Chapter 1: The Interview
There was nothing left from the flames. Michael had checked every nook and cranny—he made sure nothing remained of his father… or any leftover agony. Luckily, his and Henry's (rest his adopted father's soul) plan worked. But one question haunted him:
Why was he still alive?
He and Henry had studied his father's blueprints down to the last screw. Remnant—the miracle material that defied death—was vulnerable to fire. No mistakes were made. He should be gone. The last of the Afton name, the final ghost of Freddy's legacy, should've burned with it.
There were supposed to be no more locations. No more stories. No more missing children. Fazbear Entertainment was gone. Every article said so. So why the hell was there a new building, clearly tied to the company?
Michael dragged his hand across his charred purple face, one eye faintly glowing with leftover agony.
Well…guess they're hiring.
Michael stood before a cluttered desk stacked with Fazbear-branded merchandise: plushies with cleavage, logo-printed lingerie, and half-disassembled animatronic arms. Behind it was a man—sort of—with a literal smartphone for a head. His face glowed dimly. Neon pink and blue lights leaked through the blinds. A lava lamp burbled lazily in the corner.
Michael's senses were muted (being dead and all), but even he could tell the office reeked of vanilla body spray and regret.
The screen flickered.
"Connecting… Connected!"
Ding!
"Well, well, well… Look what the graveyard dragged in. You must be our applicant…" The Phone-Man's voice stretched like static and sarcasm.
"…Michael." He was already sick of this.
"Oooh, very formal. I like that. Very vintage—like cassette tapes. Or trauma." Phone-Man stood, dramatically straightening his tie.
"So, Corpsey—sorry, Michael—you want to be our protector of the night, our lust-circuit monitor, our emotionally unavailable eye candy?" He mimed a finger-gun bang.
Michael's expression didn't change.
"Love that energy. Trauma-driven purpose? Big-time vibes. You're hired!" Phone-Man yanked Michael into an eccentric handshake.
"…Don't you want my resume?" he asked, already regretting it.
Phone-Man tapped the side of his head
"Boop! Already downloaded your entire employment history via dark web cookie crumbs.
Nightshift legend. Pizzeria survivor. Four-time undead. One-time burn victim.
Impressive portfolio."
Michael didn't react. He didn't question it. The internet was weird.
"Also, you technically can't sue us for discrimination because you're already dead. Neat!"
His screen glitched, turning into a pixelated smiley face with dollar signs for eyes. He tossed Michael a glittery name tag that read:
SECURITY (Kind of?) – Comic Sans. Of course.
"Welcome to Fredina's, Corpsey. Remember:
If the girls start learning too much… flirt back until the power runs out."
Michael pocketed the badge.
"…You're not real, are you?"
Phone-Man answered with digital laughter. A low dial tone echoed ominously.
"You start tonight at 11. Clock out when your sanity collapses. Oh—and hands off the merchandise. They get quirky at night."
Déjà vu…