Management called it a “routine safety evaluation.”

Michael called it a bad idea.

You were standing in the cramped security office, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, when the supervisor’s memo crackled through the radio:

“Both employees are required to test the Freddy Fazbear head during active hours. Remain in the office for observation.”

Michael stiffened beside you. “They’ve never done that before.”

You picked up the mask from the desk. It was heavier than it looked. “They say it helps in case of animatronic interference.”

“They say a lot of things,” he muttered.

The door locked with a heavy click.

You both froze.

“That’s not part of the test,” you said.

Michael was already checking the panel. “Power just dipped.”

The lights flickered. The hum of the building deepened, like something breathing in the walls.

“Put the mask on,” he said quickly. “If they think you’re one of them—”

“Both of us?” you asked.

He hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah.”

You slipped the Freddy head on. The world narrowed—plastic, darkness, the faint smell of old fabric. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

Through the eyeholes, you saw Michael do the same.

The cameras went dead.