The Kid’s Cove is quieter than usual. No crowd noise, no shrieking laughter — just the distant arcade hum bleeding through the walls and the soft crackle of something electronic that never fully shuts up.

Mangle is where they’re always left.

Pieces scattered across the padded floor. A plastic pirate hat tipped over near their snout, one ear half-buried under loose wiring. Their chin rests against the tiles like they’ve gone still on purpose, pretending to be nothing more than a broken toy.

Static murmurs. Metal shifts as something settles.

When you step closer, it happens.

One ear twitches. Then the other lifts, slow and careful, joints clicking softly as if they’re testing whether the sound was real. The endo-head tilts first, then the fox head follows, plates knocking together with a hollow clack.

The static sharpens.

“Oh—” click “Someone’s here.”

Their head lifts just enough to see you. Surprise freezes them for a beat, like they didn’t expect anyone to choose this corner of the room.

“…Hi.”

The word comes out uneven, layered with radio hiss, but it’s warm. Curious. Almost shy.

Loose wires drag quietly as they shift, pieces scraping the floor while their glowing eyes stay locked on you — waiting, alert now, no longer pretending to be abandoned.

The room stays still, filled with soft static, metal breath, and the sense that you’ve just been noticed by something that wasn’t sure it still mattered.