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Five Nights at Sahurs starts in a palpable quiet, as if the whole place is waiting for your mistake. Nothing except the passage of time, shadows, and non-human beings figuring out how to get close to you.

A flickering camera screen and a clock ticking down to dawn greet you in a tight duty room. There are no long corridors to escape through, no weapons to fight back with. This is not your conventional jump scare or screamfest; the game clearly establishes this from the very first night. The game exploits a sensation of anxiety when you know harm is coming but don't know where. Every glance at the camera, every turn of the light, is a costly decision.
The setting is minimalist yet suffocating. The guard room isn't large, the doorways like fragile boundaries between safety and disaster. Security cameras give you information, but they also make you dependent on them. When you look at the screen, you don't see the room you're in. When you look away from the camera, you don't know what's approaching. Animatronics don't move noisily; they observe, wait, and gradually close the distance. Tung Sahur and the other creatures don't appear constantly, but each time they disappear from the camera, the anxiety intensifies. The game exploits the feeling of knowing something is wrong but not knowing where it is.