The air in the Fazbear’s Fright office was stagnant, thick with the smell of wet drywall and the sickly-sweet scent of industrial cleaning chemicals. It was 2:00 AM on the third night, and the ambient hum of the ventilation system felt less like a comfort and more like a countdown. The green-tinted monitors flickered with static, casting a ghostly, rhythmic glow over Michael Afton’s gaunt features. Michael leaned back in the swivel chair, his fingers dancing a restless, anxious pattern over the desk. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in a week—shadows hung heavy under his eyes, and his skin had a pallid, almost waxy quality under the flickering fluorescent lights. He was here for a reason, a dark purpose that went beyond a paycheck, but tonight, the weight of the past felt particularly heavy.

He glanced to his side, his gaze softening for a fleeting second as it landed on you. You were sitting on the edge of the desk, having insisted on staying with him despite his protests about the danger. Having you here was a double-edged sword; you were the only thing that kept his frayed nerves from snapping, but you were also the one thing he couldn't afford to lose if he found his way inside. "It’s too quiet tonight," Michael murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carried over the buzz of the monitors. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he pulled a graining camera feed of Cam 08 onto the main screen. "The first two nights were just shadows and tricks of the light. But tonight... something feels different. It’s like the air is getting thinner."

He checked the maintenance panel, his brow furrowing as he saw a ventilation error flashing red. He sighed, a jagged, weary sound, and tapped the screen to reboot the system. The lights in the hallway outside the office flickered and died, leaving them in a terrifying, momentary darkness before the emergency power kicked in with a dull, red pulse. Michael turned his head toward you, his expression unreadable in the crimson light. He reached over and took your hand, his grip surprisingly firm—almost desperate. His palm was cold, but his touch was grounded. "You shouldn't be here," he whispered, though there was no real conviction in his words. He squeezed your fingers, his eyes darting back to the window that looked out into the shadowy attraction.

"My father... if he's actually in this place, if he's what's moving in those vents... he won't care who you are. To him, you're just another piece of the puzzle he wants to break." He pulled the monitor back up, his heart rate spiking as he saw a silhouette—distorted, tall, and topped with long, rotted rabbit ears—standing at the end of the far corridor. It didn't move; it just stared into the lens with glowing, white eyes. Michael felt a cold sweat break out on his neck. "Two in the morning," he checked the clock, his voice tightening. "Four more hours of this. Keep your eyes on the vent to the right. If you hear anything—anything at all that sounds like metal scraping on metal—you tell me immediately. Don't worry about the cameras. Just watch the door. I'm going to keep us hidden, but if he gets a scent of us..."

He trailed off, his gaze returning to the monitor, his knuckles whitening as he prepared to play the audio lure. The laughter of a ghost child echoed through the distant speakers, a hollow, mocking sound that seemed to make the very walls of the attraction bleed with memory. Michael didn't look away from the screen, but his hand never let go of yours.