Barry.
----------------------------------------
Barry leaned back in his chair, swirling the ice in his whiskey glass like a man contemplating the free market—except in this case, the market had been rigged, sabotaged, and set on fire.
“So, let me get this straight,” John said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You two are telling me—no, convincing yourselves—that both Fazbear Entertainment and CTC Entertainment are being sabotaged?”
“Sabotaged, infiltrated, screwed six ways to Sunday,” Barry corrected, waving his drink. “Pick your favorite Cold War analogy, Johnny. It’s the Bay of Pigs, except this time, we don’t get to blame the CIA.”
John exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. “The investors are going to love this. And by love, I mean they’ll be sharpening their knives. Not to mention the Board. And William—”
“Oh, William,” Dan interrupted, grinning like a shark who just smelled blood in the water. “We need to get rid of that bastard sooner rather than later.”
Barry held up a hand. “That’s a conversation for another day. First, let’s focus on the who—as in, who screwed up bad enough to leave us with this mess?”
Dan tossed a thick manila envelope onto the table. “Our PI got the security footage. Shows exactly how deep this rabbit hole goes.” He leaned forward, voice dark. “Doesn’t matter who did it, because whoever they are, we’re going to flay them alive.”
“Metaphorically,” John muttered.
“Sure,” Dan smirked, “metaphorically.”
Barry chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. The taste was smooth, expensive—just like the bullshit they were swimming in.
“Alright, cash flow,” Dan said, switching gears. “John, where are we?”
John sighed, rubbing his temples. “Compared to Candy’s? They’re ahead. Slight lead. Open locations, fewer scandals. Less Fazbear-esque catastrophes.”
Dan drummed his fingers on the table. “I was hoping to leverage this to buy them out. Doesn’t seem likely now.”
Barry scoffed. “It was a stupid idea in the first place.”
“Bold words for a guy without a plan,” Dan shot back.
Before Barry could retort, the door opened, and in walked David, CEO of CTC Entertainment—the man who could either be their greatest ally or their biggest headache.
After the customary fake smiles and firm handshakes, everyone took their seats. Barry slid the security footage across the table.
“This,” he said, voice measured, “is what we’re dealing with.”
David raised an eyebrow. He clicked the tape into the player, and the grainy footage flickered to life. Shadows moved where they shouldn’t. Animatronics shifted when no one was there. Then they played him the footage from Candys.
Dan leaned forward. “Now, tell me—who benefits from making Fazbear and Candy´s look like an absolute train wreck?”
David exhaled, his lips pressing into a tight line. “So what’s your play? A Buyout?”
John cleared his throat. “A merger.”
Silence.
David laughed.
Then he realized John wasn’t joking.
Joe leaned in, ever the salesman. “Think about it. Fazbear and Candy’s—bigger than ever before. Maybe even international. Your security is better—concerned parents will trust the new locations. Our tech is superior—no more of that Rowboatics junk.”
Barry smirked. “We get rid of William, his loyalists, and whatever the hell is going on with the animatronics in one move.”
David drummed his fingers on the table. For the first time since he walked in, he actually looked interested.
“Alright,” he said slowly. “Say we do this. Who’s in charge?”
Donald, who had been silent up to this point, leaned forward. “Both of us. Dual CEOs.”
David considered. “Your Investors won’t like it.”
Barry shrugged. “Then we make them like it. Your guys buy up Fazbear stock—cheap as hell after the Bite and our other latest unfortunate failures. When the time comes, we coup William and override what little influence he has left.”
David exhaled, then nodded. “Alright. Let’s talk numbers.”
Dan grinned, reaching for the phone. “Sandra? Bring the vodka. We’re gonna be here a while.”
----------------------------------------
Michael.
----------------------------------------
Michael stared out the window, watching the empty streets blur past in the dim glow of the streetlights. The air inside Mary’s Dad´s car was too warm, thick with the remnants of their last conversation.
Needless to say ever since things have kind of been awkward.
He should say something. Anything.
“So…” He cleared his throat, keeping his voice casual. “You gonna be okay driving back alone?”
Mary snorted, hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly. “I can handle myself, Mikey.”
There it was again—that edge to her voice. Not sharp enough to cut, but enough to make him hesitate. He hadn’t expected their conversation earlier to leave this much of a mark.
Then again they did confess their dark pasts.
“Right,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. The awkwardness was suffocating. “Well, thanks for the ride.”
She pulled up in front of the deserted pizzeria, the neon sign long dead, leaving the building hunched in darkness. The place looked worse at night, its silhouette jagged and broken against the sky.
Michael hesitated, hand on the door handle. “You don’t have to—”
“Stay?” she interrupted, forcing a smirk. “Relax, Mike. I wasn’t planning on working as a nightguard at a rival restaurant. Just… don’t get yourself hurt or worse in there.”
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
Her words were light, teasing—but the way she said them, the way she looked at him for that brief second, made his stomach tighten.
“Yeah, yeah.” He opened the door and stepped out, the cold air rushing in like a breath of relief. “See you tomorrow.”
He shut the door before she could respond, not trusting himself to look back.
As Mary drove away, disappearing into the night, Michael stood there for a moment, staring up at the rotting carcass of the restaurant.
Something about tonight felt… different.
He shook it off and stepped inside.
----------------------------------------
The moment Michael crossed the threshold, the temperature seemed to drop. Not literally—at least, he hoped not—but the air inside felt stale, unnatural, like the walls were holding their breath.
The distant hum of old, flickering lights barely pushed back the darkness. Shadows clung to the corners, stretching unnaturally across the tiled floor.
His boots echoed as he walked through the main room, past the decayed remnants of what used to be a child’s dreamland.
Then he saw her.
Toy Chica. Or what was left of her.
Her body was scattered, limbs haphazardly thrown into a pile like someone had ripped her apart in a fit of rage. Her beak was missing, eyes blank and lifeless.
Michael swallowed. First Mangle, then Balloon Boy. Now her.
Less trouble tonight, at least.
He stepped around the wreckage, careful not to disturb the pieces. Something about them felt… wrong, like they weren’t just discarded, but silenced.
The office wasn’t far now. He quickened his pace.
He flicked on the lights, the dim yellow light spilling over old paperwork, a half-full coffee cup, and a folded piece of paper with his name scrawled on it.
Karl’s handwriting.
Michael unfolded it, eyes skimming the messy, hurried script.
> Mike,
> Toy Chica’s gone now. That should make your shift easier.
> We’re moving Foxy to the new location tomorrow—so tonight’s your last time dealing with him.
> - Karl
Michael exhaled, pressing the note flat against the desk.
So that was it, then. No more Foxy after tonight.
A part of him should’ve been relieved. But instead, there was this weird, gnawing unease curling in his stomach.
Like he was being watched.
The moment the clock hit 12:00 AM, the ancient monitors crackled to life, casting a faint, flickering glow across the room.
Michael leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs. Five more nights, he reminded himself. Then I’m done.
The cameras buzzed, the grainy footage revealing empty hallways, darkened party rooms, and—
He froze.
One of the cameras was static. The feed was dead.
Right where Toy Chica’s remains had been.
His heart thudded once, hard.
That’s fine, he told himself. Could be nothing. Could be the system acting up.
Could be—
A metallic clatter echoed from the main room.
Michael sat up fast, his pulse spiking. He stared at the camera feed, at the static-riddled screen where something had moved.
Slowly, he reached for the flashlight.
Outside the office, the pizzeria was silent.
Too silent.
Michael tightened his grip on the flashlight, swallowing against the dryness in his throat.
Tonight was going to be a long night.
----------------------------------------
12:30 AM
Michael had been watching the monitors long enough to know the pattern.
Every night, the Withered Animatronics woke up at midnight sharp, their broken, rusted bodies lurching from the shadows, their first move always the same—find the office, hunt him down.
Not tonight.
Michael stared at the grainy camera feed, disbelieving.
They weren’t coming for him.
Withered Bonnie’s half-missing face turned, not toward the security room, but toward the stage where Toy Chica’s dismantled remains lay in a twisted heap.
Then Freddy. Then Foxy. Then the others.
One by one, their heads snapped toward the pile of discarded parts.
Then they moved.
Not rushing. Not attacking. Purposeful. Deliberate.
Michael swallowed, his fingers tightening around the edge of the desk.
What the hell were they doing?
1:00 AM
He should have been watching the doors. The vents. The Music Box.
Instead, he kept flicking back to Camera 9.
The Toy Animatronics were missing.
The Withered Animatronics were gathered, forming a loose, almost reverent circle around the wreckage of Toy Chica, Mangle, and Balloon Boy.
Michael’s breath hitched.
They were touching them.
Not tearing them apart. Not stomping on them. Handling them. Moving pieces.
Bonnie’s clawed hand turned over a severed arm as if inspecting it.
Chica’s gnarled fingers pressed against Mangle’s broken chassis, as if feeling for something beneath the surface.
Foxy’s rusted hook nudged Balloon Boy’s shattered faceplate, careful, precise.
Freddy knelt, placing his heavy hands on what was left of Toy Chica’s head. Something passed between them.
Michael’s stomach twisted.
This wasn’t malfunctioning programming. This wasn’t some corrupted AI loop.
This was intentional.
A shrill, whining alarm pierced his ears.
The Music Box.
Michael lunged for the monitor, fingers scrambling over the controls. The wind-up meter was nearly empty.
Shit—shit—shit—
He spun the dial frantically, cold sweat clinging to the back of his neck as the eerie, mechanical melody croaked back to life.
A mistake. A few more seconds, and he might have—
No. He wouldn’t think about that.
When he flicked back to Camera 9, the Withered Animatronics were staring directly into the lens.
Watching him.
Michael’s blood ran cold.
2:15 AM
Michael leaned back in his chair, exhaling shakily.
He needed a distraction. Something to cut through the nauseating wrongness of what was happening.
Instead, Balloon Boy’s recorded laughter wheezed through the right vent.
Michael flinched, snapping to the vent camera—empty.
He checked again. And again.
Still empty.
Balloon Boy was destroyed. He’d seen the pieces of him lying in that pile.
So why the hell was he still laughing?
Michael grabbed the nearest object—a half-empty can of soda—and hurled it at the vent.
The laughter cut off.
He didn’t check the camera again.
3:30 AM
The screen flickered. Camera 9 went dark.
Michael’s breath caught.
The static hissed and popped, and for a moment, he thought the feed had died completely.
Then something moved in the darkness.
A glitching shape, barely visible—jerking, spasming, flickering in and out of view.
Michael leaned forward.
Then, a pair of glassy eyes snapped open directly in front of the camera.
He recoiled so fast he nearly fell out of his chair.
When he looked again, the screen was normal.
The animatronics were gone.
4:45 AM
Michael was getting tired. He rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to sit up.
The night felt stretched, like time itself was warping around the pizzeria’s oppressive air.
Then, something moved outside the office.
He barely had time to react before Withered Bonnie lurched through the left vent, towering over him, skeletal face inches from his own.
Michael barely managed to slam his mask down before Bonnie could grab him.
The animatronic froze, then slowly tilted its head, inches from Michael’s face.
Then, in a voice that was not its own, it rasped:
“Knock, knock.”
Michael’s heart stopped.
He didn’t answer.
Bonnie stared at him for what felt like an eternity.
Then, in that same broken, distorted voice, it said:
“Wrong answer.”
The lights flickered—
And Bonnie was gone.
Michael stayed in the mask for another full minute, hands trembling.
5:50 AM
The last ten minutes crawled by, agonizing and thick with silence.
Michael kept flicking through the cameras, expecting something to happen.
But there was nothing.
Camera 9 remained black, the feed never returning.
The animatronics had vanished, leaving the pizzeria empty.
For the first time all night, Michael didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not.
Then—
A single, distorted chime rang through the pizzeria.
6 AM.
The shift was over.
Michael pulled off his mask, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
He stood, stretching out sore, tensed muscles, preparing for the walk to the exit—
And then, on Camera 12, just before he shut off the monitor—
A figure sat at the edge of the screen.
Watching him.
Michael didn’t check again.
He grabbed his bag, pushed open the emergency exit, and walked straight into the morning light.
----------------------------------------
???
----------------------------------------
The restaurant was quiet now.
Michael was gone, stepping into the morning light like he hadn’t spent the last six hours watched, followed, tested.
The girl spoke first, voice sharp and impatient. "Why didn't we go after him?"
The boy didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the empty doorway, on the faint traces of warmth where Michael had stood moments ago.
"Because helping others was more important," he finally said.
The girl scoffed. "Since when do you care about that?"
The boy didn’t argue. Instead, he tilted his head, as if listening to something far away.
"You want him dead more than anyone else," The girl pushed. "And yet, you let him go. Again."
The boys lips curled into something not quite a smile. "Of course I do. But I want to prolong his suffering."
He turned slightly, as if considering something. "Besides… I’m curious."
The girl frowned. "Curious?"
The boy nodded. "Someone drove him here tonight. That wasn’t normal."
Silence stretched between them.
The Girl huffed, crossing her arms. "You always make things more complicated."
Fredbear laughed.