Not the stillness of closing time, when the last employee locks up and the overheads click off. That stillness has come and gone. This is the stillness of three in the morning, when even the rats have stopped scurrying between the broken arcade cabinets.

The only light spills from a single, buzzing sign above the stage: Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza — Celebrating 35 Years of Fun!

On the stage, three figures sit motionless. A bear, brown and squat, with a black top hat and a microphone clutched in one furry paw. A rabbit, deep violet, a red guitar strapped across his chest. A chicken, yellow, a bib reading “LET’S EAT!!!” askew on her chest.

To the left of the stage, a curt, drawn curtain hides the fourth.

Nothing moves.

Nothing breathes.

Then—

He’s not supposed to be here. His name—scrawled on the faded paperwork he’d forged—says he’s a night guard. But his eyes, scanning the dark with a mix of fascination and fear, say otherwise.

He doesn’t see the wires that run from the bear’s arm, no, the twitch at the tip of the rabbit’s ear.