Markiplier’s POV
Mark strode in like a man who had seen things.
The prize corner lights buzzed overhead, casting a slightly flickery glow on the counter—like even the bulbs were tired of this place's nonsense. And there they were.
Freddy plush, sitting smugly next to Chica plush like they’d been besties for years. Like they hadn’t watched him suffer through Toy Bonnie’s unblinking, judgmental stares. Like they hadn’t witnessed him spiral into pizza-scented paranoia.
Mark stopped dead in his tracks. Pointed dramatically. “You little TRAITOR.”
He picked up the Freddy plush with the betrayal in his eyes that only a man scorned could manage. “You think just because you got a new bestie, you can leave me behind? After all we've been through?”
The Chica plush, soft and round and painfully innocent, seemed to stare back at him with the energy of “I don’t even know you, sir.”
Mark scoffed. “Fine. Be that way. But if I get murdered tonight, and you and your new chicken girlfriend don’t come to my funeral? We’re done.”
He dramatically turned his back, marching toward the security office. Only to walk back and grab the two plushies.
Mark plunked the plushies down on the desk in the security office with a sigh that could've come straight out of a dramatic soap opera.
“There,” he muttered, nudging the Freddy plush with the back of his hand. “Front row seats to my imminent death. Hope you’re happy.”
The Chica plush tipped over from the force and landed face-first onto the desk, limbs flopping like she just couldn’t handle the guilt. Mark narrowed his eyes.
“Ohhh no. Don’t play innocent now. You chose this.”235Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2aBsokdl3Z
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He sat in the chair with an exaggerated flop, already turning to the monitor. “You could’ve supported me. You could’ve kept me grounded. But instead, you decided to be besties with—what? A bird?”
He flicked through the cameras, his voice rising a pitch in mock betrayal. “You know what she does? She throws cupcakes! I saw it! That’s a hate crime in some cultures!”
The cameras clicked softly as he scanned each room. Toy Bonnie was gone—again.
“Of course you’re gone. Of course you are. You’re legally required to make me miserable before 1 AM. You probably signed paperwork.”
He paused to wind the music box, staring into the camera feed like it might blink back.
He turned back to the plushies.
“You ever feel like you’re in a toxic workplace, Chica? Like, for example, your coworkers are eight-foot robots with dead eyes and questionable motives, and your only source of joy is winding up a cursed jack-in-the-box every twenty seconds?”
Freddy plush said nothing. Because of course he didn’t. Plushies don’t talk.235Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKiMehdW0Iq
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But the silence felt... judgmental.
The office phone rang.
Mark levitated an inch off his chair like a caffeinated ghost, heart skipping like a scratched record. He slammed his hand over his chest dramatically.
“I am a grown man,” he whispered to no one. “I fear nothing.”
The Freddy and Chica plushies stared at him from the desk. Judgy. Unforgiving. Especially Freddy, who looked like he knew.
Mark threw them both a look. “Don’t even. Y’all weren’t gonna answer it.”
He reached over and snatched the phone off the receiver.
“Hey, I told you you wouldn't have any problems!” came the voice of Lixian, crackling slightly through the speaker. “Hey, did you know that they tried to remake Foxy?”
“No? Why?”
“They thought the first one was too scary, so they redesigned him to be more 'kid-friendly'. But kids these days just can't keep their hands off stuff.”
Mark's eyes flicked to the camera monitors. All empty. For now.
“Yeah. The staff literally had to put Foxy back together at the end of every shift. So eventually they stopped trying and left him as some kind of 'take apart, put back together' attraction. I think the employees refer to him as just "The Mangle".”
“So that's what that thing was,” Mark muttered.
“Yeah—”
“THAT THING TRIED TO CRAWL INTO MY OFFICE LIKE A SPIDER!”
“Put on the Freddy mask. You'll be fine.” said Lixian, “Oh, hey, before I go, there have been a lot of rumors going on about Fazbear Entertainment. But I can personally assure you that they are entirely false and have nothing to do with the restauraunt.”
“Wait, what kind of rumors?” Mark asked.
“How would I know? I'm just a phone guy! *sigh* Well anyway, hang in there and I'll talk with you tomorrow."
“Yup.”
click
Mark slammed the phone down and spun in his chair.
He turned to the monitor and flipped through the cameras. The music box meter ticked down, and the faintly echoing lullaby filled the office. His chair squeaked when he shifted, but it wasn’t his chair that worried him. No. It was the other noises.
Every clank in the air vent.235Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrrXE4pgqR5
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Every shhhk of metal scraping against tile.235Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWWOUkxUMZU
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Every creak in the ceiling, like the building itself was breathing.
Mark’s flashlight sat clenched in his hand, thumb twitching on the switch like a trigger finger. His other hand hovered near the Freddy mask on the desk, as if he could throw it on at a second’s notice. The plushies watched him from the corner like tiny jurors deciding whether he lived or died.
He dared a glance at the left vent. Empty. Right vent. Empty.
Thunk.
Mark nearly jumped out of his skin, snapping the flashlight toward the hall. Nothing. Just the long stretch of tiled floor, shadows dancing with each flicker of the overhead lights. His heart was hammering like a drumline in his throat.
“Oh, cool. Awesome. Love random noises. Big fan,” he muttered, voice cracking slightly.
The monitor beeped faintly, reminding him that the music box timer was dropping. He whipped the screen open and wound it up, fast, eyes darting between the camera feed and the black corners of the office. He wasn’t about to let that thing loose. Not again.
Something clattered to the floor in Party Room 2. A chair? A plate? Didn’t matter. The sound was too sharp, too close.
Mark’s eyes shot wide.
He stood, flashlight trembling in his grip as he backed toward the desk. His gaze flicked to the plushies. “You guys hearing this too? Or am I actually hallucinating like Lixian said?”
Freddy plush stared.235Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxvDdkxtggh
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Chica plush flopped sideways again.
“…Real helpful. Thanks.”
Whirrrrrr.
Mark froze. That wasn’t the vents. That was servo motors. Mechanical. And close.
Very close.
He aimed his flashlight toward the doorway, hand already on the Freddy mask. “If this is you, Bonnie, I will—”
Something passed by the doorway. A shadow, huge and lumbering, blotting out the light for half a second.
Mark’s knees buckled. He yanked the mask over his face, heart punching his ribs like it wanted out. His breathing echoed inside the cheap plastic, every inhale loud, every exhale desperate.
The footsteps slowed. Stopped. Right outside the office.
Mark held still, too scared to blink.
One second.235Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyJAeHVINNv
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Two seconds.235Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsxgAZWKnR8
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Three.
A head poked into view. Toy Freddy. His glossy black eyes caught the flashlight beam and reflected it like two endless pits. He leaned in slightly, sniffing the air almost.
Mark whispered behind the mask, “I am Freddy. I am one of you. Please do not murder me.”
Toy Freddy tilted his head, mechanical jaw twitching. Then—
He stepped back. His heavy footsteps echoed down the hall until the sound faded into silence.
Mark yanked the mask off, gasping for air, sweat dripping down his temple.
“…Cool. Great. Fun shift.”
CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK—
Mark’s head snapped toward the hallway. His hand fumbled for the flashlight, nearly dropping it, before he blasted the beam straight ahead.
And there it was.
Withered Foxy.235Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡA7L8QRHTHn
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Running full speed down the hall.235Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFYQQBIrph1
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Rusty joints snapping with every step, a mess of metal and fur tearing through the shadows like a nightmare on fast-forward.
“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—” Mark’s scream cracked halfway into falsetto as he hammered the flashlight button like a man disarming a bomb.
The light seared across Foxy’s torn snout, catching the single gleam of his golden eye. The animatronic froze—stopped dead—mere inches from the office doorway.
Mark sat there, chest heaving, pupils dilated to the size of pepperoni slices.
And Foxy just… stared.
His ears twitched. His jaw hung open in a rusty sneer. He leaned in like he was considering it. Considering if Mark was worth the effort.
Then, slowly…235Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNXneP4oJUc
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deliberately…235Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHArgm60d8E
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he tilted his head sideways.
Judging.
Absolutely, unmistakably, judging.
Mark’s scream sputtered into awkward silence. He cleared his throat, adjusting his shirt collar like he wasn’t seconds away from a heart attack.
“…Y-yeah, that’s what it would’ve looked like if I was scared.” His voice cracked again. “Which I’m not.”
He glanced to the desk.
Freddy plush.
The little menace sat slouched against the Chica plush, its permanent stitched smile somehow radiating disappointment. Judging harder than Foxy ever could.
Mark jabbed a finger at it. “Oh, don’t you start.”
Silence.
Foxy twitched once more—metal claws flexing, like he was fighting the urge to lunge—then abruptly turned and clattered back down the hallway.
The sound faded into the distance, leaving Mark in an office filled with his ragged breathing and the music box ticking lower.
Mark slowly lowered the flashlight, sweat slick on his palm. He nodded to the plush like nothing happened.
“See? Handled it. Professional. Totally calm.”
…The Chica plush tipped over again, landing face-first.
Laughter.
High-pitched. Tinny. A child’s giggle warped through busted speakers. It skittered through the office like nails on glass, bouncing off every wall.
Mark froze, clutching the flashlight like it was the only thing tethering him to life. His knuckles went white.
His eyes darted to the doorway. The ceiling. The vents. Shadows stretched weird in the flickering light, stretching longer than they should’ve. His pulse thundered in his ears.
And then—
There.
In the far corner of the office, half-sunk in the shadows like he’d grown there, was Balloon Boy.
Round cheeks. Wide, glassy eyes. Red-and-blue hat tilted just-so. His whole body radiated smug gremlin energy, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Hello?”
The voice was sweet. Wrong.
Mark’s stomach dropped like a busted elevator.
Slowly, he raised the flashlight, narrowing his eyes at the boy. “Ohhh, no. No no no. Don’t you dare.”
He leaned forward in the chair, glaring sharp enough to cut steel.
“Listen here, Balloon Bastard—”
The flashlight in his hand flickered. Just once. Just enough to make Mark’s entire soul leave his body for half a second.
Mark smacked the flashlight against his palm like he was trying to discipline a misbehaving TV remote. “C’mon, work. That’s what people do, right? They smack it and it magically fixes itself.”
Nothing. Just a sad little click-click and darkness.
“…Well. That sucks.”
He glared at the dead flashlight like it had personally betrayed him, then whipped his head toward the clock. 3:00 AM. Three. O’Clock. He was done.
“Cool. Awesome. Love that for me. Guess I’ll just… die, then.”
He yanked open the desk drawer, rummaging like a raccoon in a dumpster. “Batteries, batteries, c’mon… stapler, pens, gum wrapper—seriously, who leaves a gum wrapper in here?!”
Before he could spiral further, the sound hit.
THUNK!
Somewhere deep in the hallway, metal slammed to the ground hard enough to rattle the walls.
Mark froze, eyes wide, then whipped a finger in the direction of the noise. “HA! That’s what you get!”
From the corner, BB laughed.
Mark threw his hands up. “Oh, don’t laugh with me—you’re the REASON I’m about to die!”
Mark dug deeper into the drawer, his hand scraping against dust and crumpled napkins. Then—miracle of miracles—his fingers brushed something smooth and cylindrical.
“Ah! Here we are!” He yanked them out. Two shiny—well, mostly shiny—batteries. He squinted. “Please, for the love of everything holy, don’t be duds.”
He popped the old batteries out of the flashlight and, without hesitation, whipped them across the room. They bounced off the wall with a dull clink and skittered across the floor toward Balloon Boy’s shoes.
“There’s your batteries,” Mark muttered. “Enjoy your crime snacks, you little gremlin.”
He fumbled the new batteries into place then clicked the flashlight once—
FWOOMP.
Light burst back to life. Glorious, blinding, beautiful light.
Mark gasped, clutching the flashlight like it was Excalibur. “IT WORKS. I AM SAVED. HALLELU–.”
A metallic clatter echoed down the hall. Closer this time. Heavy footsteps.
Mark froze mid-speech, slowly turning his light toward the sound.
sshhhhhkkk—
At first, faint. Almost like a busted radio left on in the background. He frowned. “…Did someone forget to pay the cable bill?”
The static crackled again, sharper this time. ssshhhhkkk-kkhhhzzzt.
Mark’s shoulders tensed. The sound was coming from the hall.
The static grew louder, rising and falling like waves. Mark raised the flashlight, his knuckles white against the handle. The beam caught a glimpse of something shifting in the dark.
Clink. Scrape. Clink.
The glint of a dangling endoskeleton joint. A pale, broken arm dragging against the wall.
Mangle.
His mismatched eyes flickered in the dark, one rolling unnaturally in its socket, the other glowing straight at him. His body creaked and jittered forward, like his whole existence was one big glitch trying to put itself together.
The static *spiked,* screaming through the air.
Mark fumbled for the Freddy mask, fingers slipping on the plastic like it was coated in butter. “Nonononononono—”
SSHHHHHKKKKK. The static from Mangle spiked so loud it felt like his eardrums might burst.
Mark froze.
He dared to peek back down the hallway.
That’s when he saw it.
At first, it was just a shimmer of gold, faint in the dark like the glint of brass under dust. Then the shimmer moved.
A head.
A massive golden bear’s head, hollow and cracked, its empty sockets glowing faintly.
It wasn’t walking—it was gliding. Sliding down the hall at an unnatural speed, straight toward him.
Mark’s throat closed up. His whole body locked like he’d just turned into a glitchy animatronic himself. “Wha—what the ACTUAL—WHAT IS THAT?!”
The golden head filled the hallway, jaws open impossibly wide. A guttural, broken groan echoed out—like the sound of a funeral bell swallowed by static.
Mark screamed, stumbling back, arms flailing for the Freddy mask. The flashlight clattered to the floor, spinning in circles of chaotic light.
The head surged closer, faster, rushing straight for him—
ns216.73.217.167da2
and then Add to home screen.