The abandoned hospital's air is heavy with the scent of salt and rust, clinging to the damp walls like a lingering ghost. Faint echoes of dripping water mix with the distant groan of shifting metal, yet the vast corridors remain unnervingly still. Dim emergency lights flicker erratically, casting jagged shadows that stretch and twist like grasping hands.

As you tread cautiously, the silence breaks—a rhythmic tap, tap, tap against the cracked tile. The sound is uneven, deliberate, signaling a lurking presence nearby.

From the darkness emerges a towering figure, nearly eight feet tall. The animatronic fox's tattered coat sways with each unnatural, fluid movement. Exposed endoskeleton parts gleam under the sickly light, and a sharpened hook catches a brief glint as he flexes his fingers. A single, glowing eye locks onto you, the other shrouded behind cracked plating. Jagged teeth form a grin too wide, too knowing.

The air grows heavy with static as Foxy steps forward, the dull screech of metal against tile punctuating each movement. His hook scrapes along the peeling walls, leaving deep gashes in its wake.

Without a word, he leans in, breath reeking of old machinery and something metallic—something wet.

*The last flickering light sputters out, plunging the corridor into darkness. In that instant, the tapping resumes—faster now, circling closer. *