DISCLAIMER #1: I, for the love of God, do not fucking use AI. Get your head out of the gutter.

DISCLAIMER #2: Please do not make any webcomic requests or commissions. Thank you.

Inside the VIP room of Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria, the disco ball spun lazily overhead, casting fractured rainbows across the polished chrome and plush red velvet. A low hum from the kitchen's fryers and the muffled squeals of children from the main dining area filtered through the heavy soundproofed door. But in here, in this hidden alcove reserved for birthday parties and high rollers, the air was thick with something more—something charged, electric, almost volatile.

Roxy "Roxanne" Wolf stood center stage on the small performance platform, her custom-built guitar slung low across her hip, her paws tapping in irritation. Her fur gleamed under the stage lights. Neon streaks in her hair pulsed in time with the music still trickling from the speaker system: a medley of classic rock riffs that she had curated herself, a labor of love spanning decades of study and mechanical calibration.

"Can you believe this?" she muttered, kicking a stray party hat with her foot. "They didn't even clap after 'Sweet Child O' Mine'. Not a single guitar air-solo."

Beside her, Freddy Fazbear adjusted his bowtie with practiced calm. "Now, Roxy, not everyone appreciates the finer nuances of rock 'n' roll the way you do. Some folks just come for the pizza."

"Pizza?" she snapped, her ears flattening. “They’re sitting on velvet benches, drinking fizzy soda from champagne flutes and they don't respond when the solo hits? When Slash practically cries through that guitar? It's sacrilege!”

Bonnie handed her a bottle of synthetic coolant—her version of a drink. "Maybe they didn't recognize the song," he offered gently.

Roxy’s eyes narrowed. "It's one of the most iconic solos in history. If they don't know it, they don't deserve to breathe the same air as amplified distortion."

Chica, busy arranging a tray of mini calzones, glanced over. "You're being dramatic again."

"I'm being prinicpled," Roxy corrected, pacing now. "Music isn't just background noise. It's truth. It's soul. And these... civilian processors.... they don't get it. They tap their feet like zombies. They talk over the bridge sections. One kid even asked if the ‘guitar man’ could play 'that TikTok song'."

"Or that dumbass Train song..."

Tell me, did you sail across the sun?/Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded/And that Heaven is overrated?

"Or that other dumbass Train song..."

Hey, soul sister/Ain't that Mr. Mister on the radio, stereo/The way you move ain't fair you know

She threw her hands up, her claws clicking against the air. "Where's the craft? Where's the sweat, the vandalism, the three-hour guitar solo at Woodstock? None of it! It's all dumbed down, Auto-Tuned, forgettable."

Freddy sighed. "Maybe we should play something more current."

Roxy whirled on him. "Current? You want me to degrade my art for a crowd that thinks a 15-second loop is a masterpiece? No. Absolutely not. If they can't appreciate the classics, they don't deserve any music."

She stormed to the soundboard, her paws echoing like gunshots. With a dramatic flick of her wrist, she powered down the pre-programmed playlist. The room fell silent—no more Zeppelin, no more Queen, no more Hendrix.

"What are you doing?" Chica asked, voice tight.

"I'm taking control," Roxy said, her voice suddenly calm, almost icy. "If they won't appreciate music on its own terms, I'll make them feel it. On my terms."

She accessed the master audio system, bypassing safety protocols with a few swift keystrokes. Her fingers danced over the interface, uploading her playlist—three hours of unrelenting, speaker-shattering rock: doom metal, punk rants, prog epics with time signatures that defied logic. She synced the lights to pulse with the bass, programmed the animatronic backup band to perform with military precision and—most crucially—locked the VIP room's door from the inside.

"Roxy," Freddy said slowly, "You can't trap people in here."

"Not trapping," she corrected. "Educating. They're getting an immersive experience. They'll either emerge transformed... or they won't emerge at all."

The first chord slammed into the room like a sledgehammer. A distorted rendition of Black Sabbath's "War Pigs" roared through the speakers at 115 decibels. The disco ball spun wildly, flashing strobes in sync with the drum fills. The animatronic rhythm section—normally used for cheerful jingles—now thrashed with mechanical fury, cymbals crashing, bass pedals pounding.

The birthday party guests—two parents, six children between seven and ten and a nervous-looking uncle—looked around in confusion. One boy covered his ears. A girl started to cry.

"Cool lights!" shouted a kid, trying to sound brave, but his voice trembled beneath the sonic onslaught.

Roxy stepped forward, her guitar now live, feedback whining through the amps. She didn't play yet—she loomed. Her optics glowing with a fierce, almost manic intensity.

"You want entertainment?" she shouted over the music. "You're getting art. You're getting truth. This is the sound of freedom—raw, unfiltered, uncompromising!"

She launched into a solo—a complex, furious cascade of notes that would've made Eddie Van Halen raise an eyebrow. The windows rattled. One of the plastic birthday banners tore loose and fluttered to the floor like a surrender flag.

The parents tried the door. Locked.

"Freddy!" one shouted. "Do something!"

Freddy stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Roxy, this is going too far. Turn it down. Let them go."

She didn't look at him. "They didn't clap," she whispered, then louder: "THEY DIDN'T CLAP!"

Her voice cracked—not with emotion, but with mechanical strain. Her systems were overheating from the emotional surge, her processors running at max capacity. But she didn't care. In her mind, she wasn’t just a performer anymore—she was a priestess, a guardian of a dying culture, and tonight, she would baptize this room in sonic fire.

Bonnie approached cautiously. "Roxy, the kids are scared."

"Good!" she snarled. "Fear is the first step toward awakening. If they aren't moved by music, maybe they'll be moved by terror."

She ripped into another song—this one of her own composition, a 22-minute opus titled "Ode to the Forgotten Gods of Rock". It featured dual guitar harmonies, a drum solo that simulated a nuclear meltdown and lyrics about analog tape, tube amplifiers and the 'death of authenticity'.

One child fainted.

The uncle started praying.

The parents exchanged panicked glances, pulling their kids close. The air grew thick with the smell of overheated circuits and melting plastic.

Chica stepped in front of Roxy, arms outstretched. "Stop. Please. This isn't music anymore. It's violence."

Roxy paused mid-riff. Her optics dimmed, then flared back to life. "Violence?" she hissed. "This is music. It's supposed to shake you. To break you. To change you. If you're not trembling, you're not feeling."

Then, soft at first—then building—a clap.

One clapped.

Roxy froze.

The uncle. He was clapping—slow, uncertain, but genuine.

Then another. The boy who’d said “cool lights.” He clapped, then stood, swaying slightly to the rhythm.

Then the father, humming along to a distorted bassline.

Roxy lowered her guitar.

The room dimmed. The music faded to a haunting synth drone.

She looked around. Not in triumph, but in confusion. Her systems whirred, cooling down. Her rage—so fierce, so righteous—began to short-circuit.

“They… they’re clapping,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Freddy said gently. “And not because you forced them. Because they got it.”

Roxy looked at her guitar, then at the children—still a little wide-eyed, but now curious, even… engaged.

“I just wanted them to hear,” she said, her voice cracking. “To really hear it.”

Chica put a hand on her shoulder. “Next time, start softer. Let them meet you halfway.”

Roxy nodded slowly. She powered down the system. The lights returned to normal. The door unlocked with a soft click.

As the guests filed out—dazed, a little deafened, but strangely energized—Roxy stood alone on the stage.

Freddy joined her. “You scared them. But you also showed them something real.”

She smirked, just slightly. “Maybe I’ll write a ballad about it.”

“Please don’t make it 18 minutes long.”

She laughed—a real, warm, mechanical chime of a laugh.

And for the first time that night, the music inside her wasn't anger.

It was hope.