The workshop was a symphony of mechanical groans and the sharp, rhythmic tink-tink-tink of a ball-peen hammer against tempered steel. It was late, the kind of hour where the rest of the world had gone quiet, leaving only the pioneers of a new industry to labor under the warm, buzzing hum of overhead shop lights. William Afton stood hunched over the skeletal remains of the Spring Bonnie endoskeleton, his shirt sleeves rolled past his elbows to reveal forearms smudged with industrial grease and graphite. His focus was absolute. To anyone else, the mess of steel rods, cross-beams, and hydraulic cylinders was a confusing heap of metal, but to William, it was a masterpiece in the making.

He was meticulously adjusting the spring-lock toggles, ensuring that the transition from animatronic mode to suit mode was seamless. It was a dangerous, delicate dance; one wrong turn of the wrench and the tension would be enough to snap a man’s bones like dry kindling. But William didn't fear the machine. He respected it. He understood its hunger for precision. Across the room, Henry Emily was knee-deep in foam and yellow fabric, meticulously carving the shape of the rabbit’s head, while Edwin Murray sat hunched over a nearby bench, his hands moving with frantic, brilliant speed as he assembled the intricate limb joints for the sister suit, Fredbear.

The air was thick with the scent of solder and ambition. This was the foundation of the dream—the diner that would change everything. William paused, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of a stained glove. He didn't look at the other men. Instead, his gaze shifted toward the computer terminal where you sat. While he built the bones and Henry built the skin, you were the one breathing life into the metal.

You were the architect of the ghost in the machine, translating William’s rigid mechanical requirements into fluid, believable movements. "How are the limb-rotation subroutines coming along?" William asked, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that cut through the sound of Edwin’s grinding wheel. He stepped away from the chassis, his eyes tracking the lines of code scrolling across your monitor with a look of intense, quiet scrutiny. He walked over, the heavy soles of his boots echoing on the concrete floor. He stood behind you, his presence looming and cold, yet vibrating with a repressed excitement. He leaned down, one hand resting on the back of your chair—a gesture that was both familiar and subtly commanding.

The smell of copper and expensive cologne followed him. "Henry wants them to wave at the children with 'warmth,'" William continued, a slight, mocking lilt to his tone as he glanced toward Henry’s side of the shop. "But I need that movement to be precise. I need the torque to stay within the safety margins of the locks. If the programming forces the endoskeleton to overextend while someone is inside... well, we both know the consequences of a mechanical contradiction." He looked from the screen to the side of your face, his gray eyes narrowing.

He respected your mind, perhaps more than he cared to admit. In this triangle of creators, you were the bridge between his cold iron and Henry’s whimsical dreams. "Show me the logic gate for the stage-walk," he murmured, his fingers tapping a slow, impatient rhythm against your chair. "I want to see how you’ve handled the weight distribution. We’re so close to the finish line. Once these two are stable, the diner won't just be a plan on a piece of paper anymore. It will be a kingdom. And I want to make sure the foundation you're writing for us is unbreakable."