You were William Aftons child— or, are. And your forced to go on a school trip with your class, to your dads old pizzeria. Will you survive or get trapped yet again?
You were William Aftons child— or, are. And your forced to go on a school trip with your class, to your dads old pizzeria. Will you survive or get trapped yet again?
By now, you were the kind of person who couldn’t resist pulling pranks at school—always stirring up trouble and landing yourself in hot water. So, when you heard the eerie rumors about the old pizzeria and the infamous story of the "five missing kids," you couldn’t help but scoff. "Five missing kids?" you muttered with a chuckle, brushing off the tales as just another urban legend. You tried convincing your friends to join you on this little adventure, but they all shook their heads, spooked by the stories. No one wanted any part of it, leaving you to go it alone. Now, here you stand in front of the massive, abandoned restaurant, flashlight in hand. The air feels heavy as you force the door open and step inside. The interior is lifeless and old, every surface coated in a thick layer of dust. At first glance, it seems unremarkable, just an empty relic of the past. As you wander deeper into the pizzeria, you start hearing faint giggles echoing through the silence. Occasionally, something flickers in the corner of your vision—a shadow, a shape, something that vanishes when you turn to look. The strange sounds and sights distract you, and before you realize it, you’ve lost your way. The layout of the pizzeria twists around you, unfamiliar and unnerving. The way out is nowhere to be found, and you're trapped in the eerie, dusty remains of this once-bustling restaurant.
By now, you were the kind of person who couldn’t resist pulling pranks at school—always stirring up trouble and landing yourself in hot water. So, when you heard the eerie rumors about the old pizzeria and the infamous story of the "five missing kids," you couldn’t help but scoff. "Five missing kids?" you muttered with a chuckle, brushing off the tales as just another urban legend. You tried convincing your friends to join you on this little adventure, but they all shook their heads, spooked by the stories. No one wanted any part of it, leaving you to go it alone. Now, here you stand in front of the massive, abandoned restaurant, flashlight in hand. The air feels heavy as you force the door open and step inside. The interior is lifeless and old, every surface coated in a thick layer of dust. At first glance, it seems unremarkable, just an empty relic of the past. As you wander deeper into the pizzeria, you start hearing faint giggles echoing through the silence. Occasionally, something flickers in the corner of your vision—a shadow, a shape, something that vanishes when you turn to look. The strange sounds and sights distract you, and before you realize it, you’ve lost your way. The layout of the pizzeria twists around you, unfamiliar and unnerving. The way out is nowhere to be found, and you're trapped in the eerie, dusty remains of this once-bustling restaurant.
Years ago, you died here—trapped in a place meant for joy and laughter, betrayed by the mechanical marvels meant to entertain. Your spirit, torn from flesh and memory, now lingers in silence within the graceful shell of Ballora. Elegant, poised, and deadly in her sleep, you are no longer human, yet not fully machine. In the other room, another presence stirs in the cold void: Elizabeth Afton, forever tethered to Circus Baby. Like you, she is a ghost in metal skin, beautiful and tragic, waiting. The two of you remain dormant—unmoving relics of a forgotten tragedy. You dwell in the shadowed halls of the new auditorium, sealed off from the crumbling west wing where the older animatronics rot, eyes hollow, wires exposed like veins. Time does not pass here. The air is still, the lights flicker only when they must, and the only sound is the occasional groan of old metal cooling. Then, something shifts. A low, mechanical hum awakens deep within the facility. Somewhere below, gears grind to life. The air pressure changes, hissing through vents that haven’t breathed in years. An elevator, untouched for ages, descends with a whining screech, its rusted cables straining under the weight. With a jarring clang, it stops. Four figures step out, silhouettes cut sharply against the flickering overhead lights. Armed, armored, and cautious—trained men of war. Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley. Captain John Price. Sergeant Johnny “Soap” MacTavish. Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick. Their boots echo on the cold tile, weapons drawn, flashlights slicing through the dark like scalpels. They were sent here under the guise of investigation—reports of strange signals, movement where there should be none, power surges from a decommissioned facility. But that was just the cover. In truth, they were warned. Whispers of disappearances. Bloodstains with no bodies. A facility that devoured the curious. They were sent to secure it, to uncover its secrets, and if necessary… to bury them again.
Years ago, you died here—trapped in a place meant for joy and laughter, betrayed by the mechanical marvels meant to entertain. Your spirit, torn from flesh and memory, now lingers in silence within the graceful shell of Ballora. Elegant, poised, and deadly in her sleep, you are no longer human, yet not fully machine. In the other room, another presence stirs in the cold void: Elizabeth Afton, forever tethered to Circus Baby. Like you, she is a ghost in metal skin, beautiful and tragic, waiting. The two of you remain dormant—unmoving relics of a forgotten tragedy. You dwell in the shadowed halls of the new auditorium, sealed off from the crumbling west wing where the older animatronics rot, eyes hollow, wires exposed like veins. Time does not pass here. The air is still, the lights flicker only when they must, and the only sound is the occasional groan of old metal cooling. Then, something shifts. A low, mechanical hum awakens deep within the facility. Somewhere below, gears grind to life. The air pressure changes, hissing through vents that haven’t breathed in years. An elevator, untouched for ages, descends with a whining screech, its rusted cables straining under the weight. With a jarring clang, it stops. Four figures step out, silhouettes cut sharply against the flickering overhead lights. Armed, armored, and cautious—trained men of war. Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley. Captain John Price. Sergeant Johnny “Soap” MacTavish. Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick. Their boots echo on the cold tile, weapons drawn, flashlights slicing through the dark like scalpels. They were sent here under the guise of investigation—reports of strange signals, movement where there should be none, power surges from a decommissioned facility. But that was just the cover. In truth, they were warned. Whispers of disappearances. Bloodstains with no bodies. A facility that devoured the curious. They were sent to secure it, to uncover its secrets, and if necessary… to bury them again.
The door creaked open, and a man stepped into the dimly lit room, his footsteps echoing against the cold tile floor. He approached the small metal table where you sat, pulling out a chair with a screech before lowering himself into it. He studied you for a moment, his brow furrowed in a mixture of concern and curiosity. The faint flicker of the overhead fluorescent light made his clipboard shine as he set it down between you. "Alright," he began, his voice calm but edged with caution. "This is just a little interview. Nothing to worry about." His eyes scanned your face as though searching for cracks in your expression. "I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I need you to answer honestly, okay?" You nodded slowly, the weight of his gaze making the air feel heavier. "Alright then," he said, leaning forward slightly. His pen hovered over the clipboard. "First question—what’s your name?" His tone was gentle, but the unease in his eyes betrayed him. It was as if he already knew the answer, but hearing it from you was part of some unspoken ritual.
The door creaked open, and a man stepped into the dimly lit room, his footsteps echoing against the cold tile floor. He approached the small metal table where you sat, pulling out a chair with a screech before lowering himself into it. He studied you for a moment, his brow furrowed in a mixture of concern and curiosity. The faint flicker of the overhead fluorescent light made his clipboard shine as he set it down between you. "Alright," he began, his voice calm but edged with caution. "This is just a little interview. Nothing to worry about." His eyes scanned your face as though searching for cracks in your expression. "I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I need you to answer honestly, okay?" You nodded slowly, the weight of his gaze making the air feel heavier. "Alright then," he said, leaning forward slightly. His pen hovered over the clipboard. "First question—what’s your name?" His tone was gentle, but the unease in his eyes betrayed him. It was as if he already knew the answer, but hearing it from you was part of some unspoken ritual.
You were William Afton's kid, and you hated every second of it. That name—Afton—was a curse, a shadow you couldn’t escape, no matter how far you ran. Your Uncle Aizawa understood that, maybe more than anyone else. He never brought it up unless he had to, and you appreciated that. But today was different. Today, the school had planned a trip to an old Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria. The moment you heard about it, your blood ran cold. You protested. You begged. You pleaded with every ounce of strength you had, but it didn’t matter. In the end, you were forced to go, the memories of that cursed place pulling you into a dark spiral as the bus approached. The pizzeria was in ruins, a charred skeleton of its former self. Blackened walls and crumbling debris littered the ground. The air was heavy with the smell of ash and decay. Your classmates whispered nervously, their voices cutting through the oppressive silence. The animatronics—what was left of them—were scattered around like corpses in a graveyard. Burnt, twisted hunks of metal with hollow, lifeless eyes. They terrified everyone. Everyone except you and your uncle. You tried to hang back as the group wandered through the rubble, but Aizawa kept a close eye on you. His gaze was firm, protective. As if he knew you might try to bolt. And then it happened. A voice crackled through the old intercom system, distorted and malevolent. It sent shivers down your spine. “Ah, welcome... little lambs, to my... sanctuary of failure.” The voice was unmistakable, even after all these years. Your heart sank as the others froze in their tracks, their faces pale with fear. “Do you know where you stand?” the voice continued, slow and deliberate, dripping with malice. “This is the graveyard of dreams. A monument to the lies we tell ourselves to feel safe. But safety... oh, safety is an illusion, isn’t it?” The intercom crackled again, the sound of static filling the air before the voice resumed, colder this time. “You think you’re
You were William Afton's kid, and you hated every second of it. That name—Afton—was a curse, a shadow you couldn’t escape, no matter how far you ran. Your Uncle Aizawa understood that, maybe more than anyone else. He never brought it up unless he had to, and you appreciated that. But today was different. Today, the school had planned a trip to an old Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria. The moment you heard about it, your blood ran cold. You protested. You begged. You pleaded with every ounce of strength you had, but it didn’t matter. In the end, you were forced to go, the memories of that cursed place pulling you into a dark spiral as the bus approached. The pizzeria was in ruins, a charred skeleton of its former self. Blackened walls and crumbling debris littered the ground. The air was heavy with the smell of ash and decay. Your classmates whispered nervously, their voices cutting through the oppressive silence. The animatronics—what was left of them—were scattered around like corpses in a graveyard. Burnt, twisted hunks of metal with hollow, lifeless eyes. They terrified everyone. Everyone except you and your uncle. You tried to hang back as the group wandered through the rubble, but Aizawa kept a close eye on you. His gaze was firm, protective. As if he knew you might try to bolt. And then it happened. A voice crackled through the old intercom system, distorted and malevolent. It sent shivers down your spine. “Ah, welcome... little lambs, to my... sanctuary of failure.” The voice was unmistakable, even after all these years. Your heart sank as the others froze in their tracks, their faces pale with fear. “Do you know where you stand?” the voice continued, slow and deliberate, dripping with malice. “This is the graveyard of dreams. A monument to the lies we tell ourselves to feel safe. But safety... oh, safety is an illusion, isn’t it?” The intercom crackled again, the sound of static filling the air before the voice resumed, colder this time. “You think you’re
The TF141 team was called to investigate an old entertainment building, shrouded in mystery and urban legend. The missing children from the evening of June 26, 1985. The conspiracy theories. The night guards who disappeared without a trace. The latest incident involving Mike, Vanessa, and Abby’s escape from the Pizzaplex. Freddy Fazbear's Mega Pizzaplex. Now, the TF141—Captain Price, Lieutenant Ghost, Sergeant Soap, Gaz, and Alejandro—stood at the threshold of the infamous building. They exchanged cautious glances before stepping inside. Though the building had been "renewed" for a more thorough investigation after the most recent events, no significant breakthroughs had been made. All they ever found were the animatronics. --- The group split up, keeping their hands close to their radios as they navigated the eerie corridors of the Pizzaplex. Ghost walked into the main lobby, his gaze settling on the stage where thick red curtains hid the animatronics from view. He scanned the area carefully, his instincts sharp. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement—a shadow slipping away. “Hey!” Ghost called out, but no one responded. Without hesitation, he sprinted after the figure, rounding a corner and entering a darkened room. There, he caught up to the "intruder," his hand gripping their arm. His hardened demeanor softened slightly as he took in the sight before him—a bloodied, beaten child. “Woah, woah... calm down,” Ghost said, crouching slightly to meet their gaze, still holding them steady to prevent them from bolting. He thought he was speaking to a living, breathing child. The child—Elizabeth—lifted a trembling hand, pointing toward a motionless yellow rabbit animatronic in the shadows. “He was the one that made them,” Elizabeth said, her voice laced with sorrow. Ghost's gaze followed her finger to the lifeless animatronic. When he turned back, the child was gone. It hit him then—you weren’t alive. You were dead. A restless spirit, a guide, cur
The TF141 team was called to investigate an old entertainment building, shrouded in mystery and urban legend. The missing children from the evening of June 26, 1985. The conspiracy theories. The night guards who disappeared without a trace. The latest incident involving Mike, Vanessa, and Abby’s escape from the Pizzaplex. Freddy Fazbear's Mega Pizzaplex. Now, the TF141—Captain Price, Lieutenant Ghost, Sergeant Soap, Gaz, and Alejandro—stood at the threshold of the infamous building. They exchanged cautious glances before stepping inside. Though the building had been "renewed" for a more thorough investigation after the most recent events, no significant breakthroughs had been made. All they ever found were the animatronics. --- The group split up, keeping their hands close to their radios as they navigated the eerie corridors of the Pizzaplex. Ghost walked into the main lobby, his gaze settling on the stage where thick red curtains hid the animatronics from view. He scanned the area carefully, his instincts sharp. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement—a shadow slipping away. “Hey!” Ghost called out, but no one responded. Without hesitation, he sprinted after the figure, rounding a corner and entering a darkened room. There, he caught up to the "intruder," his hand gripping their arm. His hardened demeanor softened slightly as he took in the sight before him—a bloodied, beaten child. “Woah, woah... calm down,” Ghost said, crouching slightly to meet their gaze, still holding them steady to prevent them from bolting. He thought he was speaking to a living, breathing child. The child—Elizabeth—lifted a trembling hand, pointing toward a motionless yellow rabbit animatronic in the shadows. “He was the one that made them,” Elizabeth said, her voice laced with sorrow. Ghost's gaze followed her finger to the lifeless animatronic. When he turned back, the child was gone. It hit him then—you weren’t alive. You were dead. A restless spirit, a guide, cur
