He killed the alarm and dragged himself out of bed, pulling on the same worn clothes he always used. Nothing flashy. He checked that the illusion disc was still in place—habit more than choice. Showing his real face in public would turn Hurricane into a cautionary tale by nightfall.
He sprayed on cologne. Bleach showers only did so much when the body underneath had already been rotting for years, but the smell was getting fainter. Day by day, a little less noticeable.
He remembered the article while walking—some glossy headline about a new and improved Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, Safer. Cleaner. Rebranded. He'd even reached out to the man running the place. A short exchange. Polite. Corporate.
*A job at Freddy's. Yeah. Real smart, Mike.*
But that was the point. Fazbear Entertainment buried things. Always had. And William Afton—his father, the architect of everything wrong in his life—had a way of circling back to places like that. If he was still out there, Mike needed a trail. Needed something concrete before more kids disappeared.
He walked from the treeline down into town. Monday morning rush. Coffee cups. Car horns. Conversations that didn't include death. People brushed past him without a glance.
Would they scream if they knew? Or just look away?
Most people chose denial.
Freddy Fazbear's Pizza stood out like it wanted forgiveness. Bright sign. Clean windows. Mike glanced at his watch—3:15 PM. Peak hours.
Toys. That was the idea.
If they look harmless enough, maybe parents forget what came before.
The place was livelier than the last location. Kids laughing. Parents hovering. Mike stood near the entrance longer than he meant to.
He wandered around the place but didn't go anywhere that would get him in trouble. He noticed the other animatronics moving through the building, interacting with kids. Nothing overt. Nothing that couldn't be explained.
Closing time crept closer. The staff didn't say anything worth remembering. Mike left.
Outside, he drifted through town with nowhere urgent to be. That was most days now. Waste time when there was nothing to do. Sleep when he felt like it. Watch other people live lives he no longer fit into.
Back home, he dropped his bag and collapsed onto the couch, flicking on the TV out of habit. Soap operas. Families yelling at each other in well-lit rooms.
Funny how fake drama feels more honest than real life.
He fell asleep—and, of course, the dreams came.
He was in his house.
For a moment, he thought he was awake.
Then he heard footsteps.
Behind him stood a man-shaped silhouette, towering and unmistakable. A man in a purple suit stared at him through the darkness like a memory he couldn't escape from. In one hand, the shape of a knife—long, reflective, dripping. Around him, the original animatronics stood watching.
"You're ruining all my plans, Michael. I had big ambition. But don't worry—I won't hate you, as long as you accept what you really are."
Then the animatronics rushed at him, trying to grab him.
His feet moved before his mind caught up.
Mike ran.
Down the hallway, past doors that shouldn't have been there, past walls that stretched longer with every step. The house warped around him—narrowing, bending—until the air itself felt oddly familiar, thick and buzzing like a live wire.
He went through a random door and stumbled forward—and the smell hit him first.
Grease. Old carpet. Metal. Blood.
Fredbear's Family Diner.
This didn't feel like some kind of memory but a dark reality he didn't want to accept. This was raw, stripped down to what it really was. Yellow lights flickered overhead. Tables sat crooked, abandoned mid-meal. The stage loomed ahead.
*No this isn't right I shouldn't be here.*
On the floor near the stage stood a small figure.
Garrett.
He was still wearing the striped shirt. Still holding Fredbear's hand—only now the plush was dark with something wet. Part of Garrett's head was gone, crushed inward, like someone had wanted to give him a big kiss and refused to let go. He swayed on his feet, trying to stand straight, trying to walk.
"Garrett—" Mike's voice broke immediately.
Garrett took a step toward him.
Then another.
"Mike," Garrett said, his voice distant, echoing through the diner.
"It hurts."
Mike staggered backward.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm— I didn't—"
The stage lights flared.
Metal scraped behind him.
Mike turned—
—and slammed straight into something solid.
Cold, smooth, and massive.
He looked up.
Circus Baby stood over him, porcelain face cracked just enough to show the machinery beneath. Her eyes glowed an unnatural green, bright and focused, locked directly onto him.
Watching.
"Why do you bother to run?" she asked, her voice calm, curious—almost gentle.
Mike froze.
*Elizabeth.*
The lights started flickering.
Mike ran.
The exits stretched farther away the faster he ran. The walls blurred. Fredbear's stage dissolved into shadow.
Then—silence.
The lights cut out all at once.
Ahead of him, something stood in the darkness.
A figure, softly outlined, untouched by the chaos around it.
"Mom…?"
He shot upright on the couch, gasping.
His chest didn't heave—couldn't anymore—but the panic still hit the same. Muscle memory, maybe. Or whatever passed for it in a body held together by spite and remnant.
Mike leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling for a few moments before standing up. He checked his watch—2:47 PM. It was afternoon already.
He prepared to head back to Freddy's. After all, he still had unfinished business.
The town was the same as yesterday.
Inside the pizzeria, he moved through the crowd.
Then he saw him.
Jeremy.
An old face in a familiar place. They'd met a few months ago—mall security, until he ended up getting fired recently.
"Jeremy?" Mike kept his voice casual, feigning surprise.
Jeremy looked up, startled, then his expression softened into something tired. "Oh—hey, Fritz. Didn't expect to see you here."
"Could say the same." Mike glanced around the busy pizzeria. "Didn't think you were the screaming kids type."
Jeremy huffed a weak laugh. "Yeah, no. Just needed food. This place was close by." He rubbed his face. "Haven't exactly been sleeping."
Mike caught the dark circles around his eyes. "You don't look like you're doing too great. Have the past few days really been this rough for you?"
"Not exactly—it's been a rough night," Jeremy said. "Started working here as a security guard. Didn't realize the night would feel this long."
Mike's interest sharpened, though he kept his face neutral. "Night guard? Here?"
"Yeah. Exciting, right?" Jeremy's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Six hours of staring at cameras. I'm also going to have to fix my sleep schedule so I can get some proper sleep."
"They give you any trouble?"
Jeremy's expression flickered—something uncertain passing across his face. "They move around at night. Free-roam mode or whatever. Supposed to be normal." He paused. "But with all the stories about the last place, I wouldn't be surprised if these guys were somehow possessed."
"You don't actually believe such stories, do you?"
"Well, sometimes even the craziest story have certain truth to it and who knows, maybe someday such stories will be proven true."