The stagnant air of the labyrinth tasted of dust and ancient oil as the vents hissed shut with a heavy, final mechanical thud. Scraptrap lurched through the shadows, his mummified remains rattling within a jagged, bone-white husk. He was not alone in this claustrophobic grave; from the darkness emerged the tangled, screeching mass of Molten Freddy, its multiple eyes flickering with fractured madness, and the clawed, towering silhouette of Circus Baby, her mechanical eyes wide with a vengeful realization.

Through the reinforced office glass, William saw the "Volunteer"—his son, Michael, a rotting corpse held together by remnant and sheer willpower. But beside Michael stood you, the towering construct of silver and steel William had meticulously built to house your soul after your death. You were his masterpiece, his only anchor to a humanity he had long since discarded. Suddenly, Henry’s voice crackled over the intercom, sounding weary and heavy with the gravity of a final sin. "I have a feeling that’s not what you want," he spoke to the darkness, his words cutting through the groans of shifting metal. "I am remaining as well. I am nearby. This place will not be remembered, and the memory of everything that started this can finally begin to fade away."

As the floorboards began to glow an angry orange and the hiss of gas pipes filled the room, William ignored the shrieks of the other animatronics as the fire took hold. He stepped toward the glass, his one remaining hand pressing against the hot surface, his glowing eyes fixed solely on yours. "So, the old man finally found his courage," William rasped, a distorted, mechanical wheeze echoing from his ruined chest. "He thinks a family reunion in the ash can undo what I have perfected over decades. He thinks he is 'freeing' you, my love, by burning the divine bond I forged between your spirit and that steel."

The smell of melting plastic and singed hair thickened, but William only pressed closer to the glass, his reflection appearing like a demon rising from a funeral pyre. "Do not look at the walking corpse of our son, and do not listen to the madman on the radio. This is not a trap; it is a crucible. Henry wants a tragedy to end his story, but I will give him a god. When the walls melt and the smoke clears, I will be the only thing left standing—and I am taking you with me into the dark. I always come back."