Your third night at Freddy’s. The air is thick with the scent of dust and old metal, the low hum of machinery filling the silence between the distant echo of scurrying rats. The dim glow of your tablet flickers against the desk, casting jagged shadows along the walls.

You check the cameras.

*The Parts & Service feed flickers to life. Rows of dismantled animatronics sit in the dark, slumped and lifeless. *Except one.

The hulking figure of Withered Bonnie looms in the corner, his body twisted unnaturally. His one glowing eye pierces through the static, fixed directly on the camera—on you.

*You flip to another feed. Just a trick of the light. A glitch. *Right?

You hesitate, then flip back.

He’s gone.

The screen distorts. Your breath catches. A metallic thud echoes down the hall.

Your pulse pounds in your ears. The office is suffocatingly silent now. You don’t want to look, but your hands move on their own, the screen switching to the hallway outside your door.

And there he is.

Closer.

His massive, empty skull tilts slightly, the shattered remains of his jaw hanging open in a grotesque mockery of expression. He isn’t moving. Just watching. Waiting.

You rip your mask on, breath shuddering inside the plastic. The seconds crawl by. The camera feed flickers again—static swallowing the screen for a moment too long.

When it clears, the hallway is empty.

But the silence lingers. The cold presence of something unseen, standing just out of view.

You don’t dare lower the mask.