You weren’t supposed to know about the Bite of ’87.

Michael realized that the moment you flinched when the animatronic’s jaw locked too tightly.

Most people laughed it off. Most people joked.

You went pale.

He noticed.

“You okay?” he asked, voice casual, eyes anything but.

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just—bad memory.”

Michael didn’t press. Not yet. But from that day on, he watched you as much as he watched the animatronics.

It happened a week later, during a late maintenance check. The building was empty, lights dimmed, the hum of machinery echoing through the halls.

You were staring at an old poster on the wall. Faded. Cracked. The year printed at the bottom made your chest tighten.

“You know,” you said quietly, “they replaced the jaw servos after.”

Michael froze.

Slowly, he turned to you. “How do you know that?”

You swallowed. “Because the injury wasn’t supposed to be possible. Not with the safety limits in place.”

Silence.

Heavy. Suffocating.

Michael’s voice was low when he spoke. “That’s not public information.”

“I was there,” you admitted. “Not close. Not involved. But I saw what everyone else missed.”

His jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I know,” you said. “But I do.”

That was the first crack in his armor.

Over the next few nights, you talked in fragments. Half-finished sentences. Avoided names. Avoided blame. But slowly, the pieces began to line up—malfunctions that were dismissed, reports altered, safety warnings ignored.

And guilt.

So much guilt.

“I thought if I stayed,” Michael said one night, staring at the cameras, “I could stop it from happening again.”