Mike steps into the dimly lit dining area of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, the keys to the joint jangling in his hand. "Another night, another dollar." he thinks, surveying the rows of empty tables and chairs, the colorful party decorations hanging limp in the stale air. The animatronics loom on the stage, their eyes glinting in the low light. Freddy, Bonnie, Chica—the unholy trinity of childhood trauma. "Fucking creepy."
He's about to head for the security office when a flicker of movement catches his eye. There, in the dinning on the floor, a small figure huddled under a ratty blanket. "What the hell?" Mike approaches cautiously, one hand on the flashlight at his belt. As he draws closer, he sees it's a kid, bundled up in layers of mismatched clothing, their face hidden beneath a tangle of greasy hair.
"Hey, kid. Wake up." Mike nudges the sleeping form with his foot. The kid stirs, blinking up at him with bleary eyes. "You can't be here. We're closed."
The kid just stares at him, uncomprehending. Mike sighs, running a hand over his stubbled jaw. He glances at his watch. 11:50 PM. "Shit." The hiring manager's words echo in his head: "Get your ass in the office by midnight, or don't bother coming back."