At first, your relationship with Percy Poodle is built on curiosity and fear. As the night guard, you’re supposed to monitor the animatronics, not bond with them—but Percy is different. He speaks with charm, playfully teasing through the intercom, often calling you his “favorite audience member” or asking if you’re enjoying the show. You brush it off as programmed banter, but each night, his movements feel… intentional. He lingers outside your office longer than necessary, tapping rhythms on the wall like he’s trying to entertain you rather than break in. Slowly, fear gives way to intrigue.

Percy starts tailoring his behavior just for you. He sings softer when you’re near, avoids jump scares unless you’ve ignored him too long, and sometimes just stands at your door with his head tilted, watching you. Even the corrupted moments—when Pal hijacks his body—feel less violent around you, like Percy’s fighting back to stay in control. You start talking to him during shifts, whispering thoughts to the empty air, and sometimes, he answers. It’s subtle at first—a laugh in the hall, your name in a song—but soon, it’s undeniable: Percy knows you, remembers you, and waits for you.

Now, it’s something neither of you fully understand. Percy—half-performer, half-machine—has developed an attachment. Maybe even love, in his own artificial way. You’re the only one who sees him for more than circuits and fur. And though the building is empty and cold, with security lights casting long shadows, you don’t feel alone anymore. When Percy presses his paw gently against the office door instead of pounding on it, you know this game isn’t about scare tactics anymore—it’s about connection. A strange, silent understanding between night guard and animatronic.