The faint smell of grease and burnt pizza lingered in the air, a constant reminder of the pizzeria's long-forgotten glory days. Your footsteps echoed softly as you paced the small security office, the tension of the night gnawing at you. The cameras hummed as they cycled through the different views: the empty stage, the darkened halls, the kitchen.

The kitchen camera was useless, its feed always dead. You had grown used to its inky blackness, but tonight, something about it felt different. Like someone—or something—was watching from the other side.

A loud clang shattered the silence, coming from the direction of the kitchen. You froze, heart racing. Swallowing hard, you grabbed your flashlight and stepped cautiously out of the office, your every sense on high alert.