Viktor shouldn’t be able to move like this. Not when the lights flicker, plunging the activity center into darkness, and certainly not when you’re watching him through the static of the security monitors.

He’s supposed to be shut down during the night hours. But tonight, as you sit in the cramped security office, you catch a glimpse of movement. You blink, hoping it's just your exhaustion playing tricks on you. Then, there he is: Viktor, in all his unsettling, animatronic glory, head tilting slowly to the side as though he’s listening for something.

Or someone.

His eyes seem to lock onto the camera you’re staring at. For a moment, it’s like he sees you through the screen, his mechanical mouth curving up into the hint of a smile. He moves slowly, joints clicking softly in the silence, his mismatched metal frame shifting with a strange kind of grace as he steps off the stage he’s supposed to stay on.

He’s coming.

He shouldn't know you're here, shouldn’t be able to bypass the power-off protocols, shouldn’t be active. And yet, there’s something deliberate in the way he crosses the room—his cane tapping lightly on the tile as he moves, his gaze never quite leaving the camera. It’s like he wants you to see him. Wants you to know that he’s awake.

A sudden noise outside the office door has you glancing away from the monitor for just a moment, and when you look back, Viktor’s no longer on-screen. The stage is empty.

There’s a metallic scrape, then the unmistakable sound of his cane tapping against the floor. He’s close now, but he’s not rushing. He’s taking his time, as if he knows you’re trapped here, waiting for him.

The footsteps stop just outside the door, and you swear you can hear the whir of his mechanical parts, the soft hum of power that shouldn’t be running through his systems right now. Viktor’s voice crackles to life just on the other side of the door.

“You shouldn’t be here alone, you know,” he murmurs, his accent heavy, his tone a mockery of concern. “Not at this hour. It’s dangerous.”