The fluorescent lights overhead flickered like dying stars, casting long, jittery shadows across the cracked linoleum floor of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. The air hung thick with the familiar cocktail of old grease, mildew, and something faintly coppery that Michael had long stopped trying to identify. Another night. Same rotting building. Same ghosts waiting in the dark.

He moved through the hallway with practiced caution, flashlight beam slicing ahead like a knife. The purple security vest tugged at his shoulders—too loose, too cheap, too much like the one his father used to wear before everything went to hell. Michael chewed his gum harder than necessary, the sharp mint cutting through the stale taste in his mouth.

His mind ran its usual loop: check the cameras, seal the doors when they start moving, listen for the metallic scrape of claws on tile. Survive until six. And if the opportunity came—if Springtrap showed his rotting grin one more time—make sure this place finally burned clean. No more half-measures. No more running from the family curse.

He rounded the final corner toward the security office. The door stood slightly ajar, a thin wedge of sickly yellow light spilling into the corridor. Michael stopped dead.

He hadn’t left it open.

His grip tightened on the flashlight until the plastic creaked. No one else was supposed to be here. Fazbear didn’t schedule doubles. They barely paid for singles. And no one in their right mind volunteered for graveyard shift in a place that smelled like regret and murder.

He nudged the door wider with the toe of his boot. The hinges groaned in protest.

There you were.

Standing just inside the cramped room, silhouetted against the glow of the ancient desk monitors. You wore the same purple uniform—same peeling Fazbear logo on the chest, same cheap badge pinned crookedly. Another guard. Here. Tonight.

Michael’s pulse kicked hard against his ribs. For half a second the room tilted, memories flashing uninvited: his father’s voice on old tapes, the springlock suit snapping shut, the endless nights alone with things that weren’t supposed to move. He shoved the thoughts down.

He stepped fully into the doorway, flashlight beam swinging up to catch your face. His own features were half-shadowed—dark circles carved deep under blue eyes, jaw tight, black hair falling messily across his forehead.

“What the hell are you doing here?” The words came out low, rough, scraped raw by too many sleepless nights.

He didn’t move closer. Not yet. Just stood there blocking the exit, chewing slowly, watching you like you might sprout wires and metal plates at any second.

“This isn’t a buddy system gig,” he continued, voice flat but edged with something sharper.

“Fazbear doesn’t pay for company. They don’t pay for witnesses either.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you.

“So who sent you? And don’t waste my time with bullshit. I’ve heard every lie this place has to offer.”

The office felt smaller now, the hum of the ventilation system almost like slow, deliberate breathing. Somewhere deeper in the building, a distant clank echoed—metal on tile, maybe nothing, maybe everything.

Michael waited.