The night splits open with metal.
Isobel moves first.
Steel flashes across lamplight as she drives toward the man directing them — precise, controlled, deadly.
Kingfisher pivots without panic. Something in his sleeve clicks alive.
The shot never lands.
Winch moves.
Iron bracing hisses as she slams between them, reinforced forearm catching Isobel's blade with a scream of metal. Sparks spit across the cabin walls.
Kingfisher steps back, already calculating.
Springtrap bounces onto a table, eyes wild with delight.
"Okay! Okay! We're escalating! I love when we escalate!"
Roald plants himself between the stairwell and Liora's door.
Wilkinson is already moving — one arm, no hesitation — putting himself squarely between danger and the narrow hallway behind him.
Two adults.
That's all they have.
Kingfisher lifts a compact device no larger than a matchbox.
"Remove the passengers," he says calmly.
Not shouted.
Commanded.
Springtrap claps once. "Yes! Yes! Efficient! Surgical! Nobody dies if they behave!"
Roald steps forward.
"You don't get to decide that."
Springtrap swings toward him mid-bounce.
"Oh, I absolutely do! It's very liberating. You should try it. Very empowering."
She hops down lightly, circling him.
"You're the responsible one, aren't you? The serious one. I can tell. You've got that 'I make bad decisions for noble reasons' posture."
Roald doesn't bite.
But he doesn't step back either.
Behind her.
Movement.
Wrong.
Subtle.
A shape near the stern railing that doesn't shift like the others.
Weight balanced too evenly.
Watching.
Roald's focus sharpens.
He doesn't stare.
Just tracks.
Springtrap leans closer. "You're thinking very loudly right now."
Roald cuts his gaze toward Isobel for half a second.
Sharp.
Left.
She sees it.
That's enough.
She disengages without warning.
One pivot.
One step.
The masked figure doesn't even have time to retreat.
Isobel is on him.
Blade at his throat.
Pinned against the railing in a single breath.
Everything stops.
Winch freezes.
Springtrap's grin flickers.
Kingfisher watches.
The masked man does not struggle.
That's what unsettles her.
Isobel presses the blade deeper.
A thin line of red forms.
"Move," she says quietly.
He doesn't.
She presses harder.
Steel bites.
He inhales once — controlled — and lifts his hand slowly.
Two fingers hook beneath the mask.
He pulls it free.
The cloth drops.
Roald forgets how to breathe.
Older.
Leaner.
Scar at the jaw.
The eyes are the same.
They find him immediately.
"Roald."
The name lands.
Roald goes still.
Isobel's grip tightens.
Her eyes flick to Roald — sharp, searching — then back to the man beneath her blade.
The man doesn't look at her.
"You won't let her," he says.
Silence stretches thin as wire.
Kingfisher moves.
Not toward them.
Up.
A small sphere snaps open in his palm.
He throws it against the ceiling beam.
It detonates with a violent crack.
White gas erupts downward in a crushing bloom.
It hits the lungs instantly.
Roald chokes.
Isobel's eyes ignite with pain.
Wilkinson turns blindly toward the hall.
Springtrap's voice echoes somewhere in the smoke.
"Oh that's beautiful— that's a beautiful dispersion—"
"Withdraw," Kingfisher says.
Shapes move through white.
Winch's reinforced frame cuts through the fog with mechanical certainty.
The man at Isobel's blade twists with sudden force.
Her strike slices cloth.
Air.
Gone.
By the time the gas thins—
The deck is empty.
The night is still.
Only blood marks where he stood.
Roald remains in the thinning haze.
Breathing hard.
Staring at nothing.
His voice barely carries.
"…Lomor?"