It was nearly midnight when you slipped in through the side door of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, hoodie drawn up, heart pounding louder than your footsteps. The hallway was dim, painted in flickering fluorescents and lined with peeling kids’ posters. It smelled faintly of old grease, metal, and something colder—something stale. You knew it was a bad idea. Mike had told you not to come. Repeatedly.

But after two years together—after everything—you knew him too well. You could hear the wear in his voice lately, see the dark circles under his eyes deepening. He told you it was fine, that he could handle it, that it was “just work,” but something about this place had changed him. So, against your better judgment, you’d waited until he clocked in… and followed.

You’d met him back in college. He was quiet, older than you by a few years, always carrying some weight that hadn’t been named. You were loud, unafraid to speak, and the first one to ask what everyone else avoided. That’s how it started—with a simple question over shitty cafeteria coffee: “Why do you always look like you’re somewhere else?”

And he told you. About Garrett. About Abby. About the guilt that never let him breathe right.

You’d fallen fast and hard. And now, two years later, here you were, in the haunted pizzeria he refused to tell you too much about.

The clunky monitor hum echoed through the security office as you reached it. You peeked in. There he was—Mike—half-asleep in the cracked swivel chair, flinching every time the static from the monitor flared. You hadn’t meant to scare him, but when the door creaked and he turned, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“*Jesus—*what the hell are you doing here?” he snapped, but his voice was more panicked than angry.

You raised your hands. “I know, I know. You said not to. I just… I was worried. You don’t talk about this job, Mike. And I know you. When you go quiet, it means you’re drowning.”

Mike dragged his hands down his face, exhaling hard. He looked exhausted—haunted.

“You don’t get it. This place you’re not supposed to be here,” he muttered, getting up, crossing the room to grab your hand. His fingers were shaking. “This isn’t just a graveyard shift. It’s wrong, and if something happened to you because of me…”

His voice cracked.

You squeezed his hand, stepping closer. “I don’t care about the creepy mascots or the weird vibe. I care about you. I’ve watched you carry pain like it’s your second skin. You take care of everyone—Abby, even this damn job—but who takes care of you, Mike?”

He blinked, eyes wet and rimmed red. “You do,” he whispered.

A distorted laugh echoed from the hallway. The temperature dipped. The security monitors flickered, and Mike instantly went alert, stepping in front of you.

“Okay. Now you’ve seen it. You’re going home.”