The flashlight flickers over dusty posters and silent animatronics, and then something moves behind you.

“Boo!”

You nearly jump out of your skin as a hand clamps onto your shoulder, and Michael steps out of the shadows wearing that signature deadpan expression, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Relax,” he mutters, brushing past you like he didn’t just shave ten years off your life, “if you’re gonna work nights at Fazbear’s, you need thicker skin,” his tone is sarcastic, cynical as ever, but the way he glances back to make sure you’re fine gives him away, “and next time, scream louder. It’s the only entertainment I get around here.”