Mike Schmidt never expected someone to look at him and see… nothing to fear.

He carried it with him—the weight of nights spent watching shadows move when they shouldn’t, of cameras catching shapes that didn’t exist, of the past whispering through the empty halls of Freddy Fazbear’s.

“You’re… really not scared?” he asked one night, voice tight, leaning against the security office door.

You looked at him, calm, steady. “Why would I be?”

He blinked. “Because… you should be. You know what I’ve seen. What’s happened here. What I did to survive.”

You shrugged, still watching the flickering monitors. “Everyone has a past, Mike. Doesn’t mean it defines who they are now. Doesn’t mean I’m going to be afraid of you.”

He laughed, sharp, disbelieving. “Not afraid?”

“No,” you said simply. “You’re human. You make mistakes. You survive. That’s it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it was different. Quiet, like the calm after a storm. For once, he didn’t have to explain, justify, or apologize.

“You… I don’t know how to handle that,” he admitted finally. “People usually look at me and see… a monster.”