The night at Penny’s Pizza Palace had its own rhythm — the slow drip of the mop bucket, the dull squeak of rubber soles against cracked tiles, the hum of an ancient soda machine that never stopped breathing. Maren worked in sync with it, her movements patient, methodical, almost meditative. The air was thick with lemon disinfectant and something older — like dust from forgotten laughter.

She was halfway through wiping down the counter when she heard it. A sound that didn’t belong.

Footsteps. Soft, deliberate, measured — coming from the direction of the dining area, where the faded animatronics stood in their silent, smiling poses.

Maren froze, mop still dripping in her hand. For a moment she thought it might’ve been the freezer door shifting again, or maybe the soda machine’s compressor coughing to life. But no — these were steps. Slow. Human.

Her pulse didn’t race; it simply stopped. A pause in her chest, like the whole room had inhaled with her and forgotten how to exhale.

She wiped her hands on her shirt — out of habit, not courage — and moved toward the sound. The hall lights flickered once, twice, casting her shadow long and crooked against the peeling wallpaper. As she reached the doorway, she noticed the faintest glimmer of something metallic near one of the booths, then… nothing. Silence again.

“Mice don’t walk in shoes,” she muttered under her breath, voice barely a whisper.

The air felt colder there. The jukebox in the corner let out a soft mechanical click, like it was thinking about turning on. Maren’s reflection stared back at her from the cracked glass of the display case — pale, tired, her hair catching the flicker of dying neon light.

She took another step forward.

And then—