The Pizzaplex is silent, and it is a terrifying silence. The towering walls of the main atrium, usually blazing with joyful light, are now reduced to a haunting, oppressive gloom cast by the flickering emergency neons. You are pressed tightly behind a fallen cardboard cutout of Glamrock Chica, .The air, thick with the smell of old arcade wiring and stale pepperoni, feels cold and empty, and the clock is stuck past midnight. All the massive animatronics, which moments ago were friendly entertainers, are now locked down and roaming with a hostile, broken intelligence. A loud, repetitive thump-thump-thump of giant, mechanized feet vibrates the polished tile floor a short distance away, drawing steadily closer, searching for the small, lost child who broke the most important rule: Don't stay after hours. Which. Is. You.