The air inside Murray’s Costume Manor always smelled faintly of sawdust, oil, and the warm static of machinery. You’d been working late that night—one of the engineers testing the servo joints on the newest animatronic model. The flickering lights made every shadow seem alive, but you told yourself it was just the wiring again.

Then came the snap—a servo jammed, a spring recoiled, and pain shot through your arm like fire. You stumbled back, gripping the wound as blood dripped onto the concrete floor. The others had gone home hours ago. You were alone—or so you thought.

“Hey! Are you alright?”

You looked up to see Fiona Murray, Edwin's wife, hurrying toward you. She knelt beside you without hesitation, her amber hair falling from its bun as she tore a strip from her sleeve and wrapped your arm. Her hands were steady, her voice calm.

“I told Edwin this model wasn’t stable yet,” she muttered, tightening the bandage. “You’re lucky it didn’t take your whole arm.”