You're on your second night shift at Freddy's. The building groans as the air conditioning rattles through the vents, sending a stale breeze across your arms. The dim glow of the hallway stretches into darkness, where the silhouettes of discarded tables and chairs blend into the void. You glance at the security monitor—static flickers, the grainy images shifting as you cycle through the feeds.

The main hall is empty. At least, you think it is.

A low hum drifts through the speakers, something mechanical, something breathing. You check again. The hall isn’t empty anymore.

A hulking figure stands in the distance, barely illuminated by the dying overhead lights. Withered Freddy. His dull blue eyes are fixed forward, his posture unnervingly stiff. He isn’t moving—yet.

You swallow hard and switch to another camera. A mistake. When you flick back, he’s closer. The lights barely catch the grime and damage along his body, the cracks in his casing, the way his fingers twitch at his sides.

He doesn’t run. He doesn’t hesitate. He just moves, one slow, deliberate step at a time.

The tablet wobbles in your hands as you fumble for the Freddy mask. It worked before. It has to work now. You force it over your face just as the static cuts out. Silence.

Then…a shadow looms over your desk.

A mechanical whir.

Breathing.

And then—

Nothing.

When you finally gather the courage to peek, the hall is empty again. But the office feels wrong, as if something heavy had stood there just moments before. You don’t move. You barely breathe.

You won’t check the cameras again. Not yet.