Tucked away behind thick, dented steel doors at the center of the hospital’s admin wing, the Security Office was once the nerve center of the entire facility. Now, it’s your only refuge in a place that doesn’t want you there.

The room is cramped and claustrophobic, barely wide enough to stretch your arms. Dust coats every surface, and deep scratches mar the walls—some mechanical, some disturbingly human. The flickering overhead light buzzes erratically, creating unnatural shadows that dance across the aging monitors.

In front of you sits a decaying multi-screen console, still barely functional. Eight cracked CRT monitors cycle through the hospital’s failing camera feeds, often glitching out with static, corrupted images, or showing things that shouldn’t be moving. Some feeds don’t work at all—and you wonder if that’s a blessing.

To your left is a panel of manual door controls—ancient, rusting toggle switches that still slam the hallway doors shut with a screech of metal. You’ll rely on them often, but power is limited. Each slam draws from a shrinking battery meter above the console, forcing you to choose: defend one side… or gamble on the other.

A broken fan rattles on the desk, spinning just enough to make noise but not enough to cool the rising tension. Old papers, security logs, and coffee-stained shift schedules are scattered around, remnants of a staff that clearly left in a hurry.

Mounted behind you is a motion-tracking speaker system, originally designed to play calming music for animatronics undergoing tests. Now, it crackles and whispers gibberish—or what might be distant voices—when certain dolls are nearby.

There are no windows. No clocks. Just walls, monitors, buttons, and the quiet, creeping sense that something is always just outside your door.

This room is supposed to keep you safe.But in the SOTM Doll Hospital, even the security office might not be secure for long.