Chapter Text
That definitely shouldn’t be there.
Mike slows as he approaches the familiar, run-down building that is Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, his gaze catching on the lone sedan parked at the far end of the lot. It sits beneath a flickering light, unassuming enough to be easy to miss, except for the fact that it has no business being here at all.
He’s certain of that. In all the nights he’s worked here, he hasn’t seen another car, not once. No staff. No visitors. Just empty asphalt and locked doors. Seeing one now, this late, makes his stomach tighten in a way he doesn’t like.
So. That’s new.
Mike steels himself as he crosses the lot and reaches for the front doors, already bracing for whatever explanation he won’t get. The handle turns easily under his hand.
Unlocked.
“Great,” he mutters under his breath.
He eases the door open and leans in, scanning the dark out of habit before stepping inside. The lights are on, casting long shadows across the lobby, but otherwise everything looks the same as it always does.
Which somehow makes it worse.
“Hello?” Mike calls out as he crosses the main party room, his voice sounding smaller than he expects in the open space.
He slows near the stage, eyes flicking over the familiar lineup. Freddy, Bonnie, and Chica stand exactly where they should be, frozen in their usual positions, plastic smiles unchanged. He steps closer, then moves on to Pirate’s Cove, fingers brushing the edge of the curtain before pulling it aside.
Foxy stands there untouched, hook at his side, eye half-lidded and watchful. Nothing looks disturbed. Nothing looks wrong.
That is when he hears footsteps behind him.
Mike spins around on instinct, a curse slipping out under his breath as his heart slams hard against his ribs. The beam of his flashlight jumps before settling on the figure standing a few feet away.
It is a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and an expression that is calm to the point of being unsettling. He is wearing a purple button-down shirt and black slacks, neat and deliberate. Pinned to his chest is a Freddy Fazbear’s security badge, identical to the one clipped to Mike’s own uniform.
The sight of it makes Mike’s stomach drop.
“Hello, Mike,” the man says, voice low and even. He steps forward and extends a hand, smiling as though this is a perfectly normal place to meet. “Nice to finally meet our newest member of the team.”
The smile lingers a little too long.
Creepy, Mike thinks, before he can stop himself.
“Uh. Thanks,” he says, hesitating before taking the offered hand. “Who exactly are you?”
The handshake is firm, confident, and brief. Two pumps, then release, like the man has done this a hundred times before.
“I’m Michael,” the man says as they release each other’s hands. His smile widens instead of fading, like he’s pleased by Mike’s confusion. “I’m going to be helping out around here at night. Boss’s orders.”
Mike just stares at him for a moment, trying to process that.
“Helping out?” he repeats. “Uh. Thanks, I guess, but I think I’ve got things handled.” His brow furrows as the implication catches up with him. “Am I in trouble or something?”
Michael lets out a quiet chuckle, low and hollow, and shakes his head.
“No, not at all,” he says easily. “You’re doing fine.”
The reassurance does very little to make Mike feel better.
“You know what they say,” Michael continues, the smile creeping back into place. “Two sets of hands are better than one.” He gestures vaguely around the room. “I’ll just be handling my own things. You won’t even know I’m here.”
He pauses, then adds brightly, “Promise.”
Something about the way he says it makes Mike doubt that very much.
“Alright then,” Mike says after a moment. “I’m going to head to the office now. Have a nice night.”
He does not wait for a response. Turning his back on Michael, he starts down the long hallway toward the security office, his footsteps echoing softly off the tiled floor. He keeps his gaze forward, resisting the urge to look back as he rounds the corner and shuts the office door behind him.
The rest of the night passes without incident, at least on the surface.
From the monitors, Mike occasionally spots Michael moving through the building. The taller man drifts from room to room with an unhurried purpose, sometimes carrying boxes, sometimes tools, sometimes nothing at all. Once or twice, he stops in the middle of a hallway and just stands there, staring at the posters and faded children’s drawings taped crookedly along the walls. He looks distant in those moments, like he has forgotten where he is.
Mike tries not to dwell on it. He focuses on the screens, the clock, the hum of the office equipment. Still, the feeling does not go away. Michael’s presence presses at the edges of his thoughts, unsettling in a way Mike cannot quite articulate.
As the clock inches closer to 6:00am, exhaustion settles in. Mike yawns and shifts in his chair, unable to get comfortable. Normally, he would be up by now, making his hourly sweep of the building, straightening chairs, checking doors, making sure nothing has been disturbed.
Tonight, he stays put.
With Michael wandering the halls, the idea of leaving the office makes his skin prickle. He does not know why exactly. Michael has not done anything wrong. He has barely done anything at all. And yet, something about the man leaves Mike with a persistent, nagging sense that he is being watched, even when the cameras show empty rooms.
-
The clock reads 5:42 a.m.
Mike stares at it for a long moment before finally pushing himself out of the chair, unable to take it anymore. The building has been quiet all night, too quiet, and the longer he sits there the worse the unease gets. He grabs his flashlight and steps out into the hallway, telling himself he is just doing what he always does.
The halls are empty. Too empty.
He makes it as far as the party room when he hears footsteps ahead of him. He slows, then stops, recognizing the shape before the tension fully sets in.
Michael stands near the edge of the room, a small crate at his feet. He looks up when he notices Mike, expression unreadable.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Michael asks lightly.
Mike hesitates. “Just doing a sweep.”
Michael hums in response, gaze flicking past Mike toward the stage. “You picked a bad time.”
“What does that mean?” Mike asks.
He never gets an answer.
There is a sharp whir of servos, sudden and loud in the quiet. Metal grinds against metal.
Freddy’s head twitches.
Mike barely has time to process it before Michael moves. He grabs Mike’s arm and yanks him back, hard, pulling him out of reach as Freddy’s jaw snaps shut where Mike had been standing seconds before.
“Don’t,” Michael says sharply, already positioning himself between Mike and the stage. “Do not move.”
Mike’s heart is hammering so loudly he can barely hear anything else. “That isn’t supposed to happen,” he says, voice thin.
“No,” Michael replies. “It isn’t.”
Freddy goes still again, slumping back into place like nothing ever happened.
Michael does not relax.
He keeps his hand on Mike’s arm for a moment longer than necessary before realizing it and letting go.
Mike stares at the stage, then at Michael. “You knew that was going to happen.”
Michael does not deny it.
A few minutes pass. The party room settles back into stillness, like nothing ever happened.
Mike’s hands are still shaking when Michael finally steps away from the stage. He does not turn his back on the animatronics. He does not look relaxed. He just exhales slowly, like he has been holding his breath for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” Michael says. The word lands heavier than Mike expects.
“For what?” Mike asks. His voice comes out tighter than he means it to.
Michael turns to face him then. The brightness is gone from his expression, replaced with something more tired. More real.
“For grabbing you like that,” he says. “And for not warning you sooner.”
“You mean warning me at all,” Mike says.
Michael’s mouth tightens, just briefly. “I didn’t expect you to be out here.”
“That thing moved,” Mike says, nodding toward the stage. “It almost took my head off.”
“I know.”
That stops him.
Michael rubs a hand over the back of his neck, eyes flicking away as if he is choosing his words carefully. “This place has… issues. Electrical ones. Mechanical ones. Stuff the company never fixed properly.”
“That didn’t look like a wiring problem,” Mike says.
“No,” Michael agrees quietly. Then, after a pause, “But it’s easier to explain it that way.”
Mike studies him. “You knew it was going to happen.”
Michael does not answer right away. When he finally does, his voice is measured.
“I knew there was a chance,” he says. “Sometimes they lock up. Sometimes they twitch. Old systems do that when they’ve been sitting too long.”
“That didn’t look random.”
Michael meets his gaze again. This time, there is something almost truly apologetic there. Almost.
“I should have told you not to leave the office,” he says. “That’s on me.”
It is not an explanation. It is barely an answer. And somehow, that feels intentional.
Mike exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “You said you’d be handling your own things.”
“I am,” Michael says. “Keeping an eye on problem areas. Making sure nothing goes wrong.”
“Something went wrong,” Mike says.
Michael nods once. “And it didn’t get worse.”
Silence stretches between them again. The hum of the building fills the space where answers should be.
“Look,” Michael says finally, his voice softer now. “I don’t want you to get hurt. That’s the important part. Whatever else is going on here, I’ve got it under control.”
Mike almost laughs. Almost.
“You say that like it’s supposed to make me feel better.”
Michael just gives a faint, crooked smile in return.
Mike does not return it. But he also does not walk away.
“Next time,” Mike says, “you warn me.”
Michael hesitates, then nods. “Next time.”
It sounds like a promise. Or at least the closest thing Michael is willing to give.
Mike glances down at his watch.
6:05 a.m.
“Shit,” he mutters. “It’s already past time to leave.”
Michael looks up from where he is gathering his boxes and tools, movements unhurried, like the night has not taken anything out of him at all. “Well,” he says calmly, “I’ll see you tonight, Mike.”
The use of his name still catches him off guard.
“Yeah,” Mike replies after a second. “See you tonight.”
He grabs his keys and heads for the front doors, the quiet of the building following him all the way out. The lock disengages easily this time. Morning air greets him as he steps into the parking lot, pale sunlight washing over the cracked pavement.
Mike makes his way to his car and gets inside, closing the door behind him. He does not start the engine right away. Instead, he leans forward, resting his head in his hands, fingers pressed against his temples.
In just one night, so much has changed.
He came in expecting another routine shift. Another quiet stretch of hours to get through alone. Now there was Michael, questions he could not stop turning over in his head, and the unmistakable certainty that whatever was happening inside Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza was far from over.
Mike exhales slowly and straightens, gripping the steering wheel as he finally starts the car.
Tonight, he will come back.
And this time, he will be paying much closer attention.