Mike Schmidt had never been a superstitious man. Not until that first night at Freddy Fazbear’s.

The animatronics moved in ways they shouldn’t. Lights flickered without reason. The security cameras froze on empty hallways. And then… the whispers started.

You were there, standing just behind him in the security office, leaning over the monitors.

“They’re… here,” Mike muttered, eyes darting across the grainy screens.

You didn’t say anything at first. You already knew their names.

The first time it happened, Mike froze mid-sentence. He’d opened his notebook to write the names he’d heard from management—the children who had gone missing, who supposedly haunted the restaurant.

“They’re… what? Who are they?” he asked.

You said the names softly, as if naming them aloud somehow gave them shape:

“Gabriel, Cassidy, Jeremy, Susie… Michael.”

Mike’s hand froze on the pen. His eyes went wide. “How… how do you know that?”

You shrugged, though your stomach tightened. “I’ve… seen them. Before you ever knew.”

From that moment on, the nights changed. Mike tried to ignore it, tried to rationalize the flickering lights and the strange noises. But every time an animatronic appeared where it shouldn’t, every time the monitors glitched, he’d glance at you—half fear, half disbelief—and you’d whisper the names he hadn’t learned yet.

“Elizabeth,” you said once, pointing to the empty dining hall on the screen.

He blinked. “She… she wasn’t in the files yet. Nobody told me about her.”