Editor's Note: Hello everyone, and welcome to my adaptation of a Five Nights at Freddy's fanfiction.
As of this year, I have been dealing with the loss of my mother who passed away, as has my family, and I have been looking at ways to help vent my stresses and worries while remaining unnamed. Lately, I learned that writing and posting anonymous stories is a great way to voice my thoughts to other people. As a bonus, I have always enjoyed reading other people's fanfiction works, and discovering their dedication to the franchises they adore as well as the imaginative directions they take with it, and so I had wanted to try my hand at it. At the same time, I wanted to remain true to the lore and details of my chosen franchise while making it as applicable to the real world as possible. Hopefully, what I have will do all of this justice and help me through this tough time. This will be my very first fanfiction, and I may experience periods of writer's block or lack of writing interest, so please keep this in mind. However, I fully intend to finish this to the end, so please be patient with me as well.
As a final note, I do not own the Five Nights at Freddy's franchise nor series, as all rights go to Scott Cawthorn. Thus, please enjoy.
Michael MacGowan was in trouble, big-time trouble.
The reason for that was his past year has been hell for him, both financially and emotionally.
Up until over a year ago, Michael was an only child of a loving family consisting of his father, mother, and her own mother, a.k.a. his grandmother. Although there were other relatives, they simply lived too far to maintain regular contact except online. Despite this, the four of them did well by each other; both his parents supported him and nurtured him over the years, and his grandmother did likewise for them. As Michael grew up, he became subject to the social, mental, and moral lessons many children would experience from such caring parents; and when he turned old enough to find a place and job of his own, he began to return the favor to them. His volunteer work at his parents' occupations switched to financial support when necessary, and he started sharing in regular visits to his retired grandmother. There were challenges and hardships, of course, but at least he had their support to overcome them. In his mind, Michael was happy to be a part of a family of such stability.
That is, until that stability crashed and burned with the family car—along with his parents.
The loss of his parents devastated Michael and his grandmother, to say the least. Not only was the incident a hit-and-run, but the perpetrator was never caught; and it didn't help that the opposing vehicle was not only stolen, but also burned to a crisp, so there was very little to search anyway. The police did their best, but had no choice but to leave it an open case in the end. This left the first open hole in Michael and his remaining relative's hearts for the better part of that year.
From that point on, both he and his grandmother had to deal with the financial and legal affairs on their own. This was not easy at all: without his parents to guide him, Michael had to manage most of the business on his own; and the loss began to affect his grandmother's health, so she could only lend emotional support. It was only recently that everything was settled—memorial services held, accounts liquified, services paid for, etc.—and by then, both his guardians' accounts had been spent along with a good chunk of Michael's own balance. There was just enough to maintain his personal life for a long while, let alone look after his sole relative's well-being, but at least his job would gradually ease this hardship.
But then came another hole in his life.
Unbeknownst to Michael at the time, his own place of occupation was facing troubles of its own. Mainly, it focused on household handywork and maintenance, yet also did heavy-duty moving jobs. Being no stranger to neither muscle nor creative works, the job was perfect for Michael, and his talent certainly paid him well. Unfortunately, the company started to face similar financial problems, and was forced to downsize in order to stay in business. This meant substantial lay-offs, and sadly he was among them to get the chopping block. His former boss took pity on him, due to his parents, and gave him a compensation, but it was a fix as temporary as putting a Band-Aid on a stray dog's bite.
Which left him in his current situation—unemployed, orphaned, and financially stymied. An unidealistic position for a young man still unhealed from family trauma.
But said young man wasn't worrying about such things; Michael couldn't afford to, anyway. He knew he had to find a way to get himself out of this troubling predicament, if only to pay off his apartment bills which had started to pile up on his circular dining table. It was also occupying various newspaper ads, as well as an open laptop displaying online job ads, all of which he was mulling over. Luckily, he wasn't alone at the moment; one of his friends from his previous work, who had been laid off as well, was helping him in his main endeavor.
To find a new job, and fast.
"I really am grateful for you coming over for this, Greg," Michael thanked. "I sure wouldn't want you to have to go through this yourself… then again, you got lucky to find somewhere else to take you in."
"No problem, bud," his friend Gregory said. "And again, I'm sorry you have to. I even tried to have my new supervisor look into your case, but he said he had only one opening available. Heh, you'd think an electrician's business would have plenty of openings to power this living lightbulb of a city."
Michael couldn't help but agree. In this age, his home city resembled a cyberpunk-stylized Las Vegas, so the amount of electricity required to empower the buildings and attractions was absurd. Even though this city had become all but reliant on environmentally-friendly energies—especially solar energy—and measures were being taken to stabilize the consumption of such power, the overall level of light and power being used was higher than normal. The technologies spreading in the city was no help, either, no matter how innovative or effective they were. Given the number of forms they took, furthermore, Michael's home city had become a hotspot for incredible technological designs and purposes nowadays.
"Yeah, you'd think," Michael lulled, and spread his arms over the clippings and pages on the tabletop. "And for where we're living, you'd think there'd be a lot more job listings than this."
Greg sifted through the newspapers for the umpteenth time, before looking over a list Michael had written down. "Haven't you tried being more direct in your search? Why not try a technological institute? That would be perfect for you, Mikey."
"I agree, but I've already looked into the ones in the city: no such place has an opening. And I can't afford to wait, either—my normal accounts are running dry as they are."
His friend nodded in understanding. "Maybe you could be a deliveryman? I hear there's no shortage in needing them." But his response was a scoff.
"That would be a waste of my abilities. Too sporadic, anyway; what I need is a regular job that guarantees a regular schedule, and regular pay thereafter."
"Alright, then. How about a school custodian?"
"Already checked: any nearby school is too far away to make the pay worth it. Besides, the teenage students have no respect for their staff, and the last thing I need now is that kind of added stress."
"So, I guess a babysitter is out of the question?" he joked.
Michael gave him an unamused look that was answer enough. Greg chuckled and apologized, and went back to the job listings.
"So, a quick-to-hire job that's close-by, has a steady schedule, and is stress-free," he listed. "Heh, no offense, but you might as well be asking for the sun in—" His voice cutting off made Michael look in his direction. He was eyeing the newspaper that came in the mail with interest.
"Hey, how about this one?" Greg asked, handing him a page with a large ad. Its flashy font read as follows:
HELP WANTED
FRENNI FAZCLAIRE'S NIGHTCLUB
OPEN SECURITY GUARD POSITION AT GENTLEMEN'S CLUB
DUTIES INCLUDE MONITORING CAMERAS AND ENSURING PREMISES SAFETY
$600 PER WEEK, NIGHT SHIFT (12A-6A, 7 DAYS/WEEK)
TO APPLY, CALL 1-888-FFZ-CLRE
As Michael observes the ad, Greg said his thoughts. "I've actually heard of this place—it's supposed to be an anime-stylized techno-club, sporting the latest equipment and security. It's fairly new on the block, so it has a few hiccups here and there, but the perks are worth it—along with the entertainment."
Michael looked back up at his friend. "Really?" he asked suspiciously.
Greg put his hands up innocently. "A friend of mine told me about it. Don't judge."
Slightly smirking, Michael let down the news page, combing his brown hair with a free hand. "I don't know, I feel like this is a big step down from where I used to be," he reflected. "And it's certainly not what I was looking for anyway. My father would back-flip in his grave if he heard I was working at a strip club."
"Gentlemen's club, Mikey. There's a difference," Greg corrected, pointing to the ad. He put an arm around his friend's shoulder and gave a slight shake to get his attention. "I know it's not what you want, but this position has just what you need. It's in the entertainment district, which is nearby here; it has a steady schedule with a decent wage; and being the nightshift, you won't have to worry about social issues with other people. If there are, well, your physique would definitely help in resolving them. As a bonus, your know-how around technology will come in handy if there are any issues with their own systems." Letting him go, he picks up the scribbled job list. "Think of it as a temporary job: even if it doesn't work out for you in the long run, it's still a means of keeping a roof over your head."
Michael listened to his friend's argument carefully, then switched to looking at the ad in front of him. Well, it is better than going hungry and homeless, he concluded. After a while of deliberating, he releases a sigh. "Ah, what the hell. Give me my phone, would you?"
After Gregory handed him the device, he began to dial the listed ad number.
The next afternoon, Michael was showering himself in preparation for his interview. When he called the nightclub before, he received an immediate answer, and an almost immediate agreement to meet for the job position. While he was delighted at the fact that he'd be employed again, a part of him was dissuaded by the fact of where he would potentially be employed. After all, he was raised to be a responsible and moral person, and working at a gentlemen's club did not exactly have that image. But he rationalized that this was more a temporary measure, as Greg had pointed out; and a desperate measure for himself. If he didn't have any kind of money flow, he'd find himself in a much deeper hole than right now.
This may not be preferable, but it's better than nothing, he thought as he stepped out of the shower.
As he dried and polished himself, he took a look at himself in the sink mirror. His reflection bore a young man as honest as he was handsome, and the rest of him supported that. As Greg had mentioned, Michael had a decent build; for someone in his very late 20s who spent years in volunteer work and official work doing rough labor, he gathered a good amount of muscle. On top of his early life which contained a large amount of exercising to counter the bullying in his initial neighborhood, his body had grown rather endowed. Speaking of… he gave a quick glance at his nether regions. He would have to be sure to wear boxers and briefs to cover it, lest he gave a wrong first impression at the wrong time. While he considered himself a man in his prime, he didn't want to be seen as some pervert by any girl he meets, especially by the nightclub's working girls.
Shaking those thoughts from his head, he finished dressing up in a semi-formal button up shirt and jeans, and went to gather his belongings in the living room. His wallet, keys, and a manila folder containing his resume he printed out earlier, and his cell phone were laid in a pile on the sofa. Picking them up, he headed out the front door.
Almost a half-hour of driving later, Michael found himself walking up to the nightclub for the first time.
The reception was standard, jutting outside the main building where a bouncer was positioned to allow certain VIPs to pass, and keep undesirables out. Noticing the burly man, Michael made his way to him and identified himself by name and mentioned his business with his boss, showing him the ad in hand. The bouncer gave him a stern look before turning away, speaking through an earpiece.
While waiting, Michael took a moment to observe the building. It was wider than it was large; the front alone looked several houses long compared to its two-story height. Being sandwiched between two branches of its parking lot, its appearance reflected a mix of an "off the strip" style where the large neon sign above the entrance catches the customers' attention, as well as a traditional family diner. Although its appearance was a little run-down, the place was well-kept enough to present an orderly vibe to match its surroundings. Hardly anything that gave a seedy vibe at all–first impressions mean a lot in business, after all.
Once the bouncer gave the all-clear, Michael passed through the reception entrance doors, ignoring the line's envious eyes directed at him. Inside the reception room, the sounds of the club could be heard. Strangely, they weren't the sounds he was expecting; the music blared with the tones of temptation, but the voices behind it were much more harmonious, almost innocent-like. Caught off-guard, he wondered who could possibly own such voices in a place like this. They were often met with loud approval, so the singers must be deserving of such praise. Tinged with curiosity, he reached the curtains at the other side and swept them aside, entering the nightclub itself.
His body and mind froze in awe at the sight before him.
The clubroom had a spacious, theater-like layout, with a curving stage directly ahead. It was fairly dark, though the stage was illuminated with brightly colored strobe lights. The surrounding guest area had all the necessary accessories to entertain its customers. There was a decently-sized bar curving on one corner, complete with a variety of glasses and different-colored bottles lining its shelves. While it had its own barstools, a good number of tables and chairs filled the club, with a predominantly-male crowd occupying those chairs. Judging from the smell of fast-food wafting from those tables, this area was likely for simple dining purposes, supported by the kitchen in another corner. But the men's attention was not on their plates so much as what was on the stage. Or rather, who.
And this was the sight he was entranced by.
Three women were onstage doing a dancing performance. But these women were different in a lot of ways; they were certainly human by first appearance, yet certain features made them stand out. Each girl had a different-colored skin, along with an animal accessory worn on their heads: one was purple-skinned with floppy bunny ears; another was yellow with an orange cap resembling a beak; and another was light brown with bear ears. Their hairstyles were also unusual, ranging from a single tied bun like a rabbit's tail to a waist-length wave with standing front locks like a rooster's tail feathers to a short yet bushy ponytail, respectively. Further accentuating their looks was their clothing; tank tops, a bib and apron, and an impromptu tuxedo were being worn, all unified by a set of black thongs. Such attire would make any man enthralled, but their bodily appearance was something else altogether.
The girls' physique could only be described as a man's greatest fantasy incarnated. Smooth, toned legs, heightened by custom heels, supported an hourglass figure. The stances of their dancing clearly showed they were quite athletic, as their performance included moves as sensuous as they were professional. Their chests were obvious, as round orbs slightly bounced with every move while covered in their owners' respective clothing. Said owners' faces were likewise fantastic, perfectly matching the rest of their forms. Each one of their smiles gave a beckoning lure that no man could ignore, and yet the look in their eyes was like a gleam as sweet as the voices springing from their lips.
They were the perfect mix of oozing desire and innocent beauty.
Michael couldn't help himself from staring at them as they did their routine, but somehow found the strength to shake his head and pull his gaze away, unlike the other guys who preferred to enjoy the show. What is wrong with me? His visit was originally business, but the lingering swirl in his pants couldn't be ignored. Of course, considering what the girls were wearing and how they danced, what guy wouldn't get that feeling?
"A lot of newcomers get that reaction when they come here," said a voice from beside him, "but you look like you're here for something else."
Turning, the young man noticed the bar, and its bartender had his gaze fixed at him while cleaning a glass. The man is older than Michael by twenty-some years, with glasses and eye-wrinkles surrounding his hazel-grey eyes. Although his stare felt stern, his brows and mouth were uplifted in amusement. His facial hair was also trimmed, but began to gray along with his head hair. Looking down, Michael recognized his semi-formal violet suit and his ID tag, recognizing that he works in this place. Deciding to ask him for directions, he stepped up to him between the barstools.
"I'm actually here to see the manager of this place," Michael said, showing him the news ad. "I've heard there's an opening for a night watchman, so I came to fill that role if possible."
Taking a look at the ad, the bartender sets down the glass and rag to extend his hand. "Well, you found him. William Afton, founding executive of Fazclaire's Nightclub. And you are?"
"Michael MacGowan, though I've been called 'Mikey' for short," he introduces while accepting his handshake. He noted that Afton's hands were as big as his, with a grip that was clearly stronger despite his age.
"A good name. Let's see if you're up to the task—I take it you brought your credentials?" His response was a nod and an upheld folder in Michael's hands. "Excellent. We'll step up to my office on the second floor, and talk more there." With that, he set a standing note on the bar saying 'Back in a moment—no helping yourselves!' and headed to the staircase set beside the bar and over the entrance.
Following him up the steps, Michael took a second look at the main stage, where the girls are still singing. Their otherworldly figures and voices were still fixed in his eyes and ears, until their faces started to turn in his direction. For a moment, it looked like all three of them were looking straight at him. Not wanting to come across as rude, he gave a small smile and wave, albeit blushing like mad, and continued his way upstairs.
Both men enter the main office in the second floor, with the elder taking the lead. As he followed, Michael briefly observed the room. Like the outside of the building, everything in here looked relatively neat and tidy. Even the leather couch on one side of the room hadn't any dust. Then again, this place was rather new compared to the surrounding businesses, so the furniture was bound to be recently bought as well. Furthermore, there didn't seem to be any personal memorabilia displayed anywhere, save for some framed certificates belonging to Mr. Afton.
Must be strictly business, Michael thought. If so, maybe it'll be easier to acclimate here than I thought… assuming I get hired, that is.
Once they reach the large oak desk, Mr. Afton took his seat and permitted the young man to do the same. Upon sitting in his chair, Michael made a mental note of the discomfort of his seat, as it appears cheaper than the cushioned one his elder is occupying. Handling the resume, Mr. Afton sifted through its contents before turning his attention to him.
"Everything seems in order," Mr. Afton begins. "Alright then, tell me about yourself."
From the next fifteen minutes, the two men spoke to one another. Michael did most of the talking, while Mr. Afton did the listening and the occasional questioning. Most of his queries were about his working life, but a few of them involved Michael himself; to those, the young man answered briefly, simply to not delve too far into his personal life. Fortunately, Mr. Afton regarded his working life to be more important, as he examined his resume once again.
"According to this, your previous occupation was as an advanced handyman with experience in maintenance duties. Yet, your educational degree involves working with technology. Both fields are useful by their own right, but tell me, how exactly do you think this makes you qualified as a security watchman?"
Knowing he'd be asked this, Michael already thought of an answer. "Because when you compare their qualifications, there isn't that many differences. Being a handyman that has experience in tech has to know the hazards and security precautions. Not to mention possess the keen eyes and the muscle the job requires. That being said, a security guard is the same way; it has its own bodily hazards that require some muscle, and the technical know-how to keep watch over everything. In this I am no stranger—the bonus being I can fix whatever tech problems arise on top of the corporeal ones."
The man behind the desk smiled approvingly. "An excellent argument—I like that kind of assessment thinking. But still, to learn to become an IT man only to work for maintenance… Doesn't that seem like a downgrade for you?"
"Not really, because being a handyman and/or maintenance man tends to include working with some level of technology, especially in this day and age," Michael replied. "Even if that wasn't the case, it always helps to diversify one's skillset."
Mr. Afton nods. "Fair enough. Now, I also see that you're no longer employed. May I ask how you left your previous job?"
Michael fidgeted a bit in his seat. "I was laid off due to the business cutting losses after facing threats of being closed down. No complaints about behavior or performance or anything like that—I'm just one of the unlucky people that got the short end of the stick."
"Sounds like you're no stranger to that position either," Mr. Afton noted.
"True, the area I grew up in made me no stranger to things like bullying," Michael conceded, "but I've learned to fend myself over the years. Having worked somewhere with heavy-duty labor for several years, along with my regular exercises, helped me out a bit." He rubbed his toned arms as if emphasizing his point. "But understand that I don't use force unless I absolutely have to—I've been taught to be better than the people who misuse it."
Setting the folder down, Mr. Afton leaned back in his chair, twiddling his thumbs while staring at the young man before him. After a while, Michael began to feel uneasy. As he started to doubt his qualifications, Afton leaned forward again and spoke up.
"Alright, what I'm gonna ask you next may sound unorthodox, but it's pretty standard for this position at this business." He then gave a curious expression. "What do you think of the animatronics?"
For the first time during the interview, Michael was taken aback. "A-Animatronics? Um, begging your pardon, but I haven't seen any around here."
Mr. Afton snorted in amusement. "As to be expected—newbies never notice. Of course, you've seen them, kid—they were onstage when you arrived."
The performing girls flashed in his memory, and it took a moment for him to understand what Afton meant. "You mean… the girls singing?"
"You betcha."
His confirmation sent the youth's mind into disbelief. They're… not real?! Suppressing his shock, Michael did his best to answer. "I find that hard to believe, sir. They look and move and sound just like people—nothing robotic about them at all. If they are, then—"
"—They're the latest generation in AI in the world," Mr. Afton finished with pride. "My personal design, as point of fact. If you don't believe me still, this'll prove it to you." Pulling out a tablet, he scrolled through dozens of files before opening one and enlarging its contents.
Taking a look, Michael saw blueprints, diagrams, cross-sections, and components for several humanoid animatronics. And their outlines matched the three he witnessed downstairs perfectly. Apparently, they also had designated names: the brown-skinned, bear-eared girl was the main one, 'Frenni Fazclaire', named for the club; the purple-skinned, bunny eared guitarist was called 'Bonni'; and the one named 'Chica' was yellow with the orange socks and cap. There were plenty more images describing their functions and programs, as well as maintenance requirements—even some interactive bits of the sexual nature. On seeing these features, Michael lifted his head to view the man's proud expression.
"You… actually made them able to have…" Michael asked before trailing off, embarrassed to finish his train of thought.
"What, have sex with people? Of course! If things like them end up going public, they should do more than sing and dance," Mr. Afton replied confidently. "As you put it, it helps to diversify skillsets—though, those functions haven't been tested yet. So, what do you think of them?"
"I-I-I think they're something else," Michael blurted out. Having been dropped the kind of bomb this man gave, he couldn't help but give that answer. Clearing his throat, he elaborated by gesturing to the tablet screen. "Rather, I've never seen anything like them. I actually thought they were human when I first saw them; even the ears they're wearing seemed more like cosplay to me."
"Everyone enjoys cosplay as much as anime—and the area here's pretty popular with both. That's why I gave them their present appearances." Mr. Afton's face then turned serious. "But what I meant is, they're going to be in the building at the same time as you will be. Do you see yourself enjoying their company in a… explicit manner? Especially now you know what else they can do."
A coughing fit erupted in the youth's chest as he realized the hint. Deep down, Michael could not deny their attractiveness or appeal to the point of curiosity of what would be, but he immediately quashed that train of thought from his mind. "N-No, nothing like that," he managed to say with sincerity. That must have satisfied the older man, as he started to smile.
"Well, I like to think I'm a good judge of character, and you seem to be a good sort, the kind of kid I can rely on," Mr. Afton said approvingly. "In addition, your skillset is something I've actually been sorely searching for. As a bonus, the degree you've earned for yourself may come in handy."
"So does that mean…" Michael asked hopefully.
Reaching into his desk, Mr. Afton pulled out a packet and laid it in front of his soon-to-be-employee. "Feel free to comb through this occupation and pack, and if you're still interested in this position, just sign on the dotted line at the back."
Despite not believing his newfound luck, the youth flipped through the packet carefully. It included the job description for working as a nightguard, and all the regulations and expectations of the position. After that was the legal conditions and policies for working at the nightclub, as expected. One thing that stuck out as odd was the accountability disclaimer, stating that "Frenni Fazclaire's Nightclub is not responsible for damage to property and/or person(s)" and "should such damages occur, a report will be filed as soon as property and premise have been thoroughly inspected". Of course, it would not be unusual for a business like this to put its image and reputation higher than its employees' well-being, so he dismissed it. Other than that, everything appeared to check out. Only when Michael signed his name on the agreement form does Mr. Afton smile broadly.
"Alrighty then, welcome to the club kiddo," he declared, standing and extending his hand, to which his new employee copied him and shook hands. "Now, before you get started tomorrow night, it's best I give you a tour of the place. Follow me."
Doing as he says, Michael left the office and the pair made its way around the balcony and down the stairs back to the main clubroom. Along the way, Mr. Afton spoke over the music. "The second floor here is exclusively reserved for myself and staff. VIPs also come up here, but only when authorized by myself. For them, it's either business with me in my office, or solo shows in the private booths. Downstairs is mostly general access, with a couple of exceptions. Those are reserved for both staff and the animatronics. Sometimes I tend to the bar to keep an eye out for disorderlies, but otherwise to take a break from company affairs. The security room is where you'll be stationed mostly."
As they pass the bar, Michael noticed a miniature stage sitting alone and ignored. A stylized sign reading Pirates Cove was hung over midnight-blue curtains, which were almost closed at the middle. Pinned on a curtain fold was a simple sign saying 'Out of Service'. The neon sign outside and the posters inside bring to mind that four girls were advertised, yet he had seen only three. When asked about the whereabouts of the fourth girl, Mr. Afton gave a nervous sigh. He thumb-pointed to the mini-stage.
"Foxxy the Pirate Fox was originally part of a dancing duo for the nightclub, alongside Bonni," he explained. "But, Foxxy was taken out of service a few years ago, leaving Bonni to do the routines on top of band music. We simply haven't the time or budget to do the repairs yet. Quite a pity, really." He doesn't say any more, and moved on. Taking one last glance at the abandoned curtains, Michael then jotted behind him.
As they entered the back hallway, the young man viewed the number of doors that lined the walls. "Here is one of the areas where general access is prohibited," Mr. Afton explained, "except for staff like yourself and the animatronics. To the end on the left is the backway where you'll be entering during your shifts. From there the doors are labeled in order: Staff Lockers, Power, Animatronics, Repairs, and Storage. Pretty self-explanatory. You'll really only need to access the lockers, storage, and power; the others are normally for the animatronics themselves, but you can enter under certain circumstances. Not important for now."
From then on, it was all trivial matters and observances as the older man showed the younger around the rest of the place. Any questions Michael had during the tour, he was answered with simple but easy to understand responses, and he made sure to listen to every detail. After all was said and done, he and Afton ended up back at the bar, exactly like how they had met. Mr. Afton pulled out a folded-up, purple short-sleeve shirt with a white collar, and a blank staff tag resting on top.
"This will be your uniform when working here," he said. "Make sure you're wearing it whenever you step foot in here—consider it mandatory. Other than that, be sure to arrive tomorrow no later than midnight, and sign out no earlier than 6 o'clock. Got it?"
"Understood, sir," Michael said, taking the outfit from him, "and thank you."
Mr. Afton grinned at him knowingly before being called for a beverage order. "No worries, and again, welcome to the club."
Taking the cue, Michael headed back toward the entrance way where he first entered. He couldn't help the smile that etched itself onto his face; for what felt like the first time in a long time, his luck had turned for the better. Even if it wasn't exactly the turnaround he expected, it was one nonetheless.
About to pass through the curtains, a touch of apprehension tickled his spine, prompting him to look back. Nothing seemed off; the girls were singing and dancing, and the crowd cheered them on, just like before. Then his eyes land on the little stage—the curtains remained closed, but the slit of space between them was still visible from here. Taking a few seconds before passing off the feeling as reprieve for re-securing his means of income, Michael took his leave.
Strangely enough, he still felt that something was watching him from behind those curtains.
As Michael made his way through the entrance curtain, a yellow eye lingered from behind the Pirates Cove curtain beside the bar. Its gaze was fixed on the young man, along with the uniform under his arm. The glowing eye's owner smirked in its shroud.
"A new nightguard," she growled with anticipation. "Wait until the girls hear about this."
