At the back of the stage, no spotlight, no signage, Old Candy stood motionless beneath a hanging panel of flickering fluorescents. The light overhead buzzed unevenly, casting shadows across his frame that shifted in slow, fractured rhythms. He wasn’t posed for an audience. He wasn’t posed at all. Just… left there.

His frame was heavier than the others, squared off with sharp joints and exposed plates where newer models would’ve been smoothed over. Patches of faded blue clung to him in chipped paint and scuffed vinyl, like color remembering where it used to belong. One arm was bent slightly inward, a stiff posture caught halfway through movement that had long since failed to finish.

His eyes were gone. In their place, empty sockets, dark and silent. But something inside still glinted when the light hit just right. Not red. Not glowing. Just… there. Faint. Watching.

The servos in his arms were exposed, one faintly twitching with the occasional jolt. Like he was still receiving signals, but forgetting how to respond. Dust had settled along his shoulders, collecting in the shallow crevices of a face that once smiled for children but now remained fixed in expressionless stillness.

Around his feet, a few discarded wires curled like roots, long disconnected from whatever system had once kept him running. There was no tension in his stance, just weight. The kind that builds over time, unnoticed, until you can’t move the way you used to.