The pizzeria was quiet.

Long after the doors locked and the lights dimmed, the animatronics sat around the derelict birthday stage like it was a kitchen table. Dust clung to their joints. The air hung heavy with that old scent of metallic grease and forgotten cake.

Freddy sat upright, arms crossed like a dad holding together a family by sheer posture. “Well,” he said, voice crackling, “another quiet night. That’s good, right?”

“Define ‘good,’” Chica muttered, spinning a plastic plate on one of her fingers. Her paint was chipped in too many places, but she wore it like a badge. “Nobody screamed. Nobody ran. Guess that’s a win.”

Bonnie strummed a busted string on his guitar, the note flat and sour. “Still dead, though.”

“Cheers to that,” Foxy drawled, slouched in a corner with one foot on the table, chewing the air like it was gum. His eyepatch hung loose, swinging with each word. “What’re we pretending tonight? That this is all normal? That we ain’t ghosts in a can?”

“Foxy, you’re always chewing something that doesn’t exist,” Chica snapped, tossing the plate into the void behind her.

“Children,” Freddy growled.

The Puppet sat off to the side, fingers steepled like she was about to solve a cosmic riddle. “I had a dream,” she said softly. “I was in a toy store. There were no clocks. No endings. Just shelves of unopened boxes.”

Everyone went quiet for a beat.

Golden Freddy flickered into the room like a bad signal. Cassidy usually drove, calm and cold like a knife waiting to cut. Evan was quieter—more passive, but sometimes he whispered things Cassidy didn’t want to hear. Tonight, neither said much. Just sat.

Freddy gave a wary smile. “Welcome, Goldie.”

Cassidy’s voice rasped out: “Don’t call me that.”

Evan added, after a pause, “...I don’t mind it.”

Golden Freddy twitched.

Bonnie leaned back, balancing on two legs. “So. We just gonna sit here pretending we’re not... y’know... what we are?”

Chica reached for an imaginary slice of pizza. “Sure. What else we got going on?”