It was Monday. The air was dead and silent, thick with the fog that still hung heavy in the skies above Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. A sullen face skulks through the doors of the establishment, eyes unblinking and tired as the bodies were carted away. Through the monotone commotion of officials murmuring in the grey, the manager made the necessary calls for when law enforcement clears away . . . this time, the particularly somber services of carpet bleaching.

As dark figures gradually disappear with the day's passing, the horror was assumed a tragic accident, and cleaning crews filed in.

As the terrible red marks were brushed away, sad transparent eyes watched their gruesome progress, noting the suffocating melancholy which stuck in the fog.