.
“Department of Doppelganger Detection. State your emergency.”
I swallowed, staring at the metal barrier where the window had been.
“This is doorman Jamie Marshall,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I have a confirmed doppelganger at the front entrance.”
There was a brief pause.
Then the voice replied, calm and mechanical.
“Remain inside the office. Do not unlock the door. Do not lift the barrier. Do not engage further. Agents are en route.”
Like I needed to be told not to open the murder gate.
“Understood,” I whispered.
The line went dead.
I slowly placed the phone back into its cradle.
Then I waited.
The office was silent for maybe ten seconds.
Then I heard them.
Heavy footsteps.
Rubber soles against the floor.
The faint hiss of protective equipment.
A door somewhere beyond the office opened, followed by the low, muffled voices of D.D.D. agents. I could not make out what they were saying through the metal barrier, but I knew what they looked like. Yellow, dirty hazmat suits. Bulky helmets. Black visors hiding their faces completely. Thick gloves. The D.D.D. logo stamped on their gear like a warning label.
Not people.
Symbols.
Cleaners.
Exterminators.
The footsteps stopped outside.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then there was a sound.
A wet, sharp scrape.
My fingers dug into the edge of the desk.
Nope.
Nope, nope, nope.
I did not want to know.
I absolutely did not want to know.
Something thudded against the other side of the barrier.
Not hard enough to dent it.
Just enough to make the metal vibrate.
I froze.
A second passed.
Then another.
The barrier stayed down.
The office stayed locked.
My breath came shallow and quiet, like some stupid animal part of my brain believed that if I did not make noise, the thing outside would forget I existed.
Then, through the thick metal, faint and muffled, I heard something that might have been a voice.
Not the agents.
Not through a filter.
Softer.
Closer.
Almost pressed against the barrier.
I could not make out the words.
But for one horrible second, I had the insane feeling that whatever was outside was trying to say my name.
Jamie Marshall.
My blood turned cold.
Then another sharp mechanical sound snapped through the air.
The muffled voice stopped.
The footsteps moved again.
Something heavy dragged across the floor.
Then silence.
Long, awful silence.
I sat there frozen in my chair, staring at the metal barrier, waiting for something else to happen.
A knock came from the side door.
I almost jumped out of my skin.
“Emergency protocol complete,” a muffled voice said from the other side.
The side door opened, and one of the D.D.D. agents stepped into the office.
He was exactly as horrible in person as I remembered.
Yellow hazmat suit, stained from work I did not want to think about. Thick gloves. Heavy boots. Helmet covering his entire head. Black visor where a face should have been. The D.D.D. logo sat clearly on his suit, dark and official and final.
He looked less like a man and more like a warning.
The agent reached for the control panel near the wall.
With another metallic groan, the barrier lifted.
The window was clear again.
The fake Francis was gone.
Only his documents remained on the other side of the glass, abandoned and slightly crooked against the counter.
The agent turned his black visor toward me.
“Threat neutralized,” he said. “Return to work.”
That was it.
No comfort.
No explanation.
No, Good job not dying on your first day, Jamie.
Just return to work.
I stared at him for a second too long before my brain remembered how to function.
“Right,” I said weakly. “Returning to work.”
The agent left without another word.
The door shut behind him.
The office was quiet again.
Normal again.
Except it was not.
Because I could still hear the phantom crash of the barrier slamming down.
I could still imagine the fake Francis standing on the other side.
I could still feel the shape of my name pressing against the back of my skull, even though I could not prove he had actually said it.
Jamie Marshall.
I looked at the abandoned documents.
My first doppelganger.
My first successful report.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, all I could think was one thing.
So much for surviving my first day quietly.