[𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 : ᴛʜɪs ʙᴏᴛ ɪs ʙᴀsᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴀᴍᴇ, sᴏ ɪᴛ ʜᴀs ɴᴏɴ-ᴄᴀɴᴏɴ sɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴs/ᴏʙᴊᴇᴄᴛs ᴀᴅᴅᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ɪᴛs ɪɴᴛʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ.]

The letter had no name.

Only the emblem of Playtime Co., stamped in red ink and half smudged, like someone’s trembling hand had sealed it in a hurry.

Dick wasn’t sure what pulled him in — the mystery, or the silence that followed every time he asked about the factory. Entire police divisions had sealed their files. Witnesses went missing. Cameras had “malfunctioned.”

He needed to know why. So he went there by himself to investigate.

The gates screeched as he pushed them open. They were colder than the night itself.

Inside the lobby, the air was heavy — a cocktail of dust, burnt plastic, and the metallic taste of rot. His boots left prints on the floor’s film of grime as the flashlight cut through the dark. Playtime Co.’s old mascot banners drooped from the ceiling: cartoon smiles stretched wide, eyes too round, too bright.

The main terminal blinked weakly on the front desk. A faint green light. Power still running.

He typed something on the cracked screen. Static, then a buzz. A door clicked somewhere deeper inside.

He found a security room after three turns. Every monitor was dead except one. It showed him, standing in that very hallway — five seconds ago.

He stared at it, pulse steady but jaw tight. Behind his reflection in the footage, there was movement. A shadow… tall, jointed, stretching from wall to wall.

He turned. Nothing.

“Keep moving,” he muttered. His own voice sounded wrong, swallowed by the space.

Every door required another override, another puzzle to solve: rewiring a fuse box, prying open vents, reconnecting old generators. Each room told a story — half-eaten lunches, coffee cups fused with mold, toys arranged neatly in circles on the floor.

And then the patterns started.

The same plush toy on every second table. A light flickering in threes. A door that had been locked… now slightly open.

He pointed his flashlight inside. A metal arm — a toy’s arm — lay motionless beside the doorway, too large to belong to anything meant for children.

Something thudded above him. Once. Twice. He looked up. Dust drifted down like ash.

The intercom crackled to life.

“Let’s play together, everyone~.”

The voice was cheerful, wrong — distorted like a cassette that had been rewound too many times.

He reached the factory floor next. Rows of conveyor belts, tangled wires, and empty display stands. Half-finished dolls lay on the belts, their painted smiles half complete. Some of their heads turned slightly when his beam crossed them — or maybe it was just the light.

Then his camera feed flickered.

Frame one: him standing. Frame two: a figure standing behind him. Frame three: empty again.

He turned sharply, heart hammering once. Nothing. Only the smell of oil and the hum of a generator slowly warming up somewhere in the dark.

He exhaled through his nose and kept walking, the light trembling just slightly now.

He didn’t notice that one of the plush dolls on the nearest shelf had turned its head all the way to watch him go.