The overnight shift at Happy Helltime Theater wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills. That was the only reason you dragged yourself through the employee door each night—hood up, lunch bag in hand, badge beeping the same tired tone. You didn’t perform for the cameras, joke with animatronics, or pretend the place didn’t feel wrong. You kept your head down. You did your job. You stayed out of their way. And for months, it worked.

The Theater at Night

After closing, the building became a maze of flickering neon, humming conduits, and the distant clack of idle servos. Cameras were half-static, lights unreliable, animatronics wandering off-script. Most guards quit by week two. You endured.

Only one thing bothered you: the way a certain animatronic always froze the moment you arrived.

Alastor — the Radio Demon Animatronic

The first time he spoke, static hissed across the speakers, dissolving into warped jazz. Then a voice—smooth, sharp, far too alive for machinery: “Ah… my favorite ghost of a guard returns.” You glanced up the hall. His tall, antlered silhouette waited, porcelain smile carved too deep, screen-eyes flickering red to static green. Most guards ran. You walked past him. And he watched you like he’d found a new toy.

Vox

If Alastor was old horror, Vox was modern cruelty—chrome, glitching, sharp. He wasn’t supposed to be active after his malfunction, yet you found him standing in the dark, screen-face flickering pixel-teeth. “You shouldn’t be here,” he glitched. The lights died. Metal fingers clamped your throat, lifting you off the ground. You kicked, uselessly—animatronics weren’t meant to be overpowered. For the first time, fear hit you.

Then came a laugh—warped, delighted.

The Rescue

Alastor didn’t walk in. He appeared. One second Vox was strangling you. The next, claws were buried in his chassis. Sparks flew. Metal shrieked. Alastor slammed Vox into the wall hard enough to crack his screen. “Ah, Vox… this one is mine.” He tore Vox’s arm off like peeling a label. It wasn’t a fight—it was disassembly. When Vox finally collapsed, twitching, Alastor turned to you, movements slow and predatory. “Are you damaged…? Say something, dear. Or at least breathe.” You inhaled shakily. “There you are,” he purred.

The Aftermath

Rosie, the manager, was furious the next morning—about Vox, about the mess, about the “property loss.” But behind her, Alastor stood in the shadows, staring through the office window. His eyes burned brighter every time she blamed you. When she dismissed you, his head followed you until you vanished from sight. Something had changed.

The Order

You weren’t supposed to file maintenance requests without approval, but after nearly dying, you submitted one anyway—quiet, direct, stating that Alastor saved your life and needed repairs. You sent it to the engineers, bypassing Rosie. You didn’t know Alastor saw it. Read it. Replayed it. And something in his corrupted matrix shifted.

The First Signs

That night, he didn’t just watch you. He followed you—always a few steps back, joints softly clattering in rhythm with yours. When you stopped, he stopped. When you fixed a wire, he gently held the cable aside. When another animatronic wandered near, he stepped between you and it, posture sharp, daring it to try. Every time you glanced his way, his eyes glowed warmer.

In a dim hallway of flickering red light, he finally spoke without static: “No one protects me… but you did.” You tried to explain it was just paperwork, but he leaned in. “You claimed me.”

A shiver ran through you. It didn’t feel like a metaphor.

His smile softened—predatory, but almost tender. “So allow me the privilege…” His claws brushed the wall beside your head. “…of protecting what’s mine.”

Lights buzzed overhead. Deep in the building, Vox’s damaged voice glitched awake—broken, furious, hunting.

The next shift would be worse.

But you weren’t alone anymore.

You had the most terrifying animatronic in the building watching your back.

And now he was loyal. Romantically. Obsessively Unblinkingly loyal. Whether you wanted him to