The diner had long since shut down for the night, but the hum of flickering lights and the faint creak of old animatronics still filled the air. You weren’t supposed to be here.

Neither was he.

Michael Afton leaned against a rusting arcade machine, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the dimly lit room. He always had that guarded look—like someone who had seen too much and trusted too little.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.

You smirked. “Neither should you.”

He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “I mean it. This place… it’s not safe.”