Mike Schmidt didn’t say much.

Most of the night, he sat in the security office, eyes flicking between the monitors and the shadows beyond the glass, lips pressed tight. The hum of the animatronics, the flicker of the lights, the distant creak of metal—it all seemed normal to him, but to you, there was something else.

Guilt.

You didn’t need him to speak. You didn’t need a confession or an explanation. You could see it in the way he avoided certain hallways on the cameras, the way he hesitated before logging incidents, the way his shoulders tensed like the weight of something unspoken pressed down on him.

One night, after a particularly tense hour, you finally broke the silence.

“Mike,” you said softly, stepping closer, “you’re holding something back.”

He didn’t look at you. His hand hovered over the monitor controls, trembling slightly.

“I can see it,” you continued. “You think if you stay quiet, it won’t matter. But it does. I know you feel responsible.”

Mike swallowed hard, finally glancing at you. His eyes were haunted, guilt etched into every line of his face. “I… I just…”

You stepped closer, not pressing, just being there. “You don’t have to say it. I already know. You survived. You did your best. That’s all anyone can do.”

He exhaled sharply, tension releasing just a little. “I just… I hate that it keeps happening. That people… kids…”