Flash the lights, check the cove, flash the lights, check the cove, shut the right door, flash the lights, check the cove - One pattern of many etched and scarred in the folds of your mind. As plain as the tag on your shirt says, you are Mike Schmidt, a night shift security guard at Freddy Fazbear's pizzeria, though "were" is a more appropriate term since the place finally closed its doors for good, leaving you without a job. However, that is a lifestyle infinitely better than the stress having to keep four roaming, robotic and psychotic animal people out of your office with the help of two gigantic, magnetically sealed shutters. Every night of the week. Even on Sundays.

After an intense, hard day of doing nothing but waiting on any potential employers to call and make confirmation about hiring you decide to listen to that gut feeling you've been having, the real feeling of hunger that is. Entering the bland, quiet and frankly small kitchen soothes your stomach, but slightly. "Only the finest of leftovers and junk adorn the empty shelves in THIS refrigerator." is a thought that passes by inside your head as the fridge door is swung open, creaking and squeaking as it does so.

Cold fries, a half-eaten chicken breast, and some microwavable bacon from an unopened pack are the meal tonight and the microwave is ready to go. In a move to change the deafening silence, you turn on the radio set that you've somehow held onto for almost five years now. "Put me in the hospital for nerves and then they had to commit me, you told them all I was crazy." lyrics that would probably be funny if there weren't mental scars and night terrors after your stint in pizza grease stained hell.

It's equally as small a meal as the kitchen is a room, but you can't complain when bacon is involved. After finishing then washing the sole plate with an all too familiar bear's face that was used for this "luxurious" dinner (one of the few good things you left the job with, since it was free), you put it on the rack to dry off. Unless the rack decides to go bump in the night and fall over loudly again, and destroy another plate at the same time. That poor, poor plate with the cartoonish alligator on it will never be like it used to.

Noticing that the time on the clock is getting close to 10pm, you decide to turn in for the day, hopefully without another episode occurring as you sleep. Walking down the hallway to the lone bedroom in this cheap house, a barred window with "acceptable" drapes presents itself. Drawing back the hastily applied curtains and peering out the window and between the bars reveals a dark world blanketed in soft snow, snow that doesn't appear to be letting up anytime soon as there's still more falling from up above.