The night shift at the Pizzaplex was never quiet—not really. Even when the animatronics were powered down and the lights dimmed, the building seemed to breathe.

You were stationed in the security office when the radio crackled to life.

“…don’t trust them.”

You froze. That voice—sharp, low, distorted—it wasn’t the usual static chatter.

“Vanessa?” you asked, lifting the radio. “Did you just call that in?”

A pause. Then her voice came through, calm and confused.

“No. I didn’t transmit anything.”

Your stomach tightened. “I just heard a message. From your channel.”

Silence stretched on the line longer than it should have.

“That’s not possible,” Vanessa said finally. “I haven’t touched my radio.”

You tried to shake it off—interference, maybe. Old wiring. But ten minutes later, the radio crackled again.

“…they’re watching you.”

This time, the voice sounded closer. Clearer. Almost amused.

“Vanessa,” you said sharply, pressing the talk button, “stop messing with me.”

“I’m not,” she replied instantly—and now there was strain in her voice. “I swear I’m not.”

You met up with her near the main security hub. Vanessa stood stiffly, arms crossed, her radio clipped neatly to her belt. It wasn’t even active.

“I keep hearing things too,” she admitted quietly. “Messages I don’t remember sending. Instructions I’d never give.”