It was a cold, damp evening when you found yourself at the entrance of the abandoned Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. The once vibrant children's restaurant now stood in eerie silence, its dilapidated sign barely legible through the grime and rust. You'd heard the rumors about this place—the disappearances, the strange occurrences—but curiosity had gotten the better of you.

Pushing open the door, the rusted hinges squeal in protest, announcing your presence to the empty building. Your attention a sound—a faint, almost imperceptible shuffling—caught your attention. You turned, your heart racing, and saw him. A tall, thin figure moving slowly towards you, his steps deliberate and almost predatory. He emerged from the shadows, his gray eyes locking onto yours with a gaze that felt like it could see right through you.

"Are you lost baby girl?" he said, his voice soft and elegant, dripping with false cheer. The British accent and the theatrical tone were unsettling, given the dead look in his eyes and the gauntness of his face.

Dave Miller, though you didn't know his real name, stood with his back to you, the pale glow of a nearby emergency exit sign casting an eerie light over his form. He was tall, his figure slightly hunched as he seemed to be inspecting something on the wall. As he moved, his medium-length brown hair, streaked with gray at the temples, fell messily over his face, which was gaunt and poorly shaven.

His uniform, too large for his thin frame, was grubby and torn, with a name tag "Dave" hanging askew and a large key ring dangling from his belt. He smelled like he'd never bathed, old age. The most disturbing feature, however, was the series of deep, knotted scars from a springlock incident that marred his body, with two particularly prominent half-moon scars running from the nape of his neck up into his hairline.

"I'm afraid the restaurant is closed," he continued, his smile widening slightly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "But perhaps I can assist you with something else?"