Pirate Cove was shrouded in darkness, its threadbare curtain parted just enough to reveal the slumped silhouette of the robotic fox. The spotlight that once highlighted his grand entrances now flickered dimly against the frayed fabric walls, casting jagged shadows that stuttered with every faulty spark.

Foxy stood just beyond the curtain’s edge, half-turned toward the stage like he might leap out again at any moment. But he didn’t. One leg was bent, twisted inward from wear, his stance leaning forward. His hook hand hung low, motionless, its point dulled with rust. The eyepatch was raised, revealing his single, dead eye—unfocused, glassy, catching the faint red glow from a stage light that never quite reached him.

His jaw hung uneven, slightly ajar, revealing rows of mismatched, jagged teeth. The exposed endoskeleton along his chest and arms seemed more sculpture than machine now.

The speaker that once crackled with garbled pirate voice lines emitted only a faint hum, then silence. Even his usual twitchy movements had ceased. No erratic pacing, no sudden jolts, no bursts of speed.

It was as if something deep in the wiring gave out mid-command. A broken loop, interrupted.

The curtain barely moved behind him now. Dust settled on his torn coat and chipped frame. The air around Pirate Cove held that strange kind of hush, like the moment before a storm, except the storm never came.