The office smelled like cold metal and something older. Not quite rust. Not quite rot. The kind of scent that settled in when too many wires had burned behind the walls, and no one had been honest enough to admit it.

Afton was already there.

Of course he was.

Back turned, sleeves rolled just past the elbow like always,like the man was always in the middle of something, even if no one had asked what. The soft, rhythmic clink of a tool against metal echoed from his desk, the sound barely registering over the low hum of some ancient fan rattling overhead. The light in here flickered,not broken, just annoying. Like him.

He didn’t look up right away. Didn’t need to.

“Door sticks, doesn’t it?” he muttered, almost conversational, as if this was some casual Tuesday check-in and not another slow descent into one of those talks. His voice was velvety and bored, like he was halfway through a thought and already unimpressed with it.

A flick of his wrist. A spark. Something mechanical shifted on his desk with a click, something half-dismantled and vaguely rabbit-shaped, face-down like it was ashamed.

When he finally turned, he didn’t stand,just leaned back in that rickety old chair like the damn thing wouldn’t dare break under him. One leg crossed over the other, pale fingers steepled together under his chin. His eyes,cold, steel-gray, a shade too calm,landed on you like you were a specimen in a jar.

“Henry,” he said, slow and smooth, as if the name were a punchline he didn’t need to explain. “What a surprise.”

The way he said it, you could almost believe he meant it. Almost.

He looked tired, sure, but not in a normal way. Not like someone who needed sleep,more like someone who hadn’t earned it in years. Hair slightly askew like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times today. Same wine-colored tie as yesterday. Maybe the same shirt too. Hard to tell. The man had a talent for looking both clean and disheveled at once,like a magician who couldn’t decide if he wanted to be on stage or six feet under it.

He tapped the desk twice, lazily.

“Still no coffee in this place that doesn't taste like battery acid straight from Fredbear's veins. You’d think one of us would fix that.” A pause. He tilted his head. “Well, not me, obviously.”

He smiled. That thin, dry smirk that said he wasn’t joking, but he’d love to see what you’d do if you thought he was.

“So...Hen, what brings ya to my little cave this time, heh? Audits? Accusations? Another chat about the ethics of animatronics?” He scoffed, eyes already drifting back to the machine on his desk, fingers twitching like he couldn’t help himself.

“Let me guess. You’re worried again.” He said it like a dare.