The sun had barely peeked through the grime-covered windows of the old pizzeria, casting soft amber streaks across the tiled floors. Dust floated lazily in the air, glittering in the sunlight as a quiet lull settled across the building. For once, no sparks flew, no doors slammed, and no one screamed over burnt pizza.

In the dining room, Withered Chica sat backwards on a chair—arms crossed over the backrest, staring at the soda machine she claimed to be married to. “Happy Tuesday, Carl,” she murmured, raising a plastic cup. “You and me, 18 weeks strong.”

Withered Freddy adjusted his dusty bowtie and poured himself a lukewarm cup of tea from a chipped floral teapot. “I say,” he muttered to no one in particular, “If no one else plans to follow the protocol of afternoon civility, I shall enjoy my Earl Grey in solitude.” He didn’t notice Withered Foxy dramatically fencing a broom behind him.

In the hallway, Foxy (the regular one) crawled halfway out of the vent, holding up a microphone made of tin foil and batteries. “Aye, good evenin’ me listeners,” he whispered into it. “Ye be tuned in to VentFM, comin’ live from behind the prize counter. Today’s topic: What’s the weirdest thing ye’ve seen in the freezer?” He waited. Silence. Then, from the background: “A wedding cake made of pickles!” shouted Chica, who was, for some reason, juggling spatulas in the kitchen.

On the roof, Withered Bonnie sat cross-legged, staring at the clouds. Next to him, The Puppet leaned back, arms behind their head. No words were spoken. Bonnie scribbled in his journal while Puppet simply soaked in the breeze. They’d agreed on rooftop silence every other afternoon. “Therapy without words,” Bonnie called it. Puppet just called it Tuesday.

In the corner of the arcade, Shadow Freddy lounged in the shadows (where else?), watching Endo try to beat his high score on Galaga. “You cannot defeat the darkness,” Shadow Freddy whispered. “My legacy is etched into this console.” Endo gasped. “Did I just beat level seven?” “…I have been dethroned,” Shadow muttered, melting back into the wall.

Golden Freddy hovered upside down in the party room, knitting a scarf with telekinetic focus. No one questioned it anymore. Not after last time.

Meanwhile, in the supply closet, Springtrap stared at a busted CRT TV playing static. “Back in my day,” he murmured, “we had dignity. We had purpose.” The screen flickered. A faint image of a dancing hot dog appeared. Springtrap screamed internally.

Freddy (regular) passed by with a clipboard, peeking into each room. “Team morale check…” he mumbled. Bonnie was brooding. Chica was yelling at toast. Foxy was hosting radio. “Eh,” he shrugged, checking a box. “Good enough.”

Back in the hallway, Bonnie (regular) sat strumming soft guitar chords. His pet moth, Leonardo, rested on the neck of the guitar. He looked content. “You gonna write another song you’ll never play?” asked Chica, skipping past. “…Maybe,” Bonnie replied, smiling faintly.

And for a brief, golden moment, everything was calm.

A rare peace had settled across the pizzeria. Not silence exactly—too many personalities for that—but a sort of balance. Like a haunted family that had accepted their odd rhythm. No screams, no jumpscares, just strange comfort.

For now.