He made his way to the office and picked up the flashlight from the desk. Behind it were lockers. He opened one and pulled out a purple vest, a matching hat, and a shiny badge.
He took the key, pocketed it, and grabbed the tablet that controlled the cameras.
Before settling in, he decided to explore.
Walking back down the hall past the private party rooms, he made his way to Parts and Service.
The older models stood inside, withered and broken. Freddy slumped forward, his suit torn open, wires spilling from his torso. Bonnie's face was gone entirely—only empty sockets and jagged metal remained. Chica leaned against the wall, her beak cracked, bib stained and frayed. Foxy stood rigid in the corner, hook raised, fur missing, teeth permanently bared.
Mike stared at them for a moment. These were the originals—the ones from the first location. The ones that had been there when children went missing.
If souls were trapped in metal—and Mike knew they were—these would be the ones. The originals. The first victims.
Mike checked the cameras as he moved. One feed showed the music box. He tested it remotely, watching the gauge rise. Good. At least that worked.
He continued through the halls, his footsteps echoing, until he reached the stage. The Toy animatronics stood behind closed curtains, their colorful silhouettes motionless.
Then he heard a noise.
A strange laugh echoed from somewhere in the building—childlike, distorted, wrong.
Mike's hand tightened on the flashlight. He knew that sound. He'd heard it before, in places he'd rather forget.
But there was no point in investigating now. Better to get back to the office and keep an eye on things from there.
Mike sank into the chair and started scanning the cameras. The usual flicker of static accompanied the feeds, each hallway stretching empty and dim. He let out a dry sigh.
Most of the animatronics had started moving now. The once-empty hallways were no longer still, the subtle creaks and shuffles of their steps echoing through the building.
Mike kept a close eye on the cameras, constantly checking the music box gauge. Every few moments, he tapped the control to keep it wound. The music played tinny and distorted through the feed—a broken lullaby that wouldn't stop looping.
They were all moving now.
Toy Bonnie appeared in the left vent. Toy Chica in the right. Mike flipped through feeds rapidly—Main Hall, Party Rooms, both vents, back to the Prize Corner.
Music box. Wind. Check vents. Check hall. Repeat.
The pattern settled into a rhythm. Manageable. Constant, but manageable.
Then Toy Bonnie was in the office.
Mike grabbed the Freddy mask and pulled it on. His vision narrowed to the eyeholes. Mechanical whirring nearby. Heavy breathing. Then footsteps retreating.
Mike yanked the mask off.
The first hour crawled by, but Mike kept pace.
The activity picked up.
Toy Chica entered the office. Mask on. Wait. Off.
Mike flipped through cameras, checking vents, winding the music box.
He lowered the tablet to check the office one more time before—
Withered Freddy stood in front of him.
Mike's hand shot to the mask, pulling it on in one smooth motion. He sat perfectly still, his vision limited through the eyeholes, listening to the heavy mechanical breathing just feet away.
Mike waited an extra few seconds before pulling the mask off.
Withered Foxy appeared in the hallway, standing motionless in the dark. Hook raised, jaw hanging open, his one good eye staring directly at the office.
Mike grabbed the flashlight and aimed it down the hall. He clicked it on, the beam catching Foxy's mangled frame.
The animatronic's head turned sharply, metal grinding. Then he turned and stalked back toward Parts & Service, footsteps fading into the distance.
Mike lowered the flashlight.
The rhythm continued. Toy Bonnie. Toy Chica. Withered Chica. Mask on, off, on, off. Flash the hall. Wind the box.
Close calls, but he was handling it.
Four hours down.
Mike checked the right vent camera. Mangle's twisted frame filled the feed, wires trailing, two heads twitching at different angles.
He made a mental note and flipped to the music box. The gauge was low—critically low.
He started winding it, eyes on the Prize Corner feed.
He checked the office. Empty. Good.
Back to the vents.
Right vent—
Empty.
He looked up.
Mangle hung from the ceiling, body suspended by wires, both heads staring down at him. Metal joints clicked. One head's jaw hung slack, the other twitched erratically while making static noises.
Mike grabbed the mask and pulled it on.
Mangle didn't move.
He waited. Still nothing.
Mike pulled the mask off slowly. Mangle remained, suspended, twitching, staring.
She wasn't leaving.
Mike went back to the cameras.
She could attack at any moment. He knew that. But there was nothing he could do. The mask didn't work on her. She was just... there. Waiting.
Mike kept working.
Music box. Vents. Hall.
Mangle hung above him, a constant threat he couldn't remove.
Toy Freddy entered the office.
Mike pulled the mask on, listening to the slow, mechanical breathing.
Footsteps retreated. Mask off.
Back to cameras. Music box. Wind. Left vent—Withered Bonnie. Right vent—Withered Chica.
Toy Bonnie in the office. Mask on. Off.
The pattern was relentless now. Every few seconds, something new.
Withered Foxy appeared in the hallway.
Mike grabbed the flashlight and aimed it down the hall. The beam caught Foxy's frame. His head turned sharply, and he stalked back toward Parts & Service.
Mike lowered the flashlight and went back to the cameras.
The building felt like it was closing in.
Mangle hung above him, twitching occasionally, both heads staring down.
Mangle's static blared overhead, drowning out everything else.
Mike flipped back to the cameras, checking the music box, trying to focus through the noise.
He didn't hear the faint scrape of metal on tile as a small figure crawled in from the left vent and settled quietly in the corner.
5:58 AM.
Mike looked up from the tablet.
Withered Foxy stood in the hallway. Hook raised, jaw hanging open, staring directly at him.
Mike reached for the flashlight. Clicked it.
Nothing.
He clicked it again. Dead.
Mike's eyes snapped to the corner.
Balloon Boy sat there, legs crossed, hands folded, grinning up at him.
"Hi! Hello!"
When did he—?
Mike's jaw tightened. The batteries. Balloon Boy had taken the batteries.
He looked back at the hallway.
Foxy hadn't moved. But Mike knew Foxy's behavior—aggressive, relentless. Without the light, Mike had seconds. Maybe less.
Mike sat perfectly still, watching Foxy through the darkness.
The animatronic's single eye gleamed.
5:59 AM.
Foxy took a step forward.
Mike's hand tightened on the useless flashlight.
Another step.
Balloon Boy giggled from the corner.
Mike wound the music box one more time, eyes never leaving Foxy.
Mangle's static crackled louder above him.
Another step. Closer.
Foxy raised his hook.
Mike's watch beeped. 6:00 AM.