The dull glow of an alarm clock's 1:14 gave the bedroom a ghastly green tinge. Silence occupied the space, only occasionally interrupted by the rhythmic sound of labored breathing. Exhausted but unable to sleep, Mike Schmidt sat awake in his bed, arms wrapped around his knees and pulling them to his chest.

Every muscle in his body still ached from the fight, but aside from the more significant pain in his arms, Mike barely noticed. His eyes—long adjusted to the darkness—stared blankly ahead at the powered-down tv screen. They weren't exactly looking at anything in particular, that just happened to be where his gaze had landed sometime an hour, maybe even two hours, ago. He hadn't kept track of the time.

What the hell have I done? thought Mike.

Like a window shattered by the fist of a burly man named 'fate', his aspirations had been broken; broken into shards. The difficult, sweat-inducing, and painstaking work of nine years had been reduced to nothing in the matter of only a couple hours. Dreams made pointless. His worst fears had been made a reality, and as the night had gone on...he realize that wasn't only because he had lost.

After several years of keeping it under check—not counting the first match, where he'd lost control for only a moment—Mike had lost all holds on his temper. Not only that—he had also lost a friend in the process.

Unclenching his jaws, Mike let out a sigh. "It wasn't even her fault..."

Of course, when angered it sometimes doesn't take anything big to accidentally transfer that rage onto those who don't deserve it. It can even be something as small as somebody not looking at you. That had been the case for Mike.

Clear as day, he could still recall laying there sprawled out on his back on the warm, white canvas of the boxing ring. His head still rang from that last punch to his chin. Rage temporarily dulled by his daze, Mike could only faintly hear the referee starting his count, like they had been on opposite ends of a long tunnel.

"...one..."

"...two..."

Time moved slowly. Mike lazily tilted his head to the side and looked to where Foxy stood outside of the ring. After a second for his dragging brain to comprehend the sight, the man's heart dropped. Foxy's head was dipped forward, her gaze to the floor. She wasn't even looking at him.

Mike remembered being deeply hurt by that realization, and hell—it still hurt. But it wasn't at all a reasonable excuse to explode at somebody like he did. Especially if that somebody happened to be his friend. His one and only friend in the world: a walking and talking animatronic fox.

He tried to force his mind away from thoughts of her. After all he already felt awful, and dwelling on that loss would only make things worse.

In the darkness, Mike turned his head to look at a collection of torn up and crumpled posters on the carpet. Regret at his former explosion of anger filled him, but it was already too late for them. Even in their destroyed states, though, Mike could still tell which poster was which in the darkness. There was Ali, Foreman, Pacquiao, and Louis. Even though most of their times had already passed, their names were still carried on in the minds and words of admirers and critics alike, and would most likely continue to be so for decades to come. Their legacies would still remain after they're gone.

"What about me, though," stated Mike in a shaking voice. His tone was pleading, as if searching for an answer from some unseen spectator. Nothing. After a couple seconds passed of yet more silence, Mike grew even more frustrated with himself and balled his fists. "What about all those hours spent working with Foxy, huh!?" he nearly shouted at the wall, suddenly thankful for the soundproofing he had had done awhile back. "All those—all those years of continuous work—taking HITS every FUCKING day in some attempt to make myself BETTER! What about those?!"

His breathing quickening, he uncurled himself from his position on the bed, but right as he was just about stand up, he felt a dull tug at his chest. Momentarily distracted, Mike felt under his shirt with a sore hand and found what had caused the tugging: a bandage, applied with such care that he wouldn't have to worry about it falling off. He let his hand rest on the bandage for but a moment before letting it fall back onto his lap.

Not a goddamn point to it at all.

His own words haunted him. Once more, his thoughts drifted back to the treatment of his friend. Oh, hell...Foxy was only trying to help me after...after I lost, he thought. Along with the anguish of having lost his dreams, a boiling pit of shame formed in his gut. What an asshole I made of myself.

Even then, she had to have known it wouldn't have worked, though, realized Mike, she would have known it would only upset me further. It just doesn't make any sense...why'd she even bother trying, then? As soon as the question came to mind though, the answer made itself almost painfully apparent to him. Because she's your friend, you jackass.

Or WAS your friend, at least.

Sighing, Mike slumped back down into his bed. 'Jackass' is right, he thought, staring up at the ceiling. She tried to cheer me up and I snapped at her like—like SHE was the reason I lost. Yet, Foxy... Mike gulped, and slowly, slowly sat up. "She's the reason I even got as far as I did," he finished his thought in a whisper. "It was Foxy."

Before Mike even knew what he was doing, he found himself making his way over to the closet. He stepped inside, flipped the light on, and grabbed a pair of jeans and a sweater. Before his eyes had even adjusted to the bright ceiling light, he turned it back off and returned to his room. "This is ridiculous..." mumbled Mike, stepping into the jeans. He grabbed his cellphone off of the nightstand and stowed it away in his pocket.

"Mom and dad are gonna freak the hell out when they notice I'm gone," whispered Mike, though he didn't stop moving for even a second. It took him a moment with the soreness in his arms finally making itself known, but Mike pulled the sweater on over his shirt. He exited the room, making sure to close the door behind him as gently as possible.

I really shouldn't do this, thought Mike, tiptoeing across the hall over to the stairs. With no squeaking steps to have to worry about, he silently jogged up the steps. Once Mike reached the ground floor, however, it was a different story. Mike gulped. He stopped and listened for a minute. Thankfully for him, the house was just as quiet as expected at a little past one in the morning. A television could be faintly heard from his sister's room upstairs, though Mike was fairly certain she'd be asleep at this time of night since Anne had never been much of a night owl. The same could be said about Mike's father. His mother, on the other hand, had a habit of randomly being up late at night. That was exactly what Mike hoped wasn't the case for tonight.

He listened for just a second longer before letting out a bated breath in relief. As far as Mike could tell, she was asleep. You know—hopefully, anyway. Regardless of that, he was still cautious to take as quiet of steps as possible toward the front door. Before opening it, though, he made a left turn into the coat-closet right before it. In there, he retrieved both his jacket and his keys off of their respective hooks. Mike spun back around and walked over to the front door. He didn't immediately open it.

Keeping a hand on the doorknob, Mike looked over his shoulder and gave the space one last furtive glance. I should not be doing this, thought Mike again, his heart beating like a drum in his chest. He swallowed what felt like a stone of apprehension. Not at all. In spite of that thought, Mike still found himself unlocking and opening the front door. He stepped outside.

It had gotten slightly cooler as it had gotten later. Locking the door behind him, Mike ran across the paved pathway and the grass on his way to the driveway. His car, as always, was parked right next to the family vehicle. He reached it in record time, quickly opening the door and jumping into the driver's seat to escape the cold. Then, he remembered that he was supposed to be quiet and softly shut the door. After a few seconds, he reopened the door and shut it just a bit firmer than before.

"Lousy car...," grumbled Mike. Upon Mike turning the key in the ignition, the car came to life with a wince-inducing roar. He instinctively checked the windows of the house to see if any lights came on. Nothing. Rolling his shoulders in nervousness, he carefully backed the car out of the driveway. The point of no return. Mike shifted the gear to "drive", and accelerated down the resting street.

Mike drove on quietly, eventually breaking free of the suburban neighborhood and getting to the city itself. His thoughts so preoccupied him that he almost didn't even notice when the buildings grew closer together and shot into the sky. At some point he had turned the radio on to try and ease his anxiety, but neither the overplayed tunes nor the drawling voice of the poor shmuck working the radio station overnight helped in the slightest. To be frank—Mike felt sick to the very pit of his stomach. I haven't felt this miserable since...since... Mike caught himself, stopping his mind before it delved too far into some very negative memories.

What am I going to say to Foxy? What the hell am I supposed to say? Will Foxy even accept my apology, or will she just laugh in my face and tell me to fuck off? He could even imagine Foxy's voice in his head. "Sorry? You're sorry?! Ha! Too bad, asshole—it's just a little too late for that now, don't ya' think?"

Time seemed to drag on. Despite there being little snow on the ground to slow the car down, or any other traffic on the roads to get caught up in, Mike felt as if it was taking forever to get to the arena. Every so often he would glance down at the radio to see what time it was, only for him to grow yet even more frustrated when he saw that it hadn't changed much at all. Simply put, Mike just wanted to arrive at the arena, apologize, and get this over with. The anticipation was like a knife in his side, digging deeper with each passing minute.

Finally, the FBF Grand Coliseum came into view. It stood as true to its name as ever. In the dark of night, the arena's looming presence once again gave off some menacing feeling, one that Mike hadn't associated with it for almost a week now. All of the lights on the outside were turned off by now, the darkness of the building appearing to simply swallow the moonlight hitting it from above. Mike gulped. He spun the wheel, slowly turning the car into the parking lot. It was at this point that he was hit with a thought that—one could definitely argue—should've been in his mind since he first left the house, but he had been too caught up in his worries to think of such a simple thing.

"Shit, shit...now how am I supposed to get inside the building?" Mike thought out loud. The realization almost made him slam his head into the steering wheel.

Thankfully enough, some workers must've still been cleaning up after the fight, as four other cars were still parked spaced out in the lot. Mike let out a sigh of relief. As he drove closer toward the entrance, Mike eventually also noticed the dim lights through the glass of the front doors.

I guess that makes things a little easier, Mike considered, pulling his car into a parking space right next to the building. The voice of the radio operator abruptly cut off as Mike shut the crap car down. Taking a second to gather himself, he took a deep, steadying breath—then stepped out into the cold, merciless night.

Almost immediately, the unease Mike had been subtly feeling in his approach to the arena erupted full , it was as if the world had suddenly stopped around him. Not a single sound could be heard aside from the unsteady tip, tap—tip, tap of his sneakers on the pavement as he crept toward the front entrance. Mike constantly cocked his left and right to see if any of the last few remaining employees had suddenly made an appearance in the darkened hallways. Nobody...nobody...wait, is that—? No, no it's not. Just my eyes playing tricks on me... He shifted his hands around in his coat pockets.

The lobby was (thankfully) as empty as it had usually been. Making sure to close the door as silently as possible, Mike took a quick, cautious glance into the pitch black of both hallways one more time to see if he could spot anybody—or anything—before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. A press of an onscreen icon later and a thin cone of light shot out of the back of device, just barely piercing the darkness of the curving corridor. Mike gulped, and took off in a light jog.

Further and further he traveled through the hall, keeping the light trained in front of him so he could see where he was going. Not that it was necessary, of course—he had been up and down these halls enough to have almost memorized them at this point. Truth be told, the man just didn't want to have to travel through the darkness alone.

Not too much later, Mike came to the gymnasium door. The light from his phone came to rest on its wooden surface. BOXERS ONLY. He tentatively reached a hand up to grip the cold brass of the doorknob, but after a long moment of contemplation, Mike let his hand fall limply back to his side. While he didn't know for sure, some strange and unidentifiable—almost instinctive part of Mike told him that Foxy wouldn't be in there anymore. Which means that... He slowly turned his head, and the beam of light, to look further down the hallway. That only leaves one place for Foxy to be.

That familiar scent of lavender did absolutely nothing to soothe Mike as he slunk deeper into the hall. Soon enough, he found himself standing in front of that dreadful, unmarked door. Unmarked, of course, aside from the red tape on its handle. Something about the sight of it suddenly threw Mike's previous resolve into the garbage, and he found himself immediately regretting ever coming here.

"It'll...it'll probably be locked...," Mike mumbled, somewhat hopeful turning the metal in his hand. The door opened without resistance.

A mildewy smell once again filled Mike's nostrils when he entered the stairway, making him cringe in disgust, though he immediately forgot about the smell upon looking around. The dreary light, weak enough to leave the corners of the hall in shadows, seemed to only amplify Mike's negative emotional state. He could've sworn he felt something breathe down his neck.

Huffing in growing anticipation, Mike took his first step down the short flight of stairs. He paused. After a brief second of waiting, listening to hear if there was any noise coming from the area beyond the door ahead, Mike took one more step down. Followed eventually by another. Gradually, the confidence to make each movement forward seemed to come easier and easier to Mike. This might've very well been the result of fifty different thoughts beginning to run through his head at once, making it difficult for him to concentrate enough to really focus on his movements.

What am I even supposed to say to make things right with Foxy once I reach her? What do people usually say in a situation like this? Will she even accept an apology if I give her one? Where would we go from here, anyway?

As the staircase wasn't that long, however, Mike wasn't given very much to think before he reached the next door. It let out a low creeeaak as Mike pulled it open. He gritted his teeth in a wince from the drawn out sound, almost certainly ruining his chance to not prematurely draw attention to himself. Regardless, he had long since progressed beyond the point of no return, and as obvious the signs that he wanted to turn back—his brain still scrambling to form a coherent plan of action for his encounter with Foxy, and his heart, racing from a tsunami of panic, seemingly beating from within his throat—Mike didn't allow himself the chance.

Only reason I've gotten as far as I have is because I kept going forward—even when it seems like it's ultimately a bad decision, so...here goes nothing, thought Mike. Dull red carpet muffled the impacts of Mike's feet, almost completely silencing them as he went on. He walked passed the three doors on the right. Each step taken lead the man closer and closer to something that was simultaneously his goal and his fear. That door lay only three feet ahead of him now, an 'F' carved into its just barely discernibly red, wooden surface.

Before Mike could reach it, though, that very same voice he had been both dreading and longing to hear came out faintly from behind it.

"H-hello? Who's at the door?"

Even with the wooden door separating Foxy from him, Mike could hear the raggedness in her voice. It sounded rough, worn out. That stabbed Mike right in the heart. Jackass was definitely right, he thought, his heart dropping. It took a lot before he eventually said, "It's me. Mike."

A long, drawn-out pause. For a brief period, Mike thought she just wouldn't reply. Then—

"M-Mike?!" Foxy exclaimed, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Mike winced as if the words had just physically stung him. He opened his mouth to talk—stopped, reconsidering his words, then said, "I wanted to...I need to talk to you."

"I already told ya' before, Mike, just...just leave."

"Yes, I know what you told me, but there's something I have to say—"

"Just get the fuck outta here already! Go back...back to your—to your family at home, slugger," Foxy shot back, though she had begun to sound strained at this point.

"Foxy—"

"Just leave!" she repeated in a shout, her voice breaking off in the end. When she spoke again, all the force behind her previous statement was gone. "Just...leave me alone."

Mike swallowed, doing his best to keep his own emotions in check. He hated this. Absolutely abhorred it. As much as he had lost when not winning against Toy Bonnie, this was worse. Much, much worse. I HAVE to do something, he thought, taking a step toward to the door. Anything.

He mentally sparred with his better judgment for a solid minute before finally coming to a decision. Without a word—he would've lost the nerve the instant he spoke, anyway—Mike reached out and grabbed the doorknob. Trembling, the man inhaled an unsteady breath through his nose, held it in for just an instant, then released it slowly through his mouth. Mike opened the door.

The weak light coming in through the open doorway did little to break the darkness occupying Foxy's room. It traveled only a foot or two ahead of him before dimming and simply dying away, leaving a majority of the space surrounding him cloaked in shadow. Even without the usage of his eyes, though, Mike could tell from the direction of her heavy breathing that Foxy sat somewhere to his right. An image of the room flashed in his mind. She must be on her bed.

Mike turned to face the source of the sound. "Foxy, please, I..." His voice drifted off as he found the courage within him waning in her presence. Suddenly, Mike's words from after the match came back to haunt him again. Not a goddamn point to it at all. Anger with himself bubbling up in his chest, Mike forced himself to speak. "Look, I-I'm sorry. It might not mean much to you, but I didn't mean what I said earlier."

No response.

Mike continued anyway. "It was just a spur of the moment thing," he explained, "I—I was angry, having lost my temper during the match, and—and losing against that damn rabbit just...I don't know...it m-made me snap."

Once again, Foxy said nothing, though something within Mike spurred him on. It was as if a door had been opened in his mind, and the words locked within came bursting out of his lips.

"I don't want you to think I don't care about the time we've spent together. Whether it was during training or not, me losing the match doesn't invalidate any of that, because...you weren't just my trainer, and I don't want to lose our friendship."

Mike abruptly stopped talking when, out of the blue, he felt two arms wrap tightly around him. It took him a moment before he realized that Foxy had pulled him into a hug. A bone-crushing one at that. Then, Mike's feet left the floor for a couple seconds before he felt the mattress bounce from his weight suddenly being yanked onto it. Foxy's arms still wrapped him, Mike found himself in an awkward half sitting/half laying position on the bed.

The moisture of tears falling onto his shoulders brought Mike back to his senses. His eyes had somewhat adjusted to the darkness, and he could finally distinguish the silhouette of Foxy in the almost nonexistent light. For the second time in nearly a week, she had buried her muzzle into Mike's shoulder, her crying muffled by the thick fabric of his coat. Mike said nothing—he simply couldn't find the right words to say. Having never been much of a talker, this was one of the many times where that trait gave him a disadvantage. Thankfully enough for him, actions meant more than words. Acting on pure instinct, he eventually managed to awkwardly return the embrace.

"I'm sorry, Foxy," Mike repeated quietly, patting her back.

Foxy simply shook her head in response, her body still quaking with sobs. The two of them sat like that on Foxy's bed for what seemed like hours. With Mike not bothering to try and make any move away from the vixen, and Foxy still too overcome by emotion to even try moving at all. Slowly though, her bawling subsided with the passing time.

At some point later, when Foxy had eventually calmed down to just shaky breathing and the occasional sniffle, she unraveled her arms from around Mike's chest, careful of her hook's movement. The bed let out a squeak as she pulled away. Foxy settled in a seating position to Mike's right.

"S-sorry for the—sniff—for the water works, slugger," Foxy murmured, her eyes lowered to the floor.

"Don't be."

"..."

"I should be the only sorry one here, Foxy," replied Mike. "I'm sorry I was a, er, a dick, I guess you could say. Especially after you took the time to patch me up like you did." Mike found his hand subconsciously traveling up to where the bandage still lay on his chest.

"Now that ya' mention it, you—sniff—you were kind of a dick..." admitted Foxy, a small smile on her muzzle.

Mike sarcastically rolled his eyes, but found himself chuckling anyway. "You know, I just remembered something."

"What?"

"Since I lost," said Mike, realization striking him with a frown. "I now have to deal with that...date...with Toy Bonnie."

Foxy averted her gaze, looking from his face back down to the floor.

"But," Mike started, "once I get that thing over with, I—I want to make it up to you. For being such a 'dick'."

"What do ya' mean...?" asked Foxy, genuinely curious.

An awkward moment of silence passed before Mike eventually answered. "...you ever go bowling?"

"Wh-what?"

"Bowling. You know, that sport where you have to roll the ball into the white pins?"

"I—sniff—I know what bowling is, slugger," Foxy replied indignantly, a huff mixing in with her sniffling.

"Well, uh, that's good. Because I was wondering if...you know...maybe...you'd like to go with me sometime tomorrow?"

Pulling her knees up to her torso, Foxy shook her head vehemently. "Mike, ya' already know how I feel about...about leaving this place. About other humans."

Mike sighed and said, "I know."

Foxy instinctively opened her muzzle to say something else, but a hand suddenly on her shoulder silenced any response she had.

"Trust me though, Foxy, I wouldn't take you anywhere where there's hundreds of people at once." Mike squeezed her shoulder, and said, "I promise you'll be fine."

Mike expected Foxy to protest further, to disagree for hours and hours until he had to start begging—but she surprised him. After literal minutes of silence passed between them, Foxy asked him in a whisper, "You promise?"

Swallowing, Mike nodded. "You have my word."

"I...I'll think about it."

Mike smiled, still pleasantly surprised she had given in so easily. "Glad to hear."