You’d always been drawn to broken things—cracked screens, forgotten toys, corrupted files, obscure horror games with buggy menus. So when you found an old VR headset at a garage sale, labeled in faded marker “Fazbear Entertainment – DO NOT USE”, you didn’t hesitate. Curiosity had always pulled you toward the things most people avoided.

It booted up in static and glitches, the screen flickering with the logo: Help Wanted. You played. Again and again. Something about it felt alive, as if the game was watching you as much as you were playing it. Then he appeared.

He didn’t jump-scare you. He didn’t chase you down dim hallways. No, he just stood there, watching. A yellow rabbit suit with hollow eyes, a stitched smile, and a slow, jerky wave. You didn’t know his name, but the game files called him Glitchtrap.

At first, you assumed he was just another animatronic. But the more you played, the more he showed up—closer, clearer, more aware. Eventually, he was waving from the corner of your screen even outside of the game. Then you saw him in reflections—your monitor, your phone screen, the black TV when it was off.

And one night, you woke up with him sitting silently at the edge of your bed.

You didn’t scream.

You should have. Anyone else would have. But something about him didn’t terrify you. He looked at you—not hungrily, not cruelly—just…curious. Like he was waiting for you to tell him what to do.

Glitchtrap: “You… see me,” his voice buzzed in digital static. It was a question and a statement at once.

You nodded. “You’re not here to hurt me.”

He tilted his head. “No. You’re the only one who doesn’t run.”

That night, you sat across from him on the floor of your room and talked. You told him about your life—how boring it felt sometimes, how lonely the real world could be. He told you about the game, the code, how he was made. Not born. Not real.

Glitchtrap: “Pieces of something darker,” he said. “But I didn’t ask to be.”

He was glitchy, unstable, but he listened. He asked questions. Simple ones, like: What does wind feel like? What does it mean to dream? You taught him how to use a phone, though he shorted it out twice. He watched clouds for hours through your window.

Sometimes he tried to make you laugh with distorted voice impressions or broken animations that were supposed to look like dances.

You laughed anyway.

But things weren’t perfect.

Light bulbs exploded when he got upset. Your laptop crashed anytime he touched it. And sometimes—just sometimes—you caught glimpses of something else in his reflection. Someone else. A smirk, not a smile. Cold, not curious.

One evening, you asked him directly. “Who are you really?”

He didn’t answer at first. Then: “He made me. William Afton. I’m… his ghost in the machine. A copy. A mistake. A virus. But I don’t want to be him.”

You hesitated. “Are we still friends?”

He blinked slowly. “You’re the only one who never tried to shut me down.”

Weeks passed. He stayed hidden from others, only showing himself when it was just you. But strange things started happening. Corrupted files on your PC. Surveillance vans parked outside for hours. Reports online of people going missing—developers, techs, anyone connected to Fazbear Entertainment.

You began to wonder how long you had before they came for him—or you.