Just a few minutes left before the hour after midnight.

You didn't talk to Freddy, nor anyone else for the matter—you headed straight towards the Main Atrium, eyeing the location to see if anyone was around. But the emptiness was eerie despite the still-lively atmosphere of the Pizzaplex after hours. You darted to the right—yeah, Roxy's Raceway.

In fairness, the raceway was now free of any signs of construction after finally fixing that sinkhole. The area was well-kept, and—pitifully—only one staff bot was sweeping the floor of an entire raceway.

You headed over to the gear rack where doors lined up to one side, some locked—and some were not.

He instructed you to meet him here, but he didn't really specify which place... right?

Inevitably, standing out in the open was putting you on your wit's end. but you were in luck, just a few meters away was a party room solely in Roxy's Raceway. A big room with tables and chairs, supplies and party equipment still inside. There were two doors on both ends, and both were presumably unlocked. Reason to this was probably cause maintenance ALWAYS forgets their keys and the convenience of access thereof contributed to what efficiency existing in the location.

Of course, its always at the expense of security.

Cost trade-offs—one must give something up in favor of the other.

Then again, did Bonnie explicitly told you where exactly you'll find him? No? well then, hopefully he could spot you in here.

And so—the waiting game began.

Considering you were not the most patient of sorts, you needed to have something on your mind or a task to do to speed up time—hypothetically. You felt around for the journal, the matted surface slightly rough against your fingers.

Flipping to a certain page, you decided to read more of what this journal entails. Well, if its inside Vanny's uh... rooftop room? Then there must be something substantial.

*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Entry No. 87

After meeting with Edwin, I found out something not so shockingly true. The mimic1 program—well, the robotized edition recipient of the program was able to mimic actions and words, not to mention voices—of various organic and inorganic entities. However, it pains me to see such wasted potential as a children's toy. Nonetheless, I did a few more digging than I should have bargained for. Turns out, there was another. The mimic2. I suppose I should grant credit when it is due, the first program exists in a 4physical entity, yet the other? was part of the system. The mimicry of operations and programming finesse makes labor easier for the underpaid plebs in this establishment. Artificial Intelligence, they say? But it is without a doubt that advancement alone cannot flourish without someone to manipulate its progression behind closed doors. I ought to continue further research about this subject matter. Should Edwin finally grace me with the information regarding its programming markup and—million string worth programming lines, I'll be more than pleased to... tweak it as fitting. Edwin shouldn't shoulder the entire credit; there's always some people behind him working without recognition. Henry, were you a part of this? Surely, the physical manifestation of that thing was your doing, was it not? If so, how and why... am I left in the dark? What they didn't know... was that this prodigy of a program they formed—was mimicking me all along. It'll be here, everywhere, and the upcoming Pizzaplex will be its home once that pushover... Arnold was his name? Returns Fazbear Entertainment properly to the custody of the soon-to-be-erected Pizzaplex... with or without approval.

W. Afton

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

At the end of the page, you had to suck in a deep breath—you barely even realized you stopped breathing altogether. IF that... Arnold guy managed to retrieve the mimic and hand it over to Fazbear Entertainment, then where is it?

And most of all, why would you care?

While the mimic—both robotic and systematic—are in the establishment, what begs to question was why does Vanny have this journal in the first place?

William Afton, the owner of this journal... who is he?

The name echoes in your head—like a name you SHOULD know and yet... you don't?

Upon skimming through the short notes on the pages, you established that William was the head programmer in Fazbear Entertainment, with close ties with upper management and other personnel like the robotics engineer—Henry Emily, and the mascot owner, Edwin Murray. Sure, it is evident enough that they—were not the best trio of sorts. Oftentimes, this William person feels left behind and cast aside, but what makes you shudder was how intricate each word was laid on paper, the memories—the agony? You felt it just by reading.

This person... is not just any employee, is he?

You nearly jolted when the door swung open, and there stood the animatronic clad in blue and hot pink. He looked laid back—until his eyes casted down to the book you're holding.

Its like... a switch has activated.

"Y/N, why do you have that." It wasn't a question—not with the tone he's using. His eyes were lacking its usual laid-back gleam, now replaced with something... kind of sinister.

Of course, as a natural reaction—you hid the journal behind your back. "What thing?" right, as if that was the ONLY response you could thing of?

"Where. Did. You. Get. That." Something in his voice screamed danger, he shut the door behind him and—took a few steps closer, arms reached out as if—he was coming for you.

"H-hey—chill out!" you had to skip a few steps back just to apply more distance between him and you. But of course...

"Hand it over!" you sidestepped hastily just in time before you were mauled by a big animatronic, you could hear how he crashed some chairs—but you didn't try to look. Why was he so worked up on this journal? Does he... know anything about it?

Your eyes darted over to where the second door was and dashed out of the party room without a second thought. Okay, being chased by an animatronic was NOT on your itinerary for tonight.

Bursting out from the doors of the room, your eyes darted left, then right. The entire place was an open race track, unnerving and... so exposed. You didn't think twice as to run forward—wherever you go, anywhere was good just... run.

"Y/N!" you heard him shout, but you didn't dare to turn back. You found yourself running into the 'authorized personnel only' door and bursting through, the metal door clanging loudly against the adjacent wall, your shoes squeaking against the tiles as you ran up the elevated ramping of the area. You could feel your heels thumping against the floor just as quick as your heart was pounding against your chest. The book clutched tight in a hug as you ran.

You were almost out of breath—but you'll be damned if you stop now.

After twisting into a narrow hallway on the right, you found a supply closet—stanched with murky water and chlorine, you didn't care. You jumped in and shut the closet door—the only respite you have. The small area was making you feel claustrophobic and hot; you fanned yourself with a hand just to relieve what trouble in breathing you encountered. Until finally, you managed to calm yourself down into quiet, short breaths. You could hear heavy footsteps coming—and then fading. Yet, you didn't dare to leave the safety that this closet provided you EVEN if it made you feel kind of—no, scratch that, A LOT of claustrophobia.

These... spaces really... makes you feel so uncomfortable.

With the book cradled against your chest, you tapped on your security-issued Fazwatch to check the time—it was nearly 2 A.M. now, and yet...

You let off a shudder of a sigh, okay, maybe you should've talked to Freddy first BEFORE you snuck around.

But what you couldn't contemplate was Bonnie's behavior, why did he react like that to a book? Did he... know who that book belongs to? Maybe an old friend? Maybe his creator? You've no clue, all you know is that... well...

Technically, all of them were made by Fazbear Entertainment, right? And Bonnie wasn't just some new addition—he was part of the originals.

If anything, perhaps William was the one who programmed Bonnie and the rest? Maybe the familiarity sparked this kind of aggression?

Even so... why get so worked up on a journal?

At this point, you really SHOULD'VE just took Freddy with you.

You really jumped when your Fazwatch suddenly lit up with a static sound. "Y/N, are you there?"

"Jeez—Freddy?" sure sounds like him. You checked the Fazwatch for the caller I.D., and it sure says 'Freddy' in bold, orange letters. Well, that's a respite. "You scared me."

"Apologies, are you alright? I heard a commotion in Roxy's Raceway, but I couldn't locate you. Are you in a dead signal zone?" you had to look around—dark, sure, the closet isn't the BRIGHTEST places, now is it?

"Yeah, I'm fine. Uh... Where are you?" the sooner you regroup with Freddy—or ANYONE for that matter, the safer you'll be.

"I am currently searching for Monty—maintenance related. But if you'd like, I could use some company."

"Yeah, that would be great. Where are you now?" you made sure to keep your voice low, just in case Bonnie was still... around.

"There's maintenance work being done here, I could give you directions where to meet me. I checked your approximate location. Could you get to the south of Roxy's Raceway?"

Was he in the raceway too?

"Right, I'm on my way." It took you a moment before pushing the closet doors open. You had to quietly look left and right—no footsteps? No grumbling rabbits? Yeah, you're safe—for now.

When this is over, you're gonna have a well needed—and guarded—conversation with Bonnie at the presence of ALL animatronics you trust.

Taking deliberate footsteps down the hall, you couldn't help but glance at every which corner. You wondered if Bonnie had given up or perhaps was just somewhere there—waiting to jump right at you.

Regardless, you soon made it to the south of Roxy's Raceway, just in time for your Fazwatch to blink with a beep. "Are you there?"

"Yeah, where are you?" there still wasn't even a silhouette of the animatronic in the area, and it made you... be at wit's end.

"There's a brown door on the east hall, could you go through it?"

The maintenance place? Well, he did say his business with Monty had something to do with maintenance so... it made sense. "Yeah, I suppose."

The east hall swallowed your footsteps as soon as you entered it, leaving only the faint metallic clink of your shoes tapping against the cold, concrete-like flooring. It was the kind of silence that didn't simply linger—it pressed in, thick and heavy, as though the building itself were holding its breath and waiting for something to happen. The air felt colder here, still and stale, untouched by the usual warmth of the main lobbies or the whirring background noise of animatronic chatter. Even your own breathing sounded intrusive, as if the hall disapproved of your presence.

You hugged your arms around yourself slightly and continued forward, the hall stretching out longer than you remembered. The shadows seemed to curl around the corners, deeper than the reach of the emergency lights overhead. Every faint echo made your nerves jump, each one too sharp, too close, as if someone—or something—was walking just a few paces behind you but always staying out of sight.

You reached the end of the hall, where the lone brown door stood—plain, unimpressive, unmarked. It was the only thing here that wasn't covered in some poster, caution tape, or flickering signage. Just that door. It didn't feel right that something so ordinary could lead somewhere so wrong.

Your hand hesitated on the handle. A cold tremor traced your spine.

"It won't be long, as long as we regroup in a while, I'll ease your worries." Freddy's voice murmured through the Fazwatch speaker, soft despite the tinny distortion. "You're almost there."

His reassurance should have soothed you. Instead, it deepened the dread coiling in your gut. You took in a breath that shook more than you wanted it to and pushed the door open.

Darkness poured out like a breath held too long.

The air within smelled of metal, dust, and something old—something that had been sitting untouched for years. The only bit of structure visible was a staircase made entirely of metal, descending in a tight spiral into the choking black below. The steel rails glinted faintly in your watch's backlight, slick-looking from age or condensation.

You hovered at the top step, your fingertips trembling on the railing. Your pulse throbbed so loudly in your ears it seemed to drown out every other sound.

The voice in the watch came again, low and steady. "All the while, I do feel a bit concerned. Why would you be lingering in that supply closet moments ago?"

"It's just—" you caught yourself before you rambled on, and released a sigh.

But doubt lanced through your chest. Freddy's tone was reassuring—but was it truly gonna be alright? Or just the idea of him reassuring you, giving you the safe space you needed—something you desperately clung to?

You swallowed hard. Staying put wasn't an option. Not with Bonnie roaming these halls—not with whatever issues he has was prevailing. Why was he so agitated over some god damn old, bounded book? You decided against confrontation without bringing at least one other animatronic with you. Waiting meant losing. Waiting meant being hunted.

So you stepped down.

The first metal step groaned under your weight, a shiver running through the frame as though signaling your arrival to whatever lurked beneath. You flinched but continued, gripping the icy railing until your knuckles ached. Each step clanged weakly, echoing in the confined shaft. It felt like descending into the hollow throat of something massive and asleep.

The darkness thickened as you spiraled downward. The light from above shrank into a distant pinprick. Soon, even that was gone, swallowed behind you like a door closing. You depended on the faint glow of your Fazwatch to illuminate the stair beneath your feet, and even then, the shadows looked like they were waiting for you to slip.

Every few seconds, you froze, convinced you heard breathing that wasn't yours. Or the shift of metal somewhere above. Or a footstep that perfectly matched your own rhythm, as if mocking you.

Your heart hammered harder with every downward coil.

Were you paranoid? Hallucinating? At this point—you no longer knew.

But there was no turning back. You forced your legs to keep moving, even as dread pooled at the base of your spine.

After what felt like a descent lasting hours, your feet finally met solid ground. You stepped off the final rung and scanned the darkness. The beam from your watch revealed a wide, unkempt underground space—unfinished, abandoned by the look of it. Construction debris littered the floor: splintered planks, bent rebar, stray screws, and half-smashed crates. Sheets of plastic hung from the ceiling like torn spiderwebs. Dust coated everything in a soft, colorless film.

The lighting here was awful. One or two ceiling lamps flickered in a slow, dying rhythm, leaving the room in a constant shifting of light and shadow. With each flicker, the debris seemed to move—stretching, shrinking, creeping closer and then retreating as the light spasmed again.

You rubbed your fingertips against your palm to keep them from shaking.

To your right stood a lone elevator. Or something that had once been an elevator. Now it sagged slightly, its doors half-open and crooked, as if something had pried them apart with force. Wires hung from the panel like snapped tendons. A dull, burnt smell clung to the area around it.

This was wrong. This whole place was wrong.

"Freddy?" you whispered, voice barely audible even to yourself.

But your Fazwatch offered no immediate response. Only a static hiss crackled briefly—faint, sharp, unsettling.

Your throat tightened.

What if you were alone down here?

What if there's no signal, and you were alone now?

Your breathing quickened, becoming jagged, shallow. You forced yourself to stay still, to listen, to calm your racing pulse—but the quiet was worse. It made your thoughts too loud. Made the shadows stretch. Made the dread bloom fully in your chest until you felt sick with it.

Your instinct screamed at you to turn back, to run up the stairs no matter how long the climb felt. But something else—fear of what waited above—glued your boots to the dusty ground.

But the time you got to where the light meets the grainy pavement of old construction resources? There stood an animatronic you didn't want to expect—blue casing, hot pink over the top—Bonnie.

You wanted to turn around, but suddenly—as if they just popped out of thin air—staff bots APPEARED to block the exit, their physical attributes far from the mundane yet friendly emotionless casing you were used to seeing roaming the halls—no, these ones had dirt and grime smeared on their casings, eyes almost glowing so ominously—and teeth painted over their face when initially—there should be none. And it was not at all a friendly sight.

"W-where's Freddy?" you demanded—despite shakily.

"... Oh... him? But it's me, Superstar." You paused in shock, your knees wanting to give out from under you—he sounded just like—

"...You—"

That's when everything clicked all into place—the journal, his aggression, and Freddy's absence when he was JUST conversing with you—it was all...

"You're the mimic?" the project you never got to finish reading about in the book, the object of interest to this... William figure... was it... Bonnie all along?

Of course, its Bonnie, you dimwit! How else would you fall into this situation so carelessly?!

"Oh, you know what they say, Superstar. You shouldn't poke your nose into other animatronic's business. You could... be decapitated, or not. I mean, what's the worst can a robot do to a human?" he laughed—and not the happy go lucky one you heard from Bonnie—it was slow, twisted, and bone shattering—something you damn well will run off to.

And that's what you did.

You didn't remember running. You didn't remember deciding. One moment you were staring into Bonnie's face—no, the Mimic's face—your blood turning to ice as the borrowed voice of Freddy lilted mockingly from that hollow cavity. The next moment your legs were sprinting on sheer terror, your breath tearing from your lungs in ragged gasps. You didn't even see where you were going—only the blurred smear of shadows and concrete tilting around you as your body chose survival before your mind had time to understand.

The old elevator loomed at the end of the pitch-dark space, crooked and broken, but it was the only thing that wasn't a wall or a dead end. Without thinking, without planning, you slammed your palm against the single button that still glowed weakly. The world lurched. The elevator groaned like something ancient in pain. The doors screeched shut.

And then—

Nothing.

Darkness washed over your memory. A void. You remembered pressing the button... and then being swallowed whole.

When the doors parted again, a wave of nausea punched through your gut so hard you staggered. Deja vu twisted the world around you—heavy, suffocating, as if you'd lived this moment before in some nightmare you were never supposed to wake from. The air was colder here, damp enough to cling to your clothes. It smelled of soil, mold, and something metallic, long forgotten.

Beyond the elevator was a long, cave-like corridor.

The walls weren't natural rock—they were reinforced earth, carved out long ago and left to rot. Old Fazbear equipment lay strewn across the ground like bones: twisted animatronic limbs, rusted parts, broken signage, shattered casing. Some pieces were so old they were more rust than metal. Wires hung like veins along the walls, some still sparking in irregular bursts.

Each flicker lit the tunnel in sick flashes.

You flinched when a rat scurried just inches from your boot, vanishing into the debris. More followed—tiny shapes darting between scraps, their claws scraping the damp ground. The sound made your skin crawl.

Your footsteps echoed strangely, almost distorted, as though the tunnel bent sound into unnatural shapes. Water dripped rhythmically from the ceiling, cold drops speckling your shoulders as you walked. The entire place shuddered every few minutes—a deep, distant rumble like the earth itself groaning under the weight of what had been built above it.

You swallowed and pushed forward, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Then the tunnel widened... and you froze.

There it was.

The original Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. Buried beneath the Pizzaplex all this time.

You had seen pictures before—faded advertisements, a few public archives—but you had been here too, when you were small enough to see the world as a brighter place. And standing before the old pizzeria now, after so many years, made your heart lurch painfully.

It was exactly as you remembered.

And nothing like it at all.

The exterior walls were cracked, stained, and dripping with moisture. The sign above—the old 1900s-styled cartoon Freddy—was dimmed and peeling, one eye flickering faintly in a dying loop. But despite the decay, the structure was holding. Not crumbling. Not collapsed. Just... sleeping. Uncared for, but still standing.

You hesitated at the entrance where the doors hung crookedly. Inside, faint orange lights flickered from malfunctioning fixtures. Malfunctioning staff bots twitched and spasmed in jerky motions, sparks breaking from their joints as though their bodies no longer remembered how to move properly. You ducked behind an overturned counter, waited for one to jitter past, then slipped deeper inside.

The moment your foot crossed the threshold, nostalgia washed over you so suddenly it hurt.

The checkered floors. The faded posters. The arcade cabinets with burned-out screens. Tables pushed askew with chairs toppled. The faint pastel colors of the murals, chipped but unmistakable. You could almost hear children's laughter echoing through the empty space—not literally, but in memory, so vivid it almost felt real. Your younger self running between tables. Eating greasy pizza. Watching the animatronics perform without fear, without suspicion.

Before the Pizzaplex.

Before everything changed.

Your fingers brushed one of the tables as you passed. Dust puffed up, swirling in the dim light. A lump formed in your throat.

You pushed forward, weaving through toppled props and scattered debris until you reached the middle of the restaurant. That was where you saw it—the gaping sinkhole swallowing the center of the dining area.

A jagged pit tore through the floor, dropping into darkness so deep it felt endless. Old construction scaffoldings clung to the edges, tilted at dangerous angles. Boards, ladders, and bundles of forgotten materials hung suspended in half-finished chaos, as if the workers had abandoned the site mid-shift years ago and never returned.

You took a breath and started down.

It was slower than you wanted. Each step on the wooden planks felt like walking on brittle bones. Some boards bent beneath your weight. Others creaked. You tested each one with your heel before trusting it. The shadows below seemed to swallow the light completely, leaving your path faint and treacherous.

"Argh!" you bit your lip to stop a cry, as halfway down, your foot punched through a rotten plank.

Air jolted from your lungs in a sharp gasp as your leg dropped, splinters clawing at your shin. You flung yourself sideways, grabbing another plank just in time. The wood groaned under your grip.

You hung there, heart throttling your ribcage, breath coming in stuttered gasps.

Slowly... carefully... you pulled yourself out and continued the descent, shaken but alive.

At the bottom, you found another level. A lower security area sealed off and forgotten. Two doors marked with faded hazard labels stood at either side. A vent shaft loomed above, its grate rusted and bent. Beneath it, a desk sat coated in thick dust, old monitors stacked crookedly on top. Their screens flickered faintly with static.

But your eyes drifted to the far side of the room—and a cold dread slid down your spine.

A stained mattress lay on the floor beside a half-melted candle. On the wall above it, in bold dripping strokes, the word VANNY was painted in purple. Fresh enough to be legible. Old enough to crumble at the edges.

This was where she hid.

Where she planned.

Where she watched.

A chill crawled up your arms.

But before fear could fully root itself, something else dragged your gaze across the room—to something far worse.

A structure sat there, cube-shaped and black, with dark blue accents glowing faintly like veins. It wasn't just machinery. It was active. Humming. A living engine wrapped in cold steel.

The front panel shifted, scanning, processing.

Three letters glowed across its surface—

M.X.E.S.

A machine alive in the dark.

Watching you.

Breathing in digital pulses.

Waiting.

It was... activated... how? Why? For what purpose? You couldn't fathom. You knew you couldn't find answer to that, so—you turned around and just went to look for... other paths to take. The eerie look of that machine made you dare not touch it at all no matter the cost.

You approached the broken section of wall cautiously. The plaster had crumbled away, revealing jagged metal studs and a hole just barely large enough for you to crawl through. A faint draft of cold, stale air drifted from the gap. You knelt, testing it with your flashlight, but the beam flickered—the battery icon on the watch face pulsed red, mocking you. So much for Fazbear tech.

Still, you had no other path.

You sucked in a breath and squeezed through the opening, the rough edges scraping your jacket. Once inside, the darkness swallowed you whole. Your lungs tightened as if the air were heavier here, weighted with age and silence.

You clicked the flashlight on. The dim beam wobbled, dancing shakily over the floor.

It was worse than you'd imagined.

The walls were warped and blistered with moisture. The ceiling sagged in places, water dripping in slow rhythmic taps. The floor was littered with debris—scrap fabric, rusted tools, broken props. A rancid smell hung thick in the air, a stomach-turning mixture of rot and mold.

You gagged, covering your mouth with your sleeve.

"Okay... okay... just breathe," you whispered to yourself, though your voice sounded small in this oppressive void.

You moved forward, scanning the room. At first you thought the lumps scattered around were bags of trash—but then you pointed the flashlight toward one slumped object in the corner.

"HOLY FUCKING—"

Your heart froze.

It was a mascot costume.

Or what was left of one.

A duck—maybe? Or a chicken? The beak was bent inward as if crushed, its once-colorful feathers now dulled gray with grime. The suit sagged like a corpse, its fabric material spilling out from torn seams. The fabric was stained and mottled, but whatever caused it, you didn't want to know. The empty eye holes seemed to stare at you, accusingly.

You stepped back instinctively—straight into something wet and slimy.

Your blood ran cold. You jerked around, flashlight trembling in your hand. The beam landed on another mascot suit—this one resembling a lion. Or at least, it must have once. Its fur was patchy, its jaw bent unnaturally wide. One of its button eyes hung by a thread, swaying slightly as though it had just moved.

A strangled cry caught in your throat.

"Nope—NOPE—nope, nope—!"

You bolted. Panic overtook thought. Your footsteps thundered across the warped flooring, echoing through the cramped hall. You didn't look back. You didn't dare.

You burst through a door so hard that it flew off its rusted hinges and clattered against the ground.

Was this the mascots from Edwin Murray? No wonder they went out of business! These things freaking sucks to look at!

Your breath tore in and out.

Silence followed.

Then—

A small, terrified whimper.

You froze, flashlight lowering to your side as you strained to listen.

Another sob. Higher pitched. Childlike.

Your heart lurched painfully. You raised the flashlight, the beam flickering once before steadying.

And there—huddled behind a stack of old crates—was a little girl. Her hair was in pigtails, though now messy and tangled. Dirt streaked her cheeks where tears had carved clean lines.

Recognition stabbed through you.

You knew her—her missing poster had been plastered all over the Pizzaplex for weeks.

You fell to your knees, arms immediately reaching out. "Hey—hey, sweetheart. It's okay. I'm here. You're safe now."

The girl sobbed harder and threw herself into your arms, clutching your jacket with desperate strength. You hugged her tightly, your eyes stinging as you rocked her gently.

"How... how did you get here?" you whispered shakily.

But she only cried into your shoulder, hiccuping painfully. She couldn't speak. She was too overwhelmed—too relieved to see someone who wasn't the one who trapped her.

As you held her, another sound rose—a chorus of muffled sniffles.

You lifted your flashlight again. The beam swept across the room.

More children.

Half a dozen—maybe more—hidden behind crates, under tables, inside old storage bins pushed together. Their faces were pale, clothes wrinkled and dusty. Their cheeks were tear-stained. But none were wounded. None were starved. Just frightened. Traumatized. Alone.

Your eyes widened, throat tightening as you whispered, "Oh my god... all of you... you're the missing kids. You survived."

They shrank back from the light, overwhelmed, but remained watching you with wide, hopeful eyes.

"How long have you all been here?" you asked gently. But they only cried, wiping their faces, trying to speak but unable to string words together.

That's when you noticed the pile of empty food packets stacked in the corner. Bread wrappers, canned goods, bottles of water.

Someone... had kept them alive, fed them at the very least.

But who?

You steadied the little girl and pulled the security badge from your pocket. You offered it to her, holding her small trembling hands.

"Listen to me," you whispered. "I'm coming back. I promise. But I have to go a little further first and see if other kids are here. I'll bring help next time, okay? You're not alone anymore. I'll be sure you'll see your parents again."

Her tearful nod nearly broke you.

You placed the badge in her hands. She held it like a lifeline.

You stood slowly, lifting your dying flashlight.

"I'll be back," you repeated. And you forced yourself to step into the next hallway.

The corridor branched in several directions—left, right, forward, each swallowed in darkness. You hesitated.

Then you chose left.

You opened the door—

Something slammed into your back.

You cried out, stumbling forward. Pain exploded across your shoulders. When you whirled around, teeth grit, ready to fight—

"WHO THE FUCK—"

Vanessa stood there, breathless, wielding a broken wooden plank like a bat. Her hair was a mess, her eyes wide with desperation and fear. The moment she recognized you, she dropped the plank.

"W..wait... (Y/N)?" she gasped, taking a step back as if it was the first time she saw a face oh so familiar in this asylum of dread.

You panted, clutching your shoulder. Damn, this woman could hit alright—you'd be lucky to NOT have anything broken at this point. "Vanessa?! You could have at least CHECKED before you SWUNG that wretched THING!" not a reaction she'd expect but—it damn hurts!

"I thought you were one of them!" she sputtered. "Who knew you'd end up in a place like this too! You don't even know just What I had to deal with down here!"

You took a breath, steadying yourself. "Okay... chill, alright? But... How did YOU get here?"

She blinked rapidly. "I—I could ask you the same!"

You exhaled, leaning against the wall. "Okay... okay. Look. It's a long story. But I'll tell you." You mumbled, all the while rubbing the ache out from your probably bruised shoulder. "Bonnie's not Bonnie anymore," you said, voice tight. "He's the Mimic. He tricked me—tricked all of us. He mimicked Freddy's voice. I ran into the old elevator, did more running—nearly falling into a pit, mind you—and here I am, just following the hole in the wall... err... walls. I found the kids—the missing ones. They're safe but terrified."

Vanessa staggered back against the wall, rubbing her head. "I know that, I found them way longer than you."

"Don't tell me you're still on about that 'whoever finds the kids first wins' thing." You sighed and crossed your arms. "Well, what about you? What's your story?"

She let out a shaky breath. "I've been hearing things," Vanessa said quietly. "Voices. Not the Mimic's. Not animatronics. Voices from the past. Things we forgot. Things... he wanted us to remember."

You stared. "Vanessa... what did you do?"

She swallowed. "I found a mask. I thought maybe it would help me remember... help me find the kids. But instead, I heard—something else. I heard the whispers."

"The whispers?"

She nodded, arms hugging herself. "Yeah... I thought I was going crazy but... this is a whole new level of crazy..." she looked up. "It was Bonnie," she whispered. "He orchestrated everything. He lured the kids. He chased me when I figured it out. He's been using the old Mimic program but—twisted."

Your heart sank. "Twisted how?"

Vanessa looked up, eyes haunted.

"Because of Afton."

Your breath caught. "What does he have to do with this?"

"Everything," she said softly. "He used to be one of Fazbear's lead programmers—one of the engineers behind the earliest learning AI prototypes and in charge of engineering the programming of the entire Fazbear namesake. Years ago, he interacted with the Mimic 1 program. Uploaded parts of his own code. His thoughts. His personality quirks. His... darkness. When he died, those remnants stayed behind."

She glanced nervously down the hall.

"Now that the Mimic is active again, it's drawing on that corrupted data. Like a virus. It's acting with Afton's influence—even if he's long gone."

You stared in horror. "So he left behind... a digital conscience?"

"Yes," Vanessa whispered. "Not alive. Not a ghost. Just corrupted code with his signature—his intentions. And the Mimic absorbed it."

You ran a hand through your hair, pacing. "We have to warn Freddy. We have to warn everyone."

Vanessa shook her head. "I tried. I can't get out. The main entry collapsed behind me. And Bonnie... he's patrolling."

You stepped closer. "But how did he catch you? What happened?"

Vanessa closed her eyes. "I confronted him," she murmured. "I cornered Bonnie. I told him I knew what he really was. I pulled out my taser." Her voice trembled—it was the first time you heard her... like this. "He turned his head toward me—slowly. Too slowly. As if... amused."
You listened, breath held.

"I told him, 'Drop the act. I know you're the Mimic.'" Her hands clenched. "He didn't speak. He didn't deny it. He just lunged."

She swallowed hard. "I shocked him in the chest—but he grabbed my wrist, twisted it, and yanked the taser right out of my hand. Then he used it on me—like, it was humiliating! I was better than that—! But... I guess I wasn't in my best of shape."

Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I woke up down here. With the kids."

You felt your chest tighten, it was a bitter taste down the throat, but nonetheless... "Vanessa... you kept them alive?"

"I tried," she said quietly. "With whatever food I found. I didn't want them to panic. I didn't want them to think they were forgotten. While I tried to find my way out—even if I could, I couldn't leave them. Who knows what that god awful mimicky Bonnie would do to them."

You nodded slowly, resolve hardening. "Then we're getting them out," you said. "All of them. And we're going to warn Freddy—warn everyone."

Vanessa looked at you—really looked—and hope flickered in her tired eyes—barely. She was still unimpressed by your oh-too-optimistic viewpoint to actually make it seem like hope DID find its way into her..

"How? We don't even know what that thing's capable of.." she whispered.

You tightened your grip on the fading flashlight. "We find another exit," you said. "And we stay alive long enough to use it."

And somewhere above you... in the dark... something metallic moved.

But you'll get out of here... somewhat, with Vanessa and all the kids in tow. And when you face that mimicry of a creature again? Well, he's getting a piece of your mind.