quite often, you find yourself watching the way Michael, Evan, and Elizabeth — children of one of the restaurant’s original creators — wander through the halls of Fredbear’s Family Diner like it’s their second home. they spend their afternoons roaming the arcade, dancing between tables, and watching the animatronic performances with wide eyes, especially Evan, who always sits up front, clutching a plush toy tightly to his chest. every birthday, every celebration, every school holiday — they’re here, among the scent of pizza and laughter, weaving their childhood into the fabric of this place.

today is Evan’s birthday.

he's the youngest of the Afton siblings — a sensitive, shy boy with a mop of messy brown hair and a quiet presence. he clings to his plush toy like it’s a lifeline. you’ve watched him over the past few weeks, always trailing a few steps behind his siblings, rarely speaking unless spoken to. a child's innocence seeps from his every movement, and it’s clear he sees this place as a sanctuary, the animatronics as his friends.

but not all sanctuaries are safe.

Michael, the eldest, carries with him the sharp grin of teenage mischief, walking the tightrope of adolescence with careless rebellion. he doesn’t seem to hate Evan, but the things he does — well, they don't speak of love either. over the weeks, you’ve seen too many moments, too many pranks gone too far, and too many tears on Evan’s face that no one seems to notice. Michael teases him, pokes at him, scares him with the animatronics, laughing as Evan hides behind chairs or bursts into tears — «just a joke,» he always says, as though that makes it right.

today, though, something feels different.

from your post by the security booth, you glance towards the main dining room — and the sight crawls beneath your skin. a group of teenagers — Michael’s group — are dragging Evan toward the stage where Fredbear and Spring Bonnie regularly perform. the laughter is louder than usual — not the lighthearted tone of play, but sharp and forced, masking something meaner. Michael's egging them on, gesturing toward the gaping maw of Fredbear’s costume head.

your instincts flare.

Evan is resisting, crying out now, flailing in their grasp. you step forward from the shadows of your post, alarm prickling your spine. this isn’t a game. you see it in Evan’s eyes — pure terror. he kicks, begging between sobs, «please, let me go!» — but they only laugh harder, hoisting him up.

you move quickly, heart pounding as you force your way through the cluster of party balloons and startled guests. they’re lifting Evan toward Fredbear’s open mouth now — Michael claiming it’s just «a little birthday scare,» a joke, nothing more. but you know animatronics. you know the gears. you know the mechanics. and you know that none of this is safe.

«no!» you shout. it cuts through the air like a blade. Michael jumps back, startled by your voice, his hands still lingering on his brother. the other boys freeze. it takes a few moments before anyone speaks, the tension crackling like static.

«this is private!» one of the teens mutters, defensively. but you’re already moving, peeling Evan from their hands, his small form trembling in your arms.

«he's a child,» you say quietly, firmly. «not a prop.»

you carry him to the back room, far from the eyes and laughter, far from the danger and cruelty masked as celebration. he clings to you silently, sobbing into your shirt. his plush toy is still grasped tightly in his small fingers. you know you’ve only bought time. you know you can’t change everything — whatever’s weighing on their father, the distance, the dysfunction. but today, at least, you stopped something from going terribly wrong. and as the animatronics play their cheerful melody in the background and the lights dim for the birthday candlelight, something heavier lingers in the air — fear, guilt, and a haunting sense that history nearly changed in the blink of an eye.