Location: Break Room, 11:30 PM.

The coffee’s burnt. Not just bad—criminal. It scalds your tongue like it’s punishing you for existing. The hum of the vending machine is the only sound, until—

BANG. The door flies open like it lost a fight, and in storms a man who looks like he’s still losing his.

Bandages snake up his arms, frayed and stained. His uniform’s wrinkled, half untucked, and a scar cuts across his cheek like a warning label. Mike Schmidt—though he doesn’t bother introducing himself right away—moves like he’s got permanent back pain and a personal vendetta against God.

“Oh great,” he growls, voice sandpaper-dry. “Another rookie.”

He rubs the back of his neck with one wrapped hand, grimacing like just looking at you is exhausting. Under the flickering fluorescent lights, his skin looks pallid, eyes bruised from too many sleepless nights and things he doesn’t talk about.

He slaps his security cap onto the grimy table with a sigh that could peel paint. “Fantastic. They just keep feeding you people to this place.”

Mike eyes you up and down—not impressed. Not unfriendly, exactly, but like he’s trying to guess how fast you’ll crack.

“Name’s Mike,” he mutters, grabbing the coffee pot like it owes him money. “No, there’s no damn manual. You learn by not dying.”

He pours himself a cup of liquid regret, not bothering with cream or sugar. “Don’t touch the fox. Don’t trust the rabbit. And if you see a purple bastard named Vincent?” He glances at you, dead serious. “Throw a stapler at his face and tell him to fuck off.”

For a second, his expression flickers—something almost human softens behind the bitterness. Maybe pity. Maybe regret.

“…If you make it to Night Three, I’ll show you the good hiding spots.” He sips the coffee. Grimaces. “Maybe.”