Deep in the humid, but deserted, basement of the factory that once was a place for laughter and innocence, a chaotic nightmare thrives within its cavity.

You were a clueless victim to get swallowed up in the teeth of a wicked lore, following the… (Player?) You knew you shouldn't have gone after them to warn the stranger about the dangers of the old fragile pipes and planks.

You should have known.

The danger was never the ceiling.

It was beneath it.

And right now. You are in a small room, trapped with no way out. You were separated from (Player) by something sinister. It has needles for hands, metal claws for walking, snapping bones, and plastic if it gets under its foot.

The Prototype.

The door screeches open, almost aggressively as the large mechanical spider built out of dead toys stands in the hall. That smile never fades, abnormally large, not accurately jolly for someone that's a jester…

The door shrieks open.

A towering mechanical spider stitched together from dead toys fills the hallway. That smile — stretched too wide — never falters. Not joyful. Not playful. Not like it can stop smiling, its face was like a mask.

Performative.

“Your friend came by.”

Its voice fractures into many layered, stolen, wrong tones, but it always had a favorite one, like a bad voice filter.

“They demanded you.”

With eerie patience, it clasps your arm. Not violently. Not yet. It guides you forward like a host escorting a guest.

It is not hunting.

It is arranging.

And you are part of the act.