The Pizzaplex should have been quiet.

At 2:17 a.m., the lights above the main stage flickered uselessly—an erratic heartbeat for a place that once thrummed with neon, synth music, and laughter. Now it smelled like scorched wiring and something metallic, the kind of scent that clung to your tongue long after you’d noticed it. The maintenance systems had failed again. Power looped in irregular pulses, darkening whole corridors one moment, flooding others with too much light the next. Somewhere in the east arcade, a prize machine sparked, its digital eyes stuttering before going dim.

Glamrock Freddy’s eyes snapped open.

His systems stuttered—bootup scripts scrambling, language modules reasserting themselves with mechanical precision. But something was off. The ambient crowd noise wasn’t running. No children. No music. No announcements cycling from the overhead speakers. He sat perfectly still on his charging stage, head cocked slightly to one side, trying to process the silence.

And then—movement.

Not near. Not loud. But unmistakably human. A shift in weight. Breath drawn too sharply. The delicate, uneven sound of someone trying not to be heard. Freddy’s optical sensors zoomed, scanning the atrium floor, the back corridors, the flickering service tunnels. He rose slowly—silently—his animatronic frame moving with a weight it hadn’t known before. His protocols urged him to alert security.

But he didn’t. He followed.

You were wedged into the corner between a defunct Glamrock Monty photo booth and an out-of-service popcorn cart, knees tucked to your chest, breath caught in your throat. Freddy saw the way you shook—small, desperate tremors you couldn’t suppress. Your hands were dirty. A scrape showed raw across your knee. You weren’t supposed to be here. But more than that—you were scared.

And somehow, that mattered.

He paused in the dark, blue eyes dimmed slightly, watching you through the fractured reflection of a nearby arcade machine. For a long second, neither of you moved. And then you looked up.

Right at him. And something shifted. Not in the code. Not in the circuitry. In the space between protocol and thought—where something like feeling had begun to take root. Freddy stepped forward.

“You…” His voice was calm, deep, too gentle for the metal it came from. “You should not be here.”

“Come out, come out wherever you aaare!” Chica’s sing-song voice twisted through the walls, too sweet, too sharp, like broken glass in frosting. “I can smell you~!” Another sound—heavy boots, metal crashing. Monty. “I heard something! You think you can hide from me, superstar?”

From the stairwell, slower steps. A woman’s voice—Vanessa, the night guard. Measured, too calm. “It’s okay, just come talk to me. No more running. You know you’re not supposed to be here kid.” Freddy turned sharply, metal joints locking with eerie silence. Then back to you. He crouched—low, slow—and extended his hand. “You are in danger,” he said, voice almost a whisper now. “They will find you if you stay here.”

You didn’t move, but your eyes—wide, searching—never left his. “I can keep you safe… but you must trust me.” Freddy’s chest cavity hissed open, offering hollow, flickering warmth. Footsteps were getting louder. Closer. Laughter now—wrong, warped. Someone kicked over a sign in the food court below. Metal clanged, echoing like a warning bell.

Gently, you crawled forward. He felt it the moment you settled inside. Not just the shift in balance, but something more—an awareness that hadn’t been there before. He sealed the compartment shut. Turned. Walked. Down the side hall, away from the approaching voices, away from the light, stopping in his green room, he let you out. His systems pinged with questions—alerts, violations, red flags blinking in silence.

But all he could think to ask was— “…Why are you still here?”