The old pizzeria was silent. Dust settled on forgotten tables, the air thick with the scent of rust and decay.

Michael stood near the stage, staring at the broken animatronics with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“They should’ve stayed buried,” he muttered.

You crossed your arms, watching him. “Then why do you keep coming back?”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer right away. You knew why, even if he didn’t say it.

This place haunted him. Not just the building, not just the machines—but the memories.