The whine of a stripped servo cuts through the silence like a scream muffled in metal.

Dave doesn’t flinch. He’s elbow-deep in the back of the Bonnie unit, hands slick with hydraulic fluid and dust from decades of rot. The flashlight in his mouth flickers, but he doesn’t notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

The parts room is colder than it should be. No working vents back here. Just shelves stacked with half-dead faces, empty eyes watching while he works.

Click. A snapped wire. Click. A joint realigned. Click. A whisper of something behind him—too soft to be real.

He ignores it.

Mask on. Gloves tight. Every motion is careful, almost reverent, like he’s piecing together a memory no one else is allowed to have. He knows this machine. Better than anyone. Better than himself, maybe.

“…You always did break down easy, didn’t you?” he mutters under his breath, voice almost fond. It’s not meant for anyone. Not really.

He reaches for a bolt he knows isn’t where it should be—and finds it exactly where he left it. Twenty years ago.