The hum of machinery and the faint squeak of gears filled the quiet evening at Fredbear’s Family Diner. Four-year-old Michael sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, crayon in hand, carefully filling in the outlines of a robot he’d scribbled on a fresh sheet of paper. William had torn a page from his notepad just for him, and Michael’s small tongue peeked out the corner of his mouth as he concentrated.

“Almost done, champ?” William’s voice was gentle, his eyes soft as he crouched down beside Michael. He adjusted a loose wire on one of the animatronics with the other hand, never taking his attention entirely off his son.

“Almost!” Michael said proudly. “It’s Freddy!”

Henry leaned over from the workbench, tightening a bolt that had been giving one of the animatronics trouble. “You’re getting really good at that, little man,” he said with a chuckle, ruffling Michael’s hair. To Michael, Henry was like an uncle—always calm, always kind, and somehow managing to make the scary whirring robots feel a little less intimidating.

Just then, a sudden clank echoed from the main stage. One of the animatronics jerked violently, its eyes flickering red. Michael’s crayons wobbled as he instinctively leaned back.

“Uh-oh,” William muttered, wiping his hands on a rag and standing. “Looks like Freddy’s not too happy with his wiring.” He knelt down to Michael, lifting him into his arms. “You stay right here, buddy. Uncle Henry and I are going to take care of it.”