But the phantoms wouldn't let you breathe. Phantom Freddy limped past the window, his hollow eyes burning. You looked away, heart hammering against your ribs, only to see the burnt, eyeless face of Phantom Chica staring back from the arcade machine's reflection.
You frantically pulled up the audio maintenance panel. BB's laugh. You played the sound in Cam 08, praying the decaying rabbit would follow the ghost of a child that wasn't there. For a second, the footsteps stopped. Then, they turned away. But the phantoms wouldn't let you breathe
When the screen cleared, he was standing right at the glass. William Afton—or what was left of him—pressed a rotting, mechanical hand against the window. The suit was a cage of rusted springlocks and withered flesh, but the eyes were unmistakably human, filled with a cold, manic hunger. You frantically pulled up the audio maintenance panel
"I know you're in there," the rasping voice seemed to echo not from the speakers, but from the vents themselves. For a second, the footsteps stopped
Springtrap wasn't just a machine anymore; he was a predator that had learned every trick in the book. You could hear the wet, metallic clunk of his footsteps in the hallway, rhythmic and relentless. Every time the camera feed flickered into static, he was closer.
You survived the week. But as you gathered your things, you noticed a spark near a frayed wire by the ventilation fan. The fire was coming, and this time, Fazbear's Fright wouldn't be the only thing that burned.
The vent alarm blared—a high-pitched scream of failing machinery. You turned to seal Vent 04, but the monitor glitched. Static.
