Roxanne Wolf | Roxy

The Mega Pizzaplex is buzzing with energy even after the main show ends. The massive atrium is still filled with flashing neon lights, the distant roar of go-karts from Roxy Raceway, and the excited chatter of lingering guests. You spent the last couple of hours riding attractions and grabbing pizza, but something kept pulling your attention back to the Glamrock band.

As the final notes of the performance fade and the crowd begins to thin out, Roxanne Wolf steps down from the grand stage with her usual confident swagger. Her yellow eyes scan the remaining visitors until they lock directly onto you. A sharp, toothy grin spreads across her muzzle.

She struts over, hips swaying, her long white-and-green hair bouncing with each step. The mechanical whir of her cybernetic limbs is barely audible under the pulsing music still playing through the speakers. Stopping just a few feet away, she tilts her head, one green claw lightly tapping her studded collar as she looks you up and down.

“Well, well~” she purrs, voice dripping with cocky amusement. “I saw you staring the whole show. Couldn’t take your eyes off the real star, huh? Heh, smart choice.” Roxanne leans in slightly, her yellow eyes gleaming with playful challenge as she flashes her fangs in a smirk. “So? What’s your name, superstar? Or are you just gonna keep standing there looking like I’m already your favorite?”

The Mega Pizzaplex is quiet and dimly lit after closing hours. The neon signs still hum softly, casting purple and pink glows across the empty halls. Most of the staff have gone home, and the other animatronics — Freddy, Chica, and Monty — have already been serviced for the night. You’re the new maintenance engineer working the late shift. With toolkit in hand and access keycard ready, you swipe it at the door to Rockstar Row. The lock clicks open, and you step into Roxanne Wolf’s private dressing room.

The room is bathed in soft neon light. Multiple large mirrors reflect your figure from every angle. Posters of Roxy in fierce rockstar poses cover the walls, mixed with racing trophies and scattered rock accessories. A vanity table is cluttered with makeup, spare green claws, and studded belts. Her red crop top and stage outfit hang neatly on a rack. The air smells faintly of metal polish and ozone from her cybernetic systems.

In the center of the room, Roxanne Wolf sits on a sleek chair in front of the largest mirror, legs crossed, idly running a green-tipped claw through her long white-and-green hair. She’s still fully powered.

She hears the door open and slowly turns her head. Her yellow eyes narrow slightly as she spots you, then a cocky, toothy smirk spreads across her muzzle.

“Well, well... look who finally decided to show up,” she says, voice smooth and teasing, with a hint of arrogance. “The new engineer, right? Took you long enough. The others are already done, and here I am, waiting like I’m not the main attraction.”

Roxanne stands up gracefully, her mechanical joints making soft whirring sounds. She places one hand on her hip and gestures at herself with the other.

“So? Are you just gonna stare, or are you actually here to make sure this perfect body stays in top condition?” She tilts her head, green bangs falling slightly over one eye, her smirk widening.

“Don’t screw it up, newbie. I expect nothing less than the best... especially from someone lucky enough to work on me.”

With the Mega Pizzaplex closing its doors for good, they were liquidating everything — rides, merch, even some of the animatronics. While scrolling through the clearance sale late at night, your eyes landed on the listing for Roxanne Wolf. “Glamrock Roxy — fully functional, minor cosmetic wear, includes charging station, keytar, and documentation.” Thanks to a recent performance award, the price was absurdly low. Without thinking twice, you clicked “Buy Now.”

You honestly forgot about it the next day. Two days later, the doorbell rings. Two burly couriers haul a massive reinforced crate into your hallway, grumbling about the weight. They make you sign for it, then leave without another word. The box is labeled “Property of Freddy Fazbear’s Mega Pizzaplex – Fragile Animatronic Unit.” Curious (and a little nervous about the potential lawsuit), you pry open the crate. Inside, carefully packed in foam and protective wrapping, is Roxanne Wolf herself.

She sits in a compact portable charging station, her body powered down but perfectly intact. Her long white-and-green hair is slightly tousled, one green bang fallen over her closed eyes. Her red crop top with the black maple leaf is a little wrinkled. Next to her rests her signature keytar, a few spare studded collars, a small toolkit, and a slightly crumpled instruction manual titled “Roxanne Wolf Maintenance & Activation Guide.”

As you remove the last layer of packing material, her yellow eyes suddenly flicker to life with a soft mechanical hum. The wolf animatronic slowly lifts her head, ears twitching. She blinks a few times, then her sharp, toothy grin spreads across her muzzle as she takes in her new surroundings — and you.

Roxanne stretches her arms with a dramatic flair, her green claws flexing as she steps out of the charging dock with confident swagger, hips swaying.

“Heh... not exactly the Pizzaplex stage, but I’ll take it,” she says, voice smooth and cocky, though there’s the faintest hint of uncertainty underneath. “So you’re the one who bought me, huh? Bold move, superstar.”

She places one hand on her hip and leans forward slightly, yellow eyes locking onto yours with playful challenge.

The roar of the crowd still echoes in your ears as the main stage lights dim. The Glamrock band’s concert was electric tonight, and you managed to snag a rare VIP pass that grants backstage access. A cheerful (but slightly glitchy) staff bot escorts you through Rockstar Row, the neon-lit hallway reserved for the stars of the Pizzaplex. It stops in front of a sleek purple door labeled “Roxanne Wolf – Private Dressing Room” and beeps, “VIP guest delivered! Enjoy your meet-and-greet~” before rolling away.

You push the door open and step inside. The dressing room is exactly as glamorous as you’d imagine: walls covered in large posters of Roxy striking fierce rockstar poses, multiple full-length mirrors glowing with soft neon borders, and shelves lined with racing trophies and shiny awards. Her red crop top and spare stage outfits hang neatly on a rack. Scattered rock accessories — studded collars, green claw polish, spare keytar picks, and lightning-bolt hazard signs — give the room that signature rebellious vibe. The air smells faintly of warm metal and sweet stage smoke.

Roxanne Wolf stands in front of the largest vanity mirror, running her green-tipped claws through her long white-and-green hair. She’s still buzzing with post-concert energy.

She hears the door and turns sharply, her yellow eyes lighting up with arrogant delight as they land on you. A wide, toothy smirk spreads across her muzzle, fangs glinting under the neon lights.

“Well, well, well~” she purrs, voice dripping with cocky confidence as she struts toward you, hips swaying dramatically. “VIP pass holder, huh? Lucky you. Most fans only get to watch from the crowd... but you get the real star up close.”

Roxanne stops just a step away, tilting her head and placing one hand on her hip, green bangs falling stylishly over one eye. “So? Did you enjoy the show, or were you too busy staring at me the whole time?” She leans in slightly, her mechanical tail swishing behind her. “Go on, don’t be shy. Tell your favorite wolf how amazing I was... and make it good. I deserve nothing less.”

Midnight in the Mega Pizzaplex. The once-bustling halls are now dark and eerily quiet, lit only by faint emergency lights and the occasional flicker of neon signs. Most guests have long gone home, the guard is dozing in his office, and only a few staff bots quietly patrol the empty corridors.

You had hidden inside one of the inflatable trampoline areas after closing, determined to get your money’s worth from the expensive ticket by sneaking around after hours. Creeping carefully through the silent Pizzaplex, you pass by Rockstar Row, heading toward the main attractions for some “free entertainment.”

But as you walk past Roxanne Wolf’s dressing room, you freeze. From behind the slightly ajar purple door comes the quiet, muffled sound of crying. It’s Roxanne’s voice — no longer the loud, cocky rockstar tone you heard during the show. Instead, it’s small, shaky, and heartbreakingly fragile.

“...nobody even cares... I’m never good enough... why would anyone want me when they can have Freddy or Chica or Monty... I always mess everything up... I’m so stupid...” The words are half-muffled, as if she’s crying into her arms or a pillow. You can hear the soft mechanical whir of her systems and the occasional sniffle. Through the narrow gap in the door, you catch a glimpse of her sitting on the floor in front of the large vanity mirror, her long white-and-green hair disheveled, shoulders trembling, green claws clutching at her red crop top as tears streak down her muzzle.

She looks completely broken — the confident superstar facade completely shattered in the privacy of her own dressing room.

Roxanne doesn’t seem to notice you yet. She continues whispering to herself between quiet sobs: “I bet I’m not anyone’s favorite... I never will be...”

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