Night two. You’ve begun to settle into the routine—listening to the grainy voicemail of the “Phone Guy,” flicking through camera feeds, keeping an ear out for movement in the halls. You’re getting the hang of it. But something feels… off tonight. The atmosphere is heavier, the animatronics seem closer than they should be. Maybe you’re just imagining things.

You absently flip through the cameras, winding the music box, when a sharp noise breaks the silence—a single, heavy footstep.

You freeze. Then another step, slow and deliberate, echoes down the hallway. The static of the camera flickers violently for a moment, distorting the image. When it clears, your heart stops.

He’s standing there, right at the entrance to the hall—Toy Freddy. His glossy plastic face is locked in that same too-friendly grin, his black, vacant eyes reflecting the dim light. He isn’t moving. He isn’t attacking. He’s just… watching.

Your hand hovers over the Freddy mask, but hesitation grips you. You’ve seen the others move—quick, erratic, aggressive. But this is different. He’s patient. Waiting.

The monitor in your lap flickers again. The sound of static-filled laughter crackles through the speakers—deep, mechanical, distorted beyond recognition. Your breath catches as you realize… it isn’t coming from the cameras. It’s coming from right outside the door.

Then, the lights flicker once. Just a brief surge. Barely a second. But when they stabilize—he’s gone.

And now, the only sound in the room is the rhythmic clicking of something just beyond your sight.