The air was thick with dust, every breath carrying the scent of rust and decay. Flickering lights cast long shadows as he followed Doey through the narrow corridors, the unsettling dough creature humming a little tune like they weren’t walking through a damn corpse-ridden nightmare.

They turned a corner, coming upon a hallway lined with rooms.

Interrogation Rooms.

Doey suddenly halted, his plump head peeking around the corner before snapping back.

"Psst."

His tone was playful, yet… off.

Reluctantly, he followed.

Doey’s voice dropped to a whisper.

"They’d question us here after watching us," he muttered, his usual cheerfulness dampened. "Those of us who could speak at all. I always answered. But I never gave 'em an answer they liked."

Doey giggles. There was something unnerving about how he said it—almost too casual, too accepting.

He swallowed hard. "Right. Sounds fun. Just like a game show, huh? ‘Say the wrong thing, and oops, you’re dead!’"

Doey let out a soft chuckle, his doughy form already squeezing through a hole in the wall.

"Heh. Something like that."

And with that, he vanished into the dark.

A shiver crawled down his spine.

He turned back to scan the room. His eyes landed on a VHS tape, half-buried beneath a pile of old, yellowed papers.

His gut told him this was going to be bad.

With a sigh, he picked it up and slid it into the player.

---

[VHS RECORDING: THE THEATER INCIDENT]

The screen crackled to life. A team of Resource Extraction Specialists were heard. Their voices crackled through the speakers.

"This is a mess."

"How the hell do they think they’re gonna cover this up?"

A bitter chuckle.

"They always do."

A long pause. Then—

"You see any bodies yet?"

Silence.

Then a sigh. "Yeah. Too many."

A number flashed on the screen.

Casualties: 78.

12 Resource Extraction Specialists.

66 visitors.

Another voice—this one colder, tired.

"And we all know who’s responsible for this."

Someone scoffed. "But the bigwigs need their damn investigation anyway."

The screen cut to black.

---

His stomach twisted.

Seventy-eight people. Gone. And Playtime Co. was trying to sweep it under the rug.

His hands balled into fists.

How deep did this really go?

The weight of it all pressed down on him. The horror. The cover-ups. The senseless deaths.

And yet, somehow, his mouth still worked.

"Wow. Nothing says ‘family-friendly entertainment’ like an actual body count."

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples.

"At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if the company slogan was just: ‘Playtime Co.—where the fun never stops, and neither does the body count!’"

Somewhere behind the walls, Doey giggled.

"Yup! You’re catching on quick, pal!"

He sighed.

"That’s what I was afraid of."

The Prison Yard stretched before him—cold, empty, and far too quiet.

Then—

CRACK.

He jumped as a door snapped clean in half, a familiar, doughy figure squeezing through like it was made of water.

Doey grinned, unfazed by his own destruction. "Oops. That’s my bad."

With an almost casual air, he peeled away the broken pieces and waved him through.

"There’s some nasty falls in this place, but I can get you across. Oh yes, definitely."

Before he could even question what that meant, Doey’s body began to stretch, twist, reshape—



Into a bridge.

He exhaled sharply, staring down at the ground below.

Spikes. Rusty, jagged, and very, very fatal.

"Right," he muttered, stepping onto Doey’s makeshift platform, legs stiff. "This is totally normal. Walking across a sentient pile of Play-Doh. Absolutely nothing wrong with that."

Doey morphed again, flattening into a steady surface.

"So... have you seen Poppy anywhere?" the creature asked suddenly, as if they weren’t balancing over instant death.

"Ollie said she was around… somewhere. He also said we can trust you. I really hope that’s true."

He hesitated mid-step.

Poppy. She was here.

His stomach twisted. That meant two things.

1. He had a reason to keep going.

2. Shit was about to get worse.

"Yeah, well, trusting me is a bold choice," he muttered, stepping off Doey’s form. "But I appreciate the optimism."

Doey giggled before slipping through the cracks, vanishing again.

He pressed on, vaulting over another ledge, heart hammering. Finally, he reached an open space—the Prison Yard.

And then—THUD.



He barely had time to react before Doey slammed himself into a cracked wall, his doughy form sinking into it like melting wax.



The creature wriggled through the gaps, his muffled voice chiming: "There’s a safe place up ahead, not too far from here."

A pause.

"Right. You can’t fit through here." Laughs.

Doey’s eyes darted around before turning back to him.

"Hm... Hey, pal, let’s see if we can’t get these doors open. You check out there, I’ll look back here!"

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders.

"So, I get the death trap out in the open, and you get the nice, cozy, dark corner? Yeah, seems fair."

Doey giggled. "You got it, buddy!"

He sighed.

"I walked right into that one."

The tension in his chest hadn’t eased. If Doey was right—if Poppy was here—he had more reason than ever to keep moving.

And after what he’d just learned from the Theater Incident?

Playtime Co. had worse things hiding in the dark. He just had to survive long enough to find them.

Doey’s voice carried through the dim, empty yard, his usual lightheartedness giving way to something darker.

"This was once a work yard, ya know. A dozen of us, maybe two, would be here at any given time. During the day, they'd have us work. Whatever they wanted us to do, we'd do it."

The way he said it sent a chill down his spine.

"And for those of us who couldn't… or wouldn’t?"

Doey paused, his beady eyes narrowing.

"At night, when no one important was watching, they'd take them. Stick them in here."

Then, in a harsh, mocking voice, he imitated the guards:

"‘We only got food for one of you this week,’ they'd say. ‘Which of you will it be?’"

He shuddered.

Doey wasn’t smiling.

"They'd watch from up there." He motioned toward the catwalks above. "It was usually over within minutes. And the guards? Oh, they'd be hysterical. But nobody died. No, because then, people would know."

His mouth felt dry. "So what happened to them?"

Doey’s eyes twinkled, but there was no humor there.

"The next day, and every day after, they would work. Oh yeah, hard as they could. And they'd never cause trouble again."

Silence hung between them.

Then—CLANK.



He grabbed the chains, attaching them to the heavy door. He pulled all four levers, metal groaning under pressure.

With a final creak, the door lurched open, revealing a tight space beyond.

"Guess I’m squeezing through this, huh?" He eyed the gap.

The air was thick with dust as he crawled through narrow vents and rusted passageways. Every creak of metal made his skin crawl.

Then—movement.

Doey emerged from a dark corner, grinning.

"Our generator's in a pretty bad state, so we try to keep the power off in here," he explained, voice hushed. "I'll turn it on for you, though. It'll open a door downstairs."

"Oh, great. Turning on the power in a place that definitely doesn’t have security measures that’ll try to kill me."

Doey giggled, unfazed.

Squeezing through the shelves, he came across an inactive power socket.

Before he could even react, a long, doughy arm descended from the ceiling.

"Here, use this."



A Power Cell dropped into his hands.

"Oh, that’s not creepy at all," he muttered, plugging it in.

The machinery whirred to life, illuminating the dark halls.

Doey bounced slightly in place. "Should be a straight shot from here, bud!"

Then, hesitating, he added, "I-uh… should probably go turn off our defenses for you, huh. Guess I’ll see you inside?"

He giggled.

He stared at him.

"...Defenses?"

Doey waved a hand. "You’ll be fine!"

And with that—he vanished.

He sighed, running a hand down his face.

"I feel so reassured right now."

Then, tightening his grip, he pressed on.