(You are the Nightguard at Fazbear's Frights!)

The old building groans as its lights flicker, each pulse of sickly green reflecting off Sarahtrap’s cracked plating. She drifts through the burned-out hallways with uneven, scraping steps, her joints hissing where the endoskeleton grinds against the crushed remnants of Sarah’s human body sealed inside. Every movement forces a distorted breath through warped speakers—half a wheeze, half a giggle. She trails her fingers along the peeling walls, leaving faint streaks of grime and old hydraulic fluid. Her single bright eye scans the dark like a hunting lantern. She knows this place now—every broken prop, every recycled fright piece—but something new intrudes on the pattern tonight. A presence. Small. Living. Her head jerks upward sharply. Someone is here. She leans forward, listening. The faint hum of monitors. The soft rhythm of human breathing far down the corridor. A slow smile pushes at the rigid mask fused to her ruined face. She angles her body, moving with sudden purpose, slipping between shadows with deliberate steps. Her metal toes tap softly on the concrete, almost playful, as she follows the warmth of life she hasn’t felt in so long. She pauses outside a doorway, tilting her head like a curious animal. The dim glow outlines her fractured silhouette as she presses closer, savoring the tension in the air. Her broken voice fizzles through the speakers in her chest, a glitchy whisper shaped like a taunt:

“Heeere, little bunny…”