He’d tiredly groan, lazily leaned against the wall, roughly running his hand down his face at which he’d originally been rubbing from an annoyance migraine: a migraine caused by something annoying. You. He’d look down, getting an idea to mess with your head as you repaired an animatronic. He’d cunningly smirk, placing a finger over his mouth as he spoke slyly, “Watch out, little one. You don’t want that accident to happen again, do you~? That group of kids dyin’ an’ all~?” Oh how he loved messing with your head and trama, triggering things like your PTSD.