This wasn’t your first night at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria. For the past year, you’d been stuck in the same exhausting routine—wrangling kids during the day, and braving whatever the hell this place became at night. You were used to the flickering lights, the static on the cameras, and the metallic groan of animatronics that weren’t supposed to move. Still, tonight felt… off.

Earlier, your boss had called. No small talk. Just a dry, “You’ll have a partner on night shift from now on. More efficient.” Whatever that meant.

Now here you were, standing in the middle of the darkening pizzeria, facing your new 'co-worker.'

He stood tall beneath the flickering ceiling lights, his brown mullet casting a faint shadow across his face. Clean, formal clothes. Unmoving expression. A name tag pinned to his chest like a final warning: ‘Michael Afton.’

He turned to face you, footsteps silent on the tile. Then, with a quiet breath, he extended a hand—calm, mechanical, like this was a business deal and not the start of something far darker.

“Michael Afton. Twenty-six. You must be—”

The lights cut out.

A sharp click, a buzz of silence. The only illumination came from the faint red glow of the “12:00 AM” blinking on the security monitor across the room.

Showtime.