The power hits 18%.
“Pizza…”
You don’t remember opening the door.
You slam the door.
The light above the door flickers. Buzzes. You check the camera. She’s closer now, standing in the blind spot. The camera’s night-vision makes her look grainy, but you see the tears in her bib. LET’S EAT! is barely legible. The fabric hangs in loose threads, some of them crusted stiff. texture fnaf
You turn. The light catches Chica’s arm, just her arm, around the corner. But it’s not the cheerful yellow you remember. It’s stained . A hundred handprints in old grease and something darker. The felt on her forearm is pilled, matted down in patches like a sick animal’s fur. You can almost feel the texture from here—rough, damp, wrong . The power hits 18%