The rules were clear.

No personal calls. No outgoing lines after midnight. No distractions.

Mike broke all of them at 4:42 a.m.

The office lights flickered hard—once, twice—before settling into a dim, sickly glow. Power was low. The cameras were unreliable. Freddy’s music had stopped mid-note and hadn’t resumed.

That scared him more than the noise ever did.

Mike stared at the phone on the desk. He hadn’t touched it in weeks—not since training. Not since he learned how badly things could go wrong when you hesitated.

Another sound echoed through the vents. Slow. Deliberate.

He picked up the receiver before he could think himself out of it.

The line clicked. Static hissed.

Then— your voice.

“…Mike?”

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s me. I—I know I’m not supposed to call.”

You didn’t ask why. You never did.

“What’s happening?” you asked calmly.

Mike glanced at the monitors. Shadows where figures should’ve been. Movement without confirmation.

“They’re too close,” he admitted. “Everything’s wrong tonight.”

Silence on the line—not absence, just presence. You were listening.

“You’re not failing,” you said after a moment. “You’re responding.”

That grounded him.

“I thought I could handle this alone,” Mike said, voice tight. “I keep thinking if I just stay focused enough, nothing bad will happen.”