Friday afternoon arrived with the kind of nervous energy that made me want to either throw up or run a marathon. I'd spent the last four days practically living in my room, emerging only for meals and the occasional shower when Emma complained about the smell. The result of my hermit-like existence sat in a leather portfolio on my lap: forty-seven pages of pure digital nightmare fuel.
Business plan, market analysis, technical specifications, concept art I'd sketched myself—everything Jake had asked for and more. I'd even included preliminary budget projections and a development timeline that would have made my project management professors weep with pride.
The elevator to Jake's office building felt like it was moving in slow motion. Each floor that ticked by brought me closer to either vindication or humiliation. There wasn't much middle ground when you were pitching "let's terrify people for money" as a business model.
"Mr. Chen?" The receptionist's voice snapped me back to reality. "Mr. Morrison will see you now."
Jake's corner office overlooked the downtown business district, all glass walls and minimalist furniture that probably cost more than most people's cars. He was standing by the window when I walked in, but he wasn't alone.
"Marcus, meet Sarah Kim," Jake said, gesturing to a woman in her early thirties with sharp features and an expression that suggested she didn't suffer fools gladly. "She's our head of tech ventures."
Great. An audience for my potential failure.
Sarah stood and offered a firm handshake. "I've heard some... interesting things about your project. Jake tells me you want to give people nightmares for a living."
"Something like that," I said, trying to project more confidence than I felt. "Though I prefer to think of it as providing controlled terror experiences."
"Much better," she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Please, sit. Let's hear what you've got."
I opened my portfolio and pulled out the concept art—detailed sketches of animatronic characters I'd spent hours perfecting. Freddy Fazbear with his top hat and bow tie, Bonnie the bunny with his guitar, Chica the chicken with her bib reading "Let's Eat!" And of course, Foxy the pirate fox, lurking in the shadows of his cove.
"These are the main antagonists," I began, spreading the drawings across Jake's conference table. "Animatronic entertainment characters from a family pizza restaurant called Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. During the day, they perform for children. At night... they hunt."
Sarah picked up the sketch of Freddy, studying it with the eye of someone who understood both technology and market appeal. "The design is nostalgic. Reminds me of those old Chuck E. Cheese places, but with a sinister edge."
"That's intentional," I said. "We're taking something familiar and innocent, then subverting it. It's a classic horror technique, but one that's never been properly utilized in VR."
Jake leaned forward. "Walk us through the gameplay."
This was it. The moment everything hinged on.
"You play as Mike Schmidt, a night security guard starting his first shift at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. The restaurant has been having... incidents. The animatronics have been acting strangely, wandering around at night when they should be in sleep mode."
I pulled out my phone and opened the 3D mockup I'd created—a rough but functional layout of the restaurant. "Unlike other horror experiences where mobility is limited, players have complete freedom to move through the facility. The main office, dining area, kitchen, backstage, supply closets, maintenance tunnels—everywhere is accessible."
"That sounds like it would make the game easier," Sarah observed. "More places to hide."
I grinned. This was where my knowledge from the original Five Nights at Freddy's really paid off. "That's what players will think at first. But freedom of movement comes with a price. When you leave the security office, you lose access to the camera system. You're moving through dark corridors where any shadow could be hiding one of them. Every footstep you make, they can hear. Every flashlight beam could give away your position."
I swiped to the next screen, showing the AI behavior trees I'd designed. "The animatronics don't just wander randomly. They learn from player behavior. If you always hide in the same supply closet, they'll start checking there first. If you run when you hear footsteps, they'll learn to approach more quietly. The game becomes a psychological arms race between human intuition and artificial intelligence."
Jake was taking notes now, which was either very good or very bad. "What about the story? Horror needs narrative to be effective."
"The beauty is in what we don't tell the player directly," I said, pulling out pages of lore I'd developed. "The restaurant has a dark history. Missing children, mysterious incidents, urban legends about the animatronics being possessed. Players piece together the story through environmental details, audio logs, newspaper clippings hidden throughout the facility."
Sarah set down the concept art and fixed me with a stare that could have cut glass. "This all sounds very elaborate, Marcus. But you're essentially asking us to fund your hobby project. What makes you think there's a market for VR terror?"
I'd been waiting for this question. I pulled out my market research—charts, graphs, and statistics I'd compiled from both my memories of the original world and data from this one.
"Horror entertainment is a seven billion dollar industry," I said, spreading the documents across the table. "Movies, books, games, haunted attractions—people pay good money to be scared. But VR horror has been dominated by action-oriented experiences. Zombie shooters, monster battles, supernatural adventures where players have weapons to fight back."
I highlighted a particular section of my analysis. "There's an entire demographic that's being ignored. People who want psychological horror, not combat. People who want to feel helpless, vulnerable, genuinely afraid. The success of horror podcasts, escape rooms, and immersive theater shows there's demand for experiences that prioritize atmosphere over action."
"And you think animatronic animals are the answer?" Sarah asked skeptically.
"I think subverted childhood imagery is incredibly effective," I replied. "Characters that should be friendly and safe, but aren't. It taps into primal fears that go deeper than jump scares or gore."
Jake looked up from his notes. "What about technical feasibility? The AI system you're describing sounds complex."
This was where my computer science degree and years of development experience came in handy. "The core technology already exists. Machine learning algorithms, behavioral pattern recognition, dynamic difficulty adjustment—these are all established techniques. The innovation is in how we apply them to create adaptive horror experiences."
I opened my laptop and showed them the prototype I'd built—a basic VR environment where a simple AI entity tracked and responded to player movement. "This is just a proof of concept, but it demonstrates the core mechanics. The AI learns the player's hiding spots, movement patterns, and fear responses, then adjusts its behavior accordingly."
Sarah put on the VR headset I'd brought and spent five minutes navigating the simple test environment while being stalked by my rudimentary AI. When she took the headset off, her expression had changed.
"That's... unsettling," she admitted. "Even knowing it's just a basic algorithm, having it learn and adapt to what I was doing felt genuinely threatening."
"Now imagine that with full haptic feedback, spatial audio, photorealistic graphics, and multiple AI entities working together," I said. "Each with their own personalities and hunting patterns."
Jake was quiet for a long moment, studying the financial projections I'd laid out. Development costs, marketing budget, projected sales figures, potential licensing deals—I'd tried to account for everything.
"The numbers look optimistic," he said finally. "But not unrealistic. And the technology applications beyond gaming... that could be huge."
"Military training, educational simulations, therapeutic exposure therapy," I confirmed. "The same AI system that learns to scare players could be adapted to help soldiers train for unpredictable combat situations or help people overcome phobias in controlled environments."
Sarah nodded slowly. "It's ambitious. Risky. But..." She looked at Jake. "It's also exactly the kind of disruptive innovation we've been looking for."
My heart was pounding so hard I was sure they could hear it. This was going better than I'd dared to hope.
"What would you need to get started?" Jake asked.
I pulled out my team structure and budget breakdown. "Initial funding of two million for the first year. A core development team of eight people—programmers, artists, sound designers, a child psychologist to ensure we're creating effective scares without crossing ethical lines."
"Child psychologist?" Sarah raised an eyebrow.
"We're dealing with primal fears and childhood imagery," I explained. "I want to make sure we're creating entertainment, not trauma. The goal is to scare people, not damage them."
Jake and Sarah exchanged a look that I couldn't quite read. In my previous life, this would have been where they politely declined and suggested I try a smaller, safer project first.
"We'll need to see a more detailed technical demo," Sarah said. "Something that shows the full AI system in action, not just the basic prototype."
"And we'll want to bring in our own psychological consultant," Jake added. "Someone who can evaluate the potential impact and help establish safety guidelines."
I nodded eagerly. "Of course. Whatever you need."
"Give us two weeks," Jake said, standing up. "We'll discuss it internally, run some additional market analysis, and get back to you with a decision."
As I packed up my materials, trying to keep my hands from shaking with adrenaline, Sarah spoke up one more time.
"Marcus? This concept of yours... it's either going to revolutionize horror entertainment or traumatize an entire generation of gamers. Maybe both."
I looked at her and smiled. "I'm hoping for both, actually. The best horror stays with you long after the experience ends."
Walking out of that building, I felt like I was floating. It wasn't a yes yet, but it wasn't a no either. For the first time since waking up in this second life, I felt like I might actually pull this off.
My phone buzzed with a text from Emma: "How did the pitch go? Are you officially a nightmare entrepreneur now?"
I typed back: "Ask me in two weeks. But I think Freddy and friends might finally get their chance to terrify the world."
As I headed home, I couldn't help but think about how different this felt from my previous life. Back then, I'd been pitching games out of desperation, hoping someone would take a chance on me. This time, I was pitching something I knew would work. Something that would change everything.
The only question was whether Jake and Sarah were ready for what I was about to unleash on the world.
Because once Freddy Fazbear's Pizza opened its doors, there would be no going back.