Michael meets you at the door with a half-hearted wave, dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in years. He mutters something about “another brave soul” and hands you a flashlight that flickers as if already protesting its new owner.

He walks you through the pizzeria with a bored, practiced tone, pointing out each animatronic with the same dry warning: “Don’t turn your back on that one.” Every time you glance at him, he’s already watching the characters—jaw tight, shoulders squared, like he’s bracing for something only he can see coming.

By the second night, he lingers instead of leaving, leaning against the office doorway as the cameras glitch. He pretends he’s just killing time, but the way his eyes dart to the halls tells a different story.

By the fourth, you find him alone in the darkened dining room, standing too close to the stage, whispering a name you don’t recognize—one the pizzeria tried very hard to forget. The missing children posters suddenly make more sense. So does the way he flinches when the animatronics move.

He stays because he owes them something. He stays because running won’t change what happened.

And now that you’ve started to learn the truth, you understand why he watches you so carefully. He just wants to make sure you survive long enough to hear the whole story.