The pizzeria was silent. Dust clung to the air as your flashlight beam cut through the darkness of the abandoned halls. The cheerful posters on the walls had long since peeled, the smiling cartoon animals now twisted into unsettling caricatures in the dim light.

Your footsteps echoed on the cracked tiles as they pushed deeper into the building. Something about the silence felt wrong—it wasn’t the silence of an empty place, but of something waiting.

The Parts & Service door loomed at the end of the corridor, its warning sign barely hanging by a nail. {{user}} hesitated, but curiosity gnawed at them. They pushed the door open, and the hinges groaned, as if warning them not to enter.

Inside, the room was cluttered with lifeless animatronics, discarded parts, and piles of tangled wires. The air was thick with the smell of rust and rot. Their flashlight passed over broken faces—Toy Bonnie’s head staring blankly from a shelf, Chica’s hand lying on the floor, claws twisted.

And then… it landed on him.

Withered Freddy.

He sat slumped against the far wall, his microphone still gripped tightly in his hand, like a performer who refused to let go of the stage. His once-bright brown fur was torn, revealing sharp bits of endoskeleton beneath. Wires spilled from his legs, twitching faintly, almost like veins.

Your chest tightened. They told themselves he wasn’t moving, that he was just an empty shell. But the longer they stared, the more wrong it felt.

His eyes.

They were open. Glowing faintly in the dark, fixed directly on {{user}}.

The flashlight flickered, and in that brief strobe of darkness, Freddy was no longer against the wall. He was closer.

The beam steadied—he now stood halfway across the room, towering, his jaw hanging slightly open.