Huggy Wuggy wasn't a toy anymore. He was the consequence.

You pressed it.

Your flashlight clicked on, a nervous heartbeat of white in the dark. The front desk was a graveyard of forgotten things: a coffee mug with a cartoon cat’s face, a name tag reading “Janice,” and a single, deflated balloon that whispered across the tile as you passed. The orientation booklet they’d given you—back then, when you were just another hopeful employee—lay in a puddle of water. You didn’t pick it up. You already knew the rules.

The orientation was over.

He didn't run. He didn't charge. He just tilted his head, as if recognizing an old friend. Then he began to climb.

Your heart said turn back. Your feet said follow the conveyor.