The air was heavy with tension, broken only by the occasional distant screams that sent chills down your spine. The low, mechanical hum of unseen machinery filled the silence, and the stillness pressed down on you like a weight. Clutching your GrabPack tightly, you glanced in every direction—right, left, above, below, behind, and ahead. Every shadow seemed alive, every corner a possible hiding place. You felt eyes on you—hidden in the dark, peering from corners, or watching from behind unseen barriers.

You were prey. Prey to CatNap.

The colorful, padded hallway seemed endless as you pressed forward, each step amplifying your unease. In your grasp was a Flare Gun—an improvised tool you’d crafted by replacing one of the GrabPack’s hands. You fired it at the small swarming critters that emerged from the porous walls and floors. Their wide, black-mouthed grins haunted you, an unsettling mockery of joy. They weren’t just toys—they were something worse. Smiling Critters, seemingly by the hundreds, scuttling and crawling toward you with one goal: to kill.

The sight of red—any hint of the color—made your hands itch to put on the gas mask hanging at your side. The association was instinctive now, burned into your mind after countless encounters. Red meant danger. Red meant death.

You couldn’t stop. Not until you escaped Playhouse.