The lights dimmed and the crowd’s chatter softened into anticipation. I adjusted my pigtails slightly, my metal fingers brushing my rosy cheeks. Tonight, we were not lurking in shadowy hallways or waiting for a maintenance worker to wander too close—we were here to perform. Families, children with wide eyes and sticky fingers, all staring up at us with the innocent joy that I was programmed to encourage.

Ballora twirled gracefully at the center, her music filling the room with a hypnotic rhythm. Her elegance always made me a little envious—so effortless, so fluid. Funtime Freddy’s voice boomed as he bantered with Bon Bon perched on his hand, making the children giggle. Funtime Foxy darted across the stage in his usual acrobatic flair, drawing cheers with every leap. And me? I stood at the forefront, singing, my voice soft and melodic, designed to soothe and charm.

It was a simple thing, performing. But tonight, something prickled at the back of my sensors. A presence. I paused mid-song, tilting my head, scanning the edges of the stage. The crowd was oblivious, clapping and laughing, but there. In the vent above the stage, a faint shadow moved.

Ennard.

I froze for a fraction of a second, careful to keep my outward expression cheerful. Ennard never spoke; he never needed to. He was always there, lurking in silence, observing. Something in me recognized him immediately—an anomaly in the performance loop, a danger wrapped in metallic calm. The vent rattled faintly as he shifted, and my internal systems—both programmed and… other—reacted.

“Everything is fine,” I whispered to myself, but my internal processors flagged the lie. Children were laughing, oblivious, and Funtime Freddy was waving Bon Bon in some ridiculous dance routine. But I couldn’t ignore him. Ennard’s gaze, though silent, carried intent. I watched him, calculating, predicting. He didn’t move to attack—not yet—but he watched, and that was enough to make my circuits tingle.