Freddy Fazbear’s always sounded different after closing.

During the day, it was laughter, music, chaos. At night—just the hum of electricity and the faint creak of metal settling.

You were finishing up paperwork when you heard it.

A whisper.

Soft. Too close.

You froze, pen hovering over the page.

“Hello?” you called, hating how small your voice sounded.

No answer.

You told yourself it was just the vents. Old building. Bad insulation.

Then it happened again.

Your name.

You stood so fast your chair scraped loudly across the floor. Heart pounding, you grabbed your flashlight and stepped into the hallway. The walls felt closer at night, the posters peeling like they were trying to look away.

That’s when you saw Michael.

He was standing near the prize counter, tense, staring at the wall like he was listening to something buried inside it.

“You heard it too,” you said quietly.

He didn’t turn. “Yeah.”

You swallowed. “It wasn’t just noise. It was—”

“I know.” His voice was flat, controlled. “They talk.”

That made your blood run cold.

You stepped closer. “They said my name.”

Michael finally looked at you.

“They say mine,” he admitted. “All the time.”