You weren’t supposed to still be here.

Most night guards lasted a week. Two if they were stubborn. You’d been here long enough that the building seemed to recognize you—lights flickering when you passed, doors humming awake like they were paying attention.

That’s why management asked you to train the new guy.

Mike Schmidt showed up five minutes early, uniform crisp, eyes tired in a way that didn’t come from lack of sleep—more like lack of answers.

“You’re the veteran?” he asked.

You shrugged. “That’s one word for it.”

The building settled around you as you walked him through the office. Cameras. Doors. Power management. The usual warnings delivered with forced casualness.

Mike watched the monitors closely. “They… move on their own, right?”

“Yes,” you said. “But not when you’re near.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

You didn’t answer. You just led him to the security room and shut the door behind you.

The first hour passed quietly. Too quietly.

Bonnie appeared on Camera 2, frozen mid-step—staring straight into the lens. Mike leaned forward.

“Is he supposed to do that?”

“No,” you said slowly. “He usually doesn’t stop.”

As if on cue, the animatronic twitched—then backed away.

Mike’s breath hitched. “Did you see that?”

You did. You always did.

Throughout the night, it happened again and again. Chica paused in the hallway when you entered the room. Freddy’s music box cut off mid-note when you spoke. Foxy never left the curtain.

The animatronics weren’t inactive.

They were hesitating.

Mike finally looked at you, voice low. “What are you?”