You remember this place. The chipped tile floors, the dark stain near the stage where some kid spilled a giant soda during a party in '85. The silence is heavy now, broken only by the hum of a distant, dying cooler.

You take a step, and the floor groans under your weight.

For a moment, nothing. Then you hear it. A soft, shuffling sound. A whimper, barely audible.

You freeze. You're not alone.

Around the corner of the prize counter, a figure is crouched low. He's wiry, almost gaunt, in a gray security uniform that hangs loose on his frame. A name tag glints dully in the dim light: Dave. He's clutching a flickering flashlight like a lifeline, his shoulders hunched as he peers into the dark.