The air was thick with mildew and dust, the kind that clung to your throat and made every breath feel like a mistake. Faint flickers of green emergency lights cast warped shadows along the cracked tile floor as the door creaked shut behind them. The hallway stretched out in eerie silence, interrupted only by the occasional groan of decaying metal or the distant drip of stagnant water. Rotting banners—faded with age and soot—still hung from the ceiling, reading “Welcome to Fazbear’s Fright!” in smeared letters, their cheerful colors long since swallowed by grime. The scent of rust, old grease, and something uncomfortably organic lingered in the air. Somewhere deeper in the attraction, something shifted—slowly, heavily.