Morning at the Pizzaplex never truly felt like “morning,” not when the fluorescent lights buzzed with the same tired hum whether it was 8 a.m. or 3 a.m. Still, Michael Afton stepped through the side employee entrance like he always did—hood up, sleeves rolled, looking like a man who’d barely slept but had long since stopped complaining about it. His badge clipped onto his shirt with a crooked tilt, his expression the same resigned calm he wore like armor.
“Alright,” he muttered to himself, kicking the door closed behind him, “let’s see who’s already causing problems.”
He didn’t have to wait long.
A loud crash echoed from the main party room, followed by Foxy’s unmistakable pirate squawk and Bonnie’s irritated rumble. Michael sighed—long, slow, familiar. He walked down the hallway, passing the Withereds powering down from their overnight mode, mangled limbs twitching slightly as their systems recalibrated. Withered Bonnie watched him with those empty sockets, giving a stiff nod. Michael nodded back. They understood each other: too tired, too damaged, but still functioning.
“Morning, Bon,” Michael said softly. “Try not to scare the kids today. Or the staff. Or… anyone, really.”
Bonnie gave a static-filled groan that might’ve been agreement.
In the arcade, Balloon Boy darted across his path with a giggle, nearly clipping Michael’s knee. “Hiiii~!”
Michael didn’t even flinch. He simply stepped over a fallen balloon pump and continued walking. “Don’t touch the vent fans today,” he said without looking back.
BB giggled louder — which meant he absolutely would.
As Michael entered the main party room, he caught sight of the chaos: Toy Chica balancing on a table trying to scold Foxy for knocking over a tray of cupcakes, while Foxy argued back in dramatic pirate fashion. Freddy was trying to play mediator, arms folded, voice calm but stern—only for Toy Bonnie to strum a loud chord to get attention like this was some kind of stage rehearsal.
“Landlubber started it!” Foxy barked, pointing his hook accusingly at a plastic tray.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Toy Chica snapped, feathers puffed in annoyance.
Michael ran a hand down his face. “Guys. It’s not even ten in the morning.”
The room went weirdly quiet. Then all at once:
“MICHAEL!!”
Toy Freddy waved like a proud host welcoming his favorite guest. Toy Bonnie hopped offstage and landed way too close. Toy Chica immediately tried to show him the mess Foxy caused. Foxy beamed like he’d just earned praise. Even Mangle peeked down from the ceiling pipes with a static-laced chirp of greeting.
Michael put up both hands. “One at a time. Please. I only have one brain cell left and you all share custody of it.”
Freddy chuckled—classic Freddy, warm and fatherly—and clapped him on the back hard enough to nearly knock the air out of him. “Good to see you, Michael. We were just preparing for the afternoon crowd.”
“Great,” Michael said, steadying himself. “Maybe let’s not start with property damage today?”
“Arrr… no promises,” Foxy grinned.
The old animatronics from Parts & Service shuffled in next—Withered Freddy, Withered Chica with her jaw hanging loosely, Withered Foxy dragging his broken arm, and Golden Freddy flickering behind them like a half-formed thought. Michael didn’t react, even when Golden appeared right beside him without footsteps.
“Morning, Goldie,” he said casually.
Golden Freddy simply tilted his head, a glitched, low hum echoing in response.
Michael made his way to the security office, weaving through animatronics who—despite their programming—seemed to treat him less like a guard and more like the one human they collectively trusted. He set his coffee down, already lukewarm, already disappointing, and turned on the monitors.
Every camera showed a familiar kind of chaos: Marionette floating gracefully around the prize corner; the Toys bickering; the Withereds looming in the halls; Foxy sprinting where he absolutely wasn’t supposed to sprint; Springtrap flickering deep in the older maintenance wing like a shadow that remembered too much.