The vents hum softly, metal cooling and reheating in slow cycles. Sound drifts through them—thin, distant, unfinished. A child’s voice, almost clear.

Scraptrap stands motionless at a junction, head tilted, listening. He does not rush. The sound is wrong, but familiar. He steps forward anyway, joints creaking in quiet protest.

Scrap Baby moves elsewhere, taller in the narrow passage, claw brushing the vent wall as she advances. She pauses when the voice repeats, eyes narrowing, calculating. This was meant for her. She is certain of it.

Lefty advances one intersection at a time, heavy and deliberate. No sound comes from him. Something inside shifts faintly, pressing, reacting to the call he himself does not acknowledge.

Far behind, Molten Freddy writhes through a lower duct, wires scraping, mask rattling. The voice triggers a sudden surge of motion.

“Together again!”

The vents echo, distort, overlap. Paths cross. Distances collapse. The sound stops.

All four continue moving.