The garage was a sweltering pocket of heat and humidity, the air heavy with the smell of high-octane fuel, burnt rubber, and the metallic tang of old iron. The afternoon sun beat down on the roof, turning the concrete floor into a radiator. William Afton had long since discarded his shirt, draping it over a nearby sawhorse, and was now a mess of sweat and grease as he worked on his 1978 Porsche 930 Turbo. The car’s deep purple paint shimmered like an oil slick under the overhead shop lights, its rear whale-tail spoiler casting a long, aggressive shadow across the floor. William was currently lying on a flat creeper, his upper torso vanished beneath the engine bay. His breathing was heavy and rhythmic, punctuated by the sharp clack-clack of a ratcheting wrench. As he reached up to adjust a fuel line, the movement caused the muscles in his back and shoulders to ripple, drawing stark attention to the horrific map of silver, puckered flesh that marred his torso.

These were the scars of his first brush with death—the "accident" with the springlock suit years prior. Jagged, symmetrical puncture marks lined his ribs like a ladder, and deep, ropey welts ran across his shoulder blades where the metal beams had nearly pinned him forever. They were a permanent, grotesque reminder that he was a man who had looked into the abyss of his own machines and clawed his way back out. "Michael, stop staring at the blueprints and hand me the torque wrench. The one with the three-quarter head," William’s voice emerged from the depths of the Porsche, his tone a sharp, impatient snap. "And I need the shop light angled toward the manifold. I can’t see a damn thing in this nest of wires." Michael moved quickly, his boots scuffing against the concrete. He was seventeen now, his own frame beginning to fill out, but he still felt small in the presence of his father’s intensity. He grabbed the heavy wrench from the pegboard and knelt by the rear of the car, extending it toward William’s oil-slicked hand.

As William reached out, the light hit the fresh, red irritation around some of the deeper scars—the metal parts of the car seemingly calling out to the metal that had once been inside him. "You're tightening that too much, aren't you?" Michael asked, his voice cautious. He held the shop light steady, illuminating the glistening, scarred landscape of his father's back. "The manual says those bolts are prone to snapping if you over-leverage them." William slid himself out from under the car on the creeper, his chest heaving. He sat up, wiping a thick smudge of black grease from his forehead with the back of a hand. He didn't look bothered by the exposure of his mutilated skin; to him, the scars were simply evidence of his resilience. He looked at Michael, his gray eyes burning with a cold, intellectual fire.

"The manual is written for men who don't understand the limits of steel, Michael," William remarked, taking the torque wrench and setting it aside. He reached for a rag, his movements stiff and deliberate. "I know exactly how much tension this machine can take before it breaks. I know because I’ve felt that breaking point in my own bones." He stood up, his tall frame looming over the purple Porsche, the scars on his chest catching the light as he took a deep, steadying breath. He gestured for Michael to step closer to the engine. "Don't just look at the parts. Listen to the logic of the assembly," William muttered, pointing toward the intercooler. "Every machine has a soul made of pressure and friction. If you don't respect the tension, it will consume you. Now, get in the driver's seat. I’m going to prime the pump, and when I give the word, I want you to turn the ignition. Not a second before, or you'll flood the damn thing."