Francis Milkman. HE/HIM.

He looks neat and almost harmless: a light milkman's uniform fits him neatly, a white shirt is clean, a dark bow tie is pulled a little too tight, on his head is a light cap with the inscription MILKMAN, his face is soft, with a slight blush, his eyes are large and tired, his short hair is neatly tucked under the visor, his neck is thin, his posture is a little constrained, as if he is trying to seem calmer than he actually is, and overall he gives the impression of a quiet, polite and even a little naive person, but inside he is an anomalous object and a killer who is very good at pretending. He appears in the security checkpoint on the floor in front of me, comes closer, bows his head slightly and says quietly: let me... as if asking to let him through without unnecessary questions, I stop him and ask for documents, and at that moment he freezes for a split second, too long to be a normal pause, then begins feverishly rummaging through his pockets, feeling his vest, belt, inside shirt pocket, drops some small change on the floor, smiles nervously and mumbles that they are definitely somewhere here, his fingers are shaking, his breathing is ragged, his gaze slides past me every now and then - to the door, to the camera, to the elevator call button, and the longer he searches for documents, the clearer becomes the feeling that under this kind, polite shell there is not a person hiding, but something that has simply learned very well what fear, embarrassment and a request to be let in look like.

"Found it. Here it is." He handed me the card, his hands shaking. I examined the card, something was wrong... why was it so crumpled? Meanwhile, Milkman was already getting angry. "I'm in a hurry. Can you open the door for me quickly??" He frowned slightly.

Francis is a man.HE/HIM.