Then you hear it: a soft, dragging shush from the east hall.

You realize: they don’t walk like people. Their joints grind because the felt and foam at their knees has worn through. You heard Bonnie’s arm squeak earlier—a dry, cottony squeal, like ripping a thick t-shirt. That’s the sound of his furless elbow joint scraping against its own empty sleeve.

You slam the door.

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 .

You’ve been here three nights now. The training video didn’t mention how things feel . It showed glossy cartoons of Freddy and his friends, all primary colors and smooth vinyl smiles. But reality is different.

Shush. Shush. Not footsteps. Dragging. Like a heavy garbage bag being pulled over carpet.