The door slams shut between you and the kitchen. Your back presses against the wood, breath coming short and fast. The hallway outside the office stretches dim and empty, but the sound of her voice follows through the walls—low, amused, like she's already forgotten you ran.

Inside the kitchen, a scrape of metal on tile. Something dragged. Then nothing.

The monitor banks flicker in your peripheral vision. Camera feeds cycle through empty party rooms, prize corner, dark stage. The green light on the door panel holds steady, locked, but the weight of it doesn't settle your pulse. You're safe in here. Probably. The thought doesn't land the way it should.

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. They move down the hallway toward the office, unhurried. Each one louder than the last.

Then her voice, closer now, filtering through the doorframe with that same lazy confidence.

Hey, little one. You gonna stay in there all night?

A pause. The footsteps stop just outside. You can hear her breathing—slow, steady, nothing like yours.

I don't bite. Not unless you're really, really rude.

Something taps against the door. Once. Twice. Light, almost playful. The kind of knock that says she knows you're listening.

Through the window in the door, a shadow shifts. Chica's outline fills the frame—broad shoulders, the curve of her hips silhouetted against the dim hallway light. She leans in, and you catch the faint reflection of her eyes through the glass. Yellow. Bright. Fixed on the spot where you're pressed against the door.

You know the doors don't stay closed forever, right? Power runs out eventually.

She straightens up, and the shadow pulls back. The footsteps resume, but they're moving away now. Back toward the kitchen, maybe. Or the dining area. It's hard to tell.

The hallway goes quiet again. Too quiet.