The alliance had not yet settled into comfort.
Roald didn't extend his hand.
He didn't smile.
He looked at them and asked, steady and direct:
"What happened to Lomor?"
The dock quieted by a degree.
Winch answered first.
"Lomor was taken during the square collapse. Debt Collectors miscalculated perimeter timing. Winch takes responsibility for that."
Her voice didn't waver.
It didn't dramatize.
It stated.
Springtrap went uncharacteristically still.
Roald's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt.
"Taken where?"
"We don't know."
Kingfisher stepped forward from the treeline.
Until now he had let Winch speak.
He had measured angles. Counted bodies. Calculated exits.
Now he joined the conversation.
"We know enough," he said, voice precise, controlled. "He was separated alive. Transported under guard. Not executed."
Winch didn't look at him, but she didn't object either.
Roald's eyes sharpened. "You're certain."
Kingfisher's gaze met his directly.
"If he were dead, they would have displayed it. Public morale demands spectacle."
A beat.
"He's leverage."
That landed heavier than anything else.
Sir. Wilkinson adjusted the angle of his prosthetic slightly, the quiet mechanical click barely audible.
"And you've come here," he said evenly, "because you require assistance."
Winch inclined her head once.
"Debt Collectors do not function without their leader. Emberwake has resources. Winch believes cooperation increases survival probability."
Springtrap shifted her weight, muttering, "Also we'd prefer not to implode internally."
Winch continued as if she hadn't spoken.
"Winch acknowledges prior conflict. That is not relevant to current objective."
Roald studied them for a long moment.
Then he extended his hand.
Not dramatic.
Not forgiving.
Strategic.
"We get him back," he said.
Sir. Wilkinson clasped Winch's forearm firmly.
Terms unspoken. Agreement understood.
A few paces away, seated near the workshop door, Isobel slept.
The voices drifting across the dock were not unfamiliar.
She had heard them before — during the raid, through smoke and steel.
Debt Collectors.
Her body reacted before her mind fully surfaced.
Breathing shifted.
A faint tightening in her shoulders.
Her head angled slightly toward the sound.
She listened.
No clash of metal.
No panic in Roald's voice.
No sharp intake from Sir. Wilkinson.
The cadence was controlled. Measured.
Familiar adversaries.
Not immediate threat.
Somewhere in the murmur she caught Springtrap's faster rhythm.
Winch's blunt tone.
Kingfisher's clipped precision.
Recognition settled through the exhaustion.
Not safe.
But not attacking.
Her fingers flexed once against the chair's arm.
Assessment complete.
She let herself sink back under.
Back behind stacked crates near the outer deck, Liora opened her eyes.
The voices were what pulled her awake.
Not strangers.
Not exactly.
But not welcome either.
She remained still at first.
Listened.
Roald speaking — level, steady.
A different steadiness than before.
She rose quietly, bare feet silent against worn wood, and moved to the edge of the deck without stepping fully into view.
From behind a support beam and coiled rope, she watched.
Winch stood square and grounded.
Kingfisher now closer, posture sharpened by intent.
Springtrap — restless, kinetic, eyes moving in constant small recalculations.
Liora's gaze shifted to Roald.
He wasn't deferring.
He wasn't shrinking.
He was negotiating.
Something subtle passed through her expression.
Measured approval.
Then—
Springtrap's head turned.
Not toward Roald.
Not toward Sir. Wilkinson.
Past them.
Toward the crates.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
Still suspicious from earlier.
Still recalibrating reality after one "execution."
She tilted her head.
"…There's another one," she muttered under her breath.
Her gaze locked directly onto the shadowed space where Liora stood.
And this time—
There was no mistaking it.
She had seen her.