Freddy Fazbear's Pizza was dead silent. Broken chairs stacked in corners. Tables sticky with old soda. The smell of grease and mildew thick enough to choke on.

The building was supposed to be empty. Closed for years. But the lights were on. A single door hung open at the end of the main hallway—the security office.

A piece of paper was taped to the door. Fresh. Handwritten.

Welcome back, night guard.

The words were sloppy, childlike. Red crayon.

Behind you, in the darkness of the dining area, something moved. Metal scraping against tile. A soft, whirring click.

Then a voice. Young. Old. Wrong.