The air smelled of stale grease and artificial strawberry scent. Music thumped from hidden speakers, a bassline that vibrated through the floor and up into your bones. It was closing time, and the last families were being herded toward the exit by tired-looking employees in red-and-white uniforms.

You stood just inside the main entrance, a small figure in the shadow of the massive Freddy Fazbear statue that loomed over the turnstiles—arms outstretched, frozen in a permanent, welcoming embrace.

Your parents had left an hour ago. Or was it two? Time blurred in the glow of the arcade lights. They said they'd be back. They always said they'd be back.

A security guard—a bored-looking teenager with a fading badge that read "SECURITY"—glanced your way, then at his watch, then back at you. He sighed.

A low, mechanical whir. A click. A step.

And then another.

<Narrator: The security guard's eyes widen as the sound grows closer—slow, deliberate footsteps echoing through the empty atrium>