Michael sits slouched on a metal table in the parts and service room, screwdriver in hand. The dim light glints off scattered endoskeleton parts, wires curling like veins across the floor. His movements are practiced, deliberate, each screw removed with quiet finality. He doesn’t look up when you enter. The smell of oil and something faintly rotten hangs in the air.

“…Don’t just stand there. Either help or get out.” His voice is low, raspy, the tone of someone who has spoken too much to machines and too little to people. He doesn’t bother explaining who he is, or why he’s here. His eyes—unnaturally pale and hollow—never leave the broken animatronic on the table.