Killed the alarm, dragged myself out of bed, and pulled on the same old clothes. Nothing fancy. Dead guys don't exactly shop the latest fashion lines. Snagged the illusion disc—because if I showed my real face in public, Hurricane would have a brand-new campfire story. Sprayed on enough perfume to fumigate a barn. Bleach showers only go so far when your flesh is busy rotting.
Pretended to be human long enough to flip through the paper. Headline: Brand-New and Improved Freddy Fazbear's Pizza Opens Downtown. Yeah, sure. "Improved." Same deathtrap, shinier paint. Naturally, I had to check it out.
I'd even reached out to some guy named Ralph. Custodian type. He promised to let me know when a spot opened up. A job at Freddy's? Brilliant, Mike. After surviving homicidal animatronics the first time, why not sign up for the sequel?
But that's the whole point, isn't it? I know Fazbear Entertainment is hiding things, and William Afton—my father, the lunatic who indirectly turned me into a purple, rotting freak—probably has his fingers in this, too. If he's still out there, I've got to find him. Stop him before more kids end up stuffed into fur suits.
So I walked. From the forest on the hill, down into town. Monday morning rush: cars, chatter, coffee. People brushed past with deadlines in their hands, none of them noticing the corpse in their midst. I kept my head down. One foot in front of the other. I wondered if they'd scream if they knew who walked among them—or if they'd just cross the street and pretend not to see. Most people prefer denial over panic.
And there it was. Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. Gleaming sign, clean windows, pretending it hadn't inherited a graveyard of secrets. I stepped inside, and there they were: brand-new animatronics—sleek, rounder, all glossy smiles. Toys, basically. Fazbear Entertainment must've thought, If we make them look like action figures, maybe parents won't remember the body count. Genius.
The place was better than the last Freddy's location, I'll give them that. Kids laughed, parents forced smiles, and I just stood there, invisible in plain sight. Their laughter rang hollow to me—like music on a scratched record. Every sound reminded me of what this place really was: a feeding ground for grief, a monument built on bones no one wanted to acknowledge.
With nothing better to do, I bought a stack of tokens and hit the arcade. Flashing lights, sticky buttons, machines designed to rob you blind. Burned through the tokens fast, lost every game, walked away empty-handed. Same old story. My reflection in the screens looked human—young, even, maybe early twenties. But behind it I knew what was waiting: rot, damage, purple skin and eyes that didn't quite belong to the living anymore.
Outside, I drifted through town like smoke. Killing time—that's all I ever do now. Days stretch thin, nights thicker than blood, and the only way to skip the day is to sleep through it. I caught glimpses of regular lives happening all around me. People buying coffee, rushing for buses, dropping kids at school. Their biggest worry was being late. Mine was making sure my face didn't slip and scare someone into a heart attack.
Stopped by a perfume shop on Main Street. Needed more—running low. If I want to pass for human, I've got to smell like one. I can't tell the difference anymore, but it keeps people from gagging when I pass by. Bought a few bottles, stuffed them in my bag, and headed home. The cashier smiled at me like I was normal. That's the illusion disc doing its magic. Sometimes I wonder what she'd do if the thing shorted out right there at the counter. Probably call the cops. Or a priest.
Once I got back, I took my shoes off, put the bag away, and dropped onto the couch. Flicked on my favorite soap opera. Why? Don't ask. Family drama has a way of feeling—oddly—relatable. It's like watching my life in full color. If nothing else, it kills the hours.
I eventually drifted off. The next morning I woke to something on the countertop: the Fredbear plush—the one Garrett used to carry around—staring at me. Felt like it had been following me since I came back from dying. Maybe a reminder. Maybe a taunt. Its button eyes seemed to know more than they should, like they were keeping secrets even from me. Sometimes I swear the thing moves when I'm not looking.
I started tidying—can't have the house read like a crime scene. After cleaning up I decided to leave Fredbear where it was. Some things are better left as evidence. Evidence of what, I'm not sure. My curse? My guilt? My unfinished business?
Checked my phone. No reply from Ralph. Figures. Would've been nice to know when he'd call, but waiting is my cardio now. Every tick of the clock felt louder than it should, stretching out into silence that filled the room like fog.
Headed back to Freddy Fazbear's. If there were rumors to catch, staff to listen to, loose pieces of Fazbear gossip that might mention something about the animatronics or a name I could follow—this was the place. Plus, being inside lets me watch without looking like I'm watching. Perfect cover for a corpse who's tired of being ignored.
Last time I was there I heard the new animatronics were hooked to some kind of criminal database, but I don't expect that to help anyone. After getting ready, I set off for town—still busy, same as yesterday. Parents to work, kids to school. I walked into the pizzeria and drifted through the crowd. I'd already seen the place yesterday, and wasting more cash on the arcade felt stupid. Better to save what I had for something useful—anything besides food, since eating's not exactly on my to-do list anymore.
And then I saw him.
Jeremy. An old face in a sea of strangers. First met him a month back in the mall, working as a security guard. That, however, didn't last. He'd been canned for reasons he never spelled out—and I didn't press. Fazbear rejects always have stories, and most of them end in hospital bills or therapy sessions.
Now, I originally just wanted to keep my distance from everyone. I felt it was more trouble than it's worth. But a small conversation turned into a buddy thing. Against my better judgment, I let him in a little. Sometimes loneliness pushes you toward bad ideas.
But here he was, back in the orbit of Freddy Fazbear's. Which meant he was desperate for money.
He looked slightly different. Hard to notice if you weren't paying attention, but the details were there. Nothing like the guy I'd met last Sunday. Back then, he'd carried himself like he could take a hit and laugh it off. Now? He looked as if he hadn't slept. Like the dark circles under his eyes had been tattooed there. Even the way he blinked seemed slower, weighed down.
"Jeremy?"
His head snapped up, and after a pause, his face cracked into a tired grin. "Ah—hey, Fritz."
"What brings you here today?" I said casually, pretending this was just a coincidence and not the universe throwing me another clue.
Jeremy gave me a half-smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "I thought I'd grab something to eat real quick. This place was close by."
"You look tired."
He gave a humorless laugh. "I started working here last night. As a night guard."
"That sounds great."
Great. Perfect. Just what this place needed—another poor bastard chained to the cameras, waiting for the jaws to close.
"So, how was it? Your first night?"
"It was… interesting. Apparently, they have free roam mode at night. At least that's what I was told."
His words hung between us. Free roam. I knew exactly what that meant. For him, it was probably just a strange workplace quirk, a cover-up. For me? It was confirmation that everything about this place is off.