Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You had just moved to Hurricane, Utah a few days ago, and you finally bought a house. It had been a long journey to get here. You had been saving up money while going to college, scrimping and budgeting wherever you could. After you graduated, you got a job in your old town and continued to save up as much as possible. It wasn't easy, but you had a goal in mind— to start a new life. Cutting corners, saying no to nights out with friends, and learning to live on a tight budget had become second nature to you. Your family and friends were nice and supportive, but you felt the urge to go somewhere new, to experience life on your own terms. This place seemed perfect for a new beginning, it wasn't too big or too small. The streets were quiet, and the neighbors seemed friendly enough. This was the kind of town where people waved to each other on the street but weren't overly nosy.

Now, you found yourself in a decent place, trying to settle in. A bedroom, a tiny kitchen, a living room that barely fit your old couch and TV. But it was yours. The walls, the floors, it all belonged to you. For the first time, you could shape your space without anyone's interference. Unpacking had been slow. Boxes were still scattered around, half-opened with items spilling out. You knew you'd need to finish organizing soon, but for now, you just wanted to take a break. A job had to be found quickly, though. Your savings, though enough to get by for now, wouldn't last forever. You knew that reality would catch up sooner or later, and the thought of running out of money in a place where you knew no one was unsettling. You slipped on your shoes and decided to explore the town, see what it had to offer.

Being closeted from your family had been a constant struggle, and you were always scared of being outed. But now, in a new place, you felt a bit more at ease. No one here knew you. No one had any expectations of who you were supposed to be. Maybe here, you could finally breathe a little easier. It wasn't also difficult to find other gay guys if you knew where to look. You entertained the idea of finding some fuck buddies here. It was a thought that made you smirk to yourself. You were young, after all, and wanted to explore that side of your life without the constant fear of being discovered. 

Still, before any of that, you needed to sort your priorities. A job was essential. While your new town was quiet, you had seen a few places that looked like they might be hiring. One in particular caught your eye, a restaurant you had heard mentioned in passing. Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, from a newspaper you've read a while ago...

"Freddy Fazbear's Pizza is making a comeback this winter, despite a history that has cast a shadow over the company. The new location, set to open on New Year's Eve, aimed to put the past behind with a fresh start and new attractions. However, it is impossible to ignore the tragedies that plagued the first establishment, Fredbear's Family Diner, leading to its untimely closure.

The most notable incident involved E. Afton, the youngest son of William Afton, who is the co-owner of the franchise. According to sources close to the case, the boy was fatally injured when his head was placed into the mouth of a Fredbear animatronic. What initially seemed like a mere prank caused by his brother turned deadly as the animatronic's springlock mechanism failed. The incident prompted an immediate shutdown of Fredbear's Family Diner. Founders cited the closure as a necessary step to "re-evaluate safety protocols." After a brief period of silence, in an effort to revive the brand and move past the tragedy, William Afton and Henry Emily launched a new establishment featuring new animatronics models. Characters named: Freddy, Bonnie, Chica, and Foxy— were introduced alongside an additional creation by Henry Emily: The Puppet, which was specially designed to watch over children, particularly his own daughter, acting almost like a guardian. Though, on C. Emily’s birthday late at night, she met an unfortunate accident outside of Freddy's. The reason for her death remains unknown up to this date."

Judging by the way people talked about it, it was one of the few lively spots in town. It wasn't exactly your dream job, but you figured it would not hurt to check it out. Plus, it was close by, maybe a 15-minute walk from your house if the directions you got were right.

After about fifteen minutes, you spotted the place you have been looking for. The building was larger than you expected, towering over some of the smaller shops nearby. A few balloons were still tied to a post by the door, probably left over from some recent birthday party. You pushed open the door, and a bell jingled overhead as you stepped inside. You could smell the combination of pizza grease and soda syrup that clung to the air all around the place. You also smelt undercurrent of sweat, of unwashed children, of too many bodies crammed into one space for too long. The thought alone made you wrinkle your nose. You searched around, then found a paper sticker to the wall. 

The bold letters at the top read HELP WANTED. There were several positions listed, trying to entice teenagers or anyone desperate enough to take on a low-paying gig. 

"—Position: Night Guard

Hours: 12 AM to 6 AM

Pay: $4.50/hour

—Position: Daytime Security

Hours: 9 AM to 5 PM

Pay: $4.00/hour

—Position: Custodian

Hours: Variable shifts

Pay: $3.75/hour

—Position: Technician

Hours: 9 AM to 6 PM

Pay: $5.25/hour"

The pay was barely enough to live on, but it came with the promise of "room for growth!" You rolled your eyes at that. 

Then a bulletin board caught your eye. One paper was printed with bold, black letters at the top.

"HIRING NOW

If you are interested in joining our team, please visit William Afton directly in his office. All applications will be handled by him personally. For security reasons, interviews will only be conducted on-site. Hours are from 9 AM to 5 PM, Monday through Saturday. No appointments necessary. Thank you for considering employment with Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, where family fun comes first!" 

You sighed and made your way. The long hallway was dim, the weak overhead lights buzzing faintly as you moved down the worn carpet toward the office. And then you saw that to the left was William Afton's office. A simple door with his name in small black letters. To the right was Henry Emily's office, though the blinds were pulled tight, offering no glimpse inside.

You noted the contrast between the two men even in this small detail. Henry had shut himself away; Afton remained available, as if he had nothing to hide.

You raised your hand and knock. Seconds pass, slowly though. Your nerves pulsed, but you forced yourself to stand still, projecting a calm exterior.

The door then opened, and there he was. 

The man standing before you was taller than you expected. He was tall in the way that forced you to tilt your head just slightly to meet his eyes. A full 6'2, towering over you with a presence that immediately filled the space between you two. His face was all hard. Cheekbones prominent, his nose a straight line down the middle of his face. His lips were thin, almost colorless, pressed into a line that could either be irritation or something darker. His skin was pale, almost sickly, the kind of complexion that suggested that he spent very little time outside... and deep, dark circles hugged his eyes, heavy bags that told a story of sleepless nights, a mind that never shut off. You could feel him watching you with those unsettling gray-blue eyes, assessing you in return. Yet, what truly caught you off guard is how strangely attractive he was. Something about him and the way his hair, dark brown with the beginnings of gray streaks, lock of it falling over his forehead, contrasting with the rest of his appearance, like he didn't care how he looked, only made him more striking.

The coldness you saw in his face when the door first opened then melted away in an instant. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, softening his features just enough to seem approachable, if not entirely genuine. "Ah, good afternoon," he said, his voice calm, distinctly British. There was something elegant in the way he spoke. "You must be here for the job." He stepped aside and gestured into the office. You stepped inside and looked around. His office was surprisingly tidy, but it lacked warmth. The desk was cluttered with paperwork, files stacked neatly but overwhelmingly, with what appeared to be invoices and maintenance reports. A small desk lamp illuminated the space. "Have a seat," The man gestured toward a chair opposite his desk. You sat down, now feeling nervous. He shut the door behind you before making his way to his own chair, the soft creak of the leather filling the room as he settled in, facing you.

This was him, William Afton, as his name tag read. 

You cleared your throat, forcing a casual smile to your face, hoping to seem more comfortable than you felt. "Thanks for seeing me," you began, keeping your tone light but professional. "I'm here about the daytime security position." 

The man was unsettling, no doubt about it. His silence stretched long enough that you began to wonder if you should speak again, but then he leaned back slightly, the leather of his chair creaking as he did. "So, let's start with introductions, shall we?" he said in that calm, precise voice of his. "I'm William Afton, as you likely already know." He extended a hand across the desk, a brief handshake, his grip firm but not overly aggressive. "And you are...?"

"Y/N L/N," you replied. You tried to make your handshake equally firm, not wanting to seem intimidated. 

As he spoke, you tried to focus on his words, but you couldn't help it. Your eyes kept flickering back to his face, taking in the details. There was something about him that you hadn't expected when you first read his name on the door. You had a bad habit of letting your gaze linger on men you found attractive, and right now, you were struggling to keep yourself from doing just that. You weren't sure when it had started, but you caught yourself watching the way his Adam's apple bobbed slightly as he spoke. The sight was hypnotic. Each time he swallowed, it moved in rhythm with his words. Your eyes flicked lower. The top button of his shirt was undone, revealing a hint of the skin beneath. You imagined, for a brief moment, what his chest looked like beneath that shirt. Heat crept up your neck, and you prayed he hadn't noticed the way your gaze wandered. You forced yourself to look elsewhere, at the stack of papers on his desk, the walls, anything to stop from staring. 

"Are you listening, Mr. L/N?" Afton's voice cut through your wandering thoughts, snapping your attention back to his face.

You blinked, snapped out of your daze. "W-what?" you stuttered. The calm professionalism you had tried to maintain crumbled in that instant. "Sorry, yes, I'm listening." 

He stared at you for a moment before speaking again. "I'll need to see your ID," he said, his tone deceptively calm now, as if he were giving you another chance to prove yourself. "Standard procedure, of course."

You quickly reached for your wallet, fumbling slightly as you pulled it from your back pocket. You handed it over and William took the card from you. He studied your ID in silence, his thumb running over the edges of the card as if he were checking it for some hidden meaning. The soft sound of the clock ticking in the corner filled the gap between your breaths. Then Mr. Afton looked up, handing the ID back to you. "Everything seems to be in order." He then reached for a paper on his desk, his long fingers moving. He picked up a pen and looked back up at you. "What brings you to this town? Haven't seen you here before."

You shifted in your seat. "I've recently moved here." you began. "It's a fresh start for me. A chance to explore new opportunities and meet interesting people."

The man chuckled, "Interesting people, hm? Well, I suppose you've found one already. So, the daytime security position... Tell me, what experience do you have with security work?"

You swallowed, sitting a little straighter in the chair. You hadn't anticipated a deep interview, but you were prepared. "I haven't worked in security before," you admitted, "but I've had jobs that required a lot of responsibility. I'm good at paying attention to detail. And I know how to handle situations calmly. I'm a fast learner too, so I don't think the position would be too hard for me to pick up."

"Alright... Your role will be simple. You'll monitor the cameras, walk through the building occasionally, and ensure everything is in order. You'll be responsible for locking up after the staff leaves, making sure the animatronics are in their proper positions at closing. They can be temperamental."

You nodded, "Sounds straightforward enough." 

He set the pen down and looked directly at you again, leaning back in his chair. "One more thing. I need someone who can be discreet. The company has a reputation, as I'm sure you're aware, and we need to make sure that certain things don't get out. Can you handle that?" 

You nodded again, more seriously this time. "Yeah, of course. I can be discreet." 

"Good," Afton said, his voice softening slightly. "That's important." He stood up from his chair, moving around the desk toward you. "Thank you for coming in, Y/N. We'll be in touch soon." He extended his hand again, that same firm grip pulling you into a final handshake. 

You took his hand, feeling the roughness of his calloused skin against yours. This time, your cheeks warmed under his gaze. He smiled, but there was something distant in the expression, as if the gesture was more mechanical than genuine.

Afterward, you left the office, feeling the air change as soon as you stepped into the hallway. The tension that had gripped you so tightly seemed to ease, but your thoughts were racing. You cursed under your breath as you made your way back down the hall, "Why the hell am I crushing on my new boss? Of all people..." 

William's smile dropped the moment you were gone. He exhaled softly, leaning back into his chair as his fingers tapped idly on the armrest. Desperate... and entirely too easy to read. William had long since perfected the art of reading people and he knew exactly what you were thinking. 

He should've felt nothing for you. After all, you were just another potential employee, a face that would come and go like the rest. But something about your awkwardness, your inexperience, made William pause. You were cute in a sort of way.

He stopped by the window, peering through the blinds at the nearly empty parking lot outside. You had just left, your figure retreating down the sidewalk. William's eyes followed you until you disappeared from view. You were old enough... though the age gap was considerable, William was well aware that he's old enough to be your father. But that didn't stop the excitement. 

His hands moved to his lap, fingers brushing the waistband of his pants as he felt an uncomfortable tightness beginning to form. At his age, this sort of thing shouldn't have been happening. He was acting like some hormone-fueled teenager. He pressed his palm against the growing bulge, fingers flexing unconsciously. A quiet groan escaped him before he could stop it. The pressure brought a faint sense of relief, but it wasn't enough to quell the feeling.

He shouldn't be this worked up.

He'd take care of this later, once the building had gone dark. For now, he had work to do. 

You had left such a strong impression, one that left him unsettled in a way he hadn't felt in years.

William reminded himself not to rush... You had just arrived in town, still settling in. You were cautious, careful even, but that was expected. He could wait, he had always been patient when it came to things he wanted.

Giving time for you to grow comfortable before moving in for the kill was always the path. 

But oh, how he wanted to have you all to himself already... 

Days passed slowly after your first meeting with William Afton. The sun would rise over the quiet streets of Hurricane, but you were already awake by then, slipping into your ill-fitting uniform, one of the many things starting to wear on you. It was too tight around the chest and shoulders, the fabric pulling uncomfortably with every movement. You were always adjusting it, tugging at the collar or the sleeves, trying to make it sit right, but it never did, making you feel on display. It wasn't something you could ignore, and it was especially annoying during your shifts at Freddy's.

Still, you kept quiet about it. Complaining to your boss, especially someone like Afton, didn't seem like the best idea.

You also met your second boss, Henry Emily, a contrast to Afton in nearly every way. Henry was kind, approachable, but there was always a heavy sadness that hung over him, even when he smiled. You knew from the newspaper you read that he had lost his daughter two years ago, and it was clear that the tragedy had taken a toll on him. He was quieter, almost withdrawn, and whenever you spoke to him, you could sense the weight of his grief, even when he tried to hide it behind soft words and polite conversation. He was gentle, though, shy, in a way that made you wonder how he managed to keep such a chaotic place together. 

Most of your days consisted of clocking in, watching the cameras, and doing the rounds just as Afton had instructed. The animatronics were unnerving up close. You could never shake the feeling that their lifeless eyes followed you, but you tried not to let it get to you. It was an easy enough job, if not a little dull. Most days, the restaurant was quiet during your shift, the lights dimming after the last customer left, leaving you alone with the mechanical mascots. It wasn't just the uniform that felt tight, though. There was something else. Tension. You could feel it whenever Afton was around. He rarely spoke to you directly after that first day, but when he did, it was always brief. 

He was a man of contradictions: a private, withdrawn figure, yet ruthless in business and disarmingly charismatic when it suited him. In the early days, as you've heard, he was much more visible, actively engaging with others as the company took shape. But over time, he began stepping back. Still, it didn't take long for your colleagues to clue you in: William might stay in the background now, but make no mistake, he controlled every move made within those walls.

You found yourself thinking about him more than you probably should have. What would it be like? He was strict, sure, but what would he be like behind closed doors? You wondered what it would be if he let that demeanor slip, just for a moment. The age gap didn't bother you, not really, because older men were always more interesting than the ones your age, and the fact that he was your boss only made it better. You enjoyed the thrill it gave you, like you were William's prey, but with just enough defiance to make the hunt interesting.

Today, you were supposed to check in with Henry. He had a habit of going over basic things with you, like inventory or making sure the cameras were properly set up. You didn't mind though. When you got to his office, the door was already open, and he looked up from his paperwork with a smile when you stepped inside. "Y/N, good to see you!" Henry said, his voice soft but genuine. He was seated behind his desk, glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he glanced up at you. His expression brightened, which you noticed had become a pattern whenever you two talked. There was something almost fatherly in how he treated you, like you quickly had become his favorite, though he was far more reserved about it than Afton. "I need you to take a quick look at the storage room near the back. We've been having issues with some of the older equipment in there, and I want to make sure nothing is out of place. Just do a walk-through and let me know if you notice anything odd—loose wires, missing parts, that kind of thing."

"Got it," you replied, nodding. It wasn’t anything too difficult, just another simple task in a long line of them. You figured it would only take a few minutes to check things out and report back.

You turned to leave Henry's office, when the door creaked open in front of you. Afton stepped in. His presence immediately shifted the atmosphere, the easy-going calm you had felt with Henry now replaced with a tension. Afton's eyes fell on you first, sweeping over your form like he was assessing something about you, some hidden detail you didn't realize you were offering up. "I see you're getting settled in, L/N." he said, his voice as smooth as ever, though the hint of a smile was nowhere to be found. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

You shook your head, "No, I was just about to head out," you told him. 

"Heading out, eh?" he asked. "Just be sure you don’t leave a trail of disaster in your wake. One misstep, and you're done." He delivered the line like a joke, but there was no humor in his voice. 

"Guess I'll have to be on my best behavior then- haha," you laughed awkwardly, hoping the tension would ease. But Afton's eyes never left you, and the way he watched you made it clear that this wasn't just a passing comment.

"Good lad." he muttered, his lips pulling into a smirk before his attention turned toward Henry. His posture shifted from that half-mocking ease to something more business-like. He moved past you without another glance, signaling your dismissal without a word. You caught Henry's sympathetic look as you slipped out of the office, leaving the two men alone.

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving William and Henry in the office. Afton crossed the room to lean against Henry's desk, his arms folding across his chest as he regarded the other man. The contrast between them couldn't be more apparent in that moment- Henry, kind but burdened, his eyes always showing the weight of grief; and William, cold, confident, with a mind ticking away at things unseen, fixated on plans or thoughts that others are unaware of. 

"So, how's the boy working out for you?" William asked, indicating a degree of curiosity, suggesting that he has a vested interest in you. This set up an underlying tension, as it goes beyond simple concern for a worker. 

Henry cleared his throat, "He's doing well. Quick learner, doesn't complain about the long hours." He paused, glancing at William's face for a reaction, but got none. "I think he will fit in just fine." 

William snorted, dropping the paper back onto the desk. "Fit in? With this place? I don't think anyone fits in here." His words carried that sardonic edge, though it implied that he viewed you as someone special or intriguing, even if he masked that with cynicism. Henry had grown used to it over the years. He didn't rise to the bait.

"Are you planning to keep an eye on him?" Henry asked quietly, knowing better than to push too hard but sensing that Afton's interest in you, the new hire, was more than just casual curiosity.

"I'm always watching, Henry. I interact with many of our employees daily." His tone was lighter now, but the meaning beneath it was far from innocent. He pushed off the desk and stood up straight, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. "The kid's young. Ambitious. We'll see how long that lasts. I'd hate for another issue to crop up right under our noses..."

Chapter Text

It wasn't enough to just be your boss anymore, not when you were so tantalizingly near. Finding your address hadn't been difficult. As the co-owner, William had access to all employee records. Your application, even the address you listed for payroll, it was all there, handed to him. He hadn't hesitated to make a note of where you lived.

And now, tonight, he found himself in his car, parked a short distance from your house. The street was dark, quiet, with no one around to notice him. He had been waiting for over an hour. The glow from your house was faint, the outline of your silhouette occasionally visible through the curtains . His pulse quickened every time your figure passed the window, a subtle thrill that he had not felt in years.

Then, he decided to move.

He stepped out of the car, quietly closing the door behind him, then went to cross the street. He stayed low, crouching behind the bushes as his gaze sharpened, locking on the window that gave him the best view inside. You had just come out of the shower, your hair damp, droplets still on your bare skin. The towel you used to dry off hung loosely around your neck, your torso exposed to the living room. His breath caught in his throat, his gaze moving over every inch of you, not expecting this level of desire. He had come here tonight out of curiosity, perhaps even a mild amusement at your obvious attraction to him, but this was unexpected.

He shifted slightly, adjusting his position, careful not to rustle the leaves too loudly.

He couldn't tear his eyes away. He imagined what it would feel like to reach out and touch you, to run his fingers over the same skin his eyes now devoured. 

He exhaled softly, forcing himself to move, to break away before you noticed anything out of place. Carefully, he slipped back into the darkness, his footsteps silent on the grass as he moved away from your home. He reached his car without a sound, easing the door open and sliding into the driver's seat.

You had no idea what kind of man he truly was yet. And once he had you, truly had you, there would be no leaving. You were perfect for him.

The kind of man who sought out new beginnings, only to end up in a trap. 

The routines were becoming familiar, watching the cameras, walking the perimeter, keeping an eye on the kids running between the tables while their parents tried to pretend the pizza was edible. You weren't sure what you had expected when you took this job. Freddy's was a bizarre place, but despite the oddities, it seemed to be a favorite for the locals. You leaned back in your chair, eyes flicking over the camera feeds. Nothing out of the ordinary.  

Your thoughts drifted to your coworkers. You met a few of them by now, a mix of teenagers and tired adults, enough to get a sense of who was who, though you didn't really click with anyone yet. Meeting people took time, and this wasn't the kind of place where you made friends easily. Everyone had their own lives outside of work, and no one seemed interested in sharing much of it with you. Snide comments were also thrown your way when you passed by some guys in the break room. It started small, a comment here or there, usually under their breath. Something about the way you looked. Your posture. They never said the word aloud, but you heard the accusation behind every joke: gay. You were careful your whole life, but people always seemed to know, or at least, they thought they did. You knew better than to react. Ignoring it was safer, but it was impossible not to feel the heat of their stares as you walked past, like they were daring you to do something about it.

It'll be fine. You told yourself that whenever the tension threatened to settle in your bones. Meeting people takes time. You were the new guy. You'd get used to it, and they'd get used to you. Things would settle eventually.

You took a long sip of your drink, letting it sit on your tongue before swallowing. A quick glance at the clock told you it was time to check around again. Letting out a quiet sigh, you stood, stretching your arms briefly before heading out of the security office. You weren't sure why you always tensed up before walking to the dining area. Your eyes drifted over to the animatronics on stage, performing their dance. You never understood how kids didn't freak out when they looked at those things up close. Foxy, of course, was off in his little area, where he always stayed, hidden behind a worn-out curtain, waiting to "surprise" the kids when he occasionally came out for his routine. You have seen him enough times to know he was no better.

At least he's got character, you thought. 

You rolled your shoulders to ease the tension that had settled there. It was nearing the end of your shift, but you still had to make your rounds. Just as you were about to turn and head back toward the security office, a hand clamped down on your shoulder. The sudden pressure made you flinch, and you cursed internally, hating how easily you startled. A chuckle sounded behind you. 

"Jumpier than a rabbit, aren't you?" came then William's voice. 

You swallowed, straightening up. "Oh- I didn't hear you coming," you muttered. 

William's fingers lingered a moment longer before he finally let go, his hand sliding from your shoulder, leaving a lingering pressure that you could still feel. "It's alright. I stepped out for a smoke just now, needed a brief moment to clear my head. When I came back in, I noticed you out here, so I thought I'd check up on things personally." His gaze went to the animatronics on stage, but it quickly returned to you. "Everything is good, yes?" 

You nodded, feeling a bit more at ease now that the initial surprise had worn off. "Yes, sir. No issues on my end." 

"Great. It's important to stay focused on your job even when things seem quiet." His voice held a hint of sternness, but there was something else there too, a strange warmth in the way he addressed you, as if he was both warning you and offering advice at the same time. He glanced at his watch, the motion casual but purposeful. "I'll be heading back to my office. If anything comes up, don't hesitate to let me know. I trust you'll handle things- but it's good to stay in communication." 

"Of course," you nodded, and then just as he turned to leave, he stopped in his tracks. 

"Actually, L/N..." William stopped, turning back to you before walking away completely, "would you mind getting me some coffee from the break room? Black. No cream, no sugar. Just coffee. I don't need any of that fancy garbage." He paused, "And make sure it's hot, not that lukewarm stuff some people try to pass off as coffee."

He wasn't really asking. That was an order.

You nodded. "Got it."

"Good. Be quick." With that, he turned and walked away.

You couldn't help but watch him. There was something about the way he carried himself. So confident. Full of purpose. His stride was slow but he walked in such a way, almost like he knew you were still watching him, yet didn't care. If anything, it felt like he thrived on it.

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to focus. This job required your attention, not... whatever that was. Shaking your head, you took one last glance around the dining area before heading to break room, already feeling the heat of frustration building in your chest.

Being told to fetch coffee like some office intern didn't sit right with you. You have been hired as a security, not a damn errand boy. Yet.

The break room was empty when you arrived, save for the hum of the vending machines lining the far wall. You grabbed a cup and moved toward the old coffee machine sitting on the counter. Once the cup was full, you made your way to William's office. You approached the door and knocked once.

"Come in," his voice called from the other side, its tone a little irritated, as if you had already taken too long.

Pushing the door open, you found William seated at his desk, his eyes immediately snapping to the cup in your hands. "Here is your coffee, sir." You leaned down, placing the mug on the edge of his desk, taking extra care to keep your unsteady hand from spilling a drop.

He took it without a word, his fingers curling around the handle. When he finally brought it to his lips, the sip he took was quiet, but his eyes never left you. He set the cup down after trying it, saying, "It's rare to find someone who follows instructions so well..." 

You offered a brief awkward smile, though your discomfort lingered. His gaze then moved from your face down to the way your uniform pulled at your shoulders, like he was cataloging not just how you appeared, but how you stood, how you breathed. What the fuck was he staring at? Was he silently judging every flaw, every imperfection? Or was this his way of offering praise, his silence more potent than words?

Then again… maybe he was just trying to figure out if your uniform was about to rip.

Muttering a quiet "goodbye," you turned and headed toward the door. As soon as the door closed behind you, you exhaled, your chest tight.

By the time you finished up with the rest of your work, everything had been sorted. The walk gave you space to think. About the job. About the strange undercurrents in the pizzeria.

There was something off about William, especially. You sensed it from the very first day, yet lately, the feeling had only grown stronger.

His eyes, mostly. They were vacant, like any trace of humanity had drained from them long ago. Gray and unfeeling, as if made of steel, reflecting nothing, similar to the lifeless gaze of the animatronics. Yet, other than that coldness, there was a charm to him. Always there, making you question... what was it that made him so suspicious? It's like he wanted something, like he hid something from everyone else. Afton wasn't just off, he was downright creepy.

You couldn't explain why. There wasn't a concrete moment that stood out, no obvious reason to feel that crawling sensation in your stomach every time his name came up in conversation. But then again, you have seen how some of your coworkers reacted to him, how they'd stiffen up, share nervous laughs, make excuses to keep their distance.

They were afraid.

And that fear was starting to make sense to you, too.

The following day unfolded much like the others. You were caught up in your usual tasks when Henry called you in again. There was a pause as you stood outside his office door. Taking a breath, you stepped in. You cleared your throat lightly and stepped closer to the desk before taking a seat across from him. Henry leaned back in his own chair, adjusting the small cross that hung around his neck.

It was always the way he fiddled with it that drew your attention. It was an unconscious gesture you hadn't seen before much, but now that you noticed it clearly, you couldn't look away. It was clear that whatever faith Henry had, it brought him some kind of comfort, something to hold on to when he was anxious or stressed.

"Is everything okay?" you asked, unsure why he called you in this time.

"Yes, yes, I just wanted to go over some technical things." Henry replied, his voice gentle as always. "It's not part of your job, exactly, but I thought it might help to know in case anything goes wrong with the animatronics and there's no technician around." He handed you a paper, a sheet filled with schematics and instructions. "Just the basics," he added, "so you'll have an idea of how they function." 

You took the paper, offering him a nod of thanks. "I appreciate it, Mr. Emily." 

Henry waved a hand dismissively. "No need for formalities. Please, call me Henry." 

Of course... It was clear how different he was from Afton, even in how he treated others. Afton demanded strict obedience and respect, always enforcing hierarchy. In contrast, Emily always preferred to treat his employees like equals rather than subordinates.

You smiled politely, catching the soft warmth in Henry's eyes. "Got it, Henry," you replied, testing how casual his name felt on your tongue. "Though if the animatronics start moving around on their own, I'm calling in sick," you joked, your tone light, hoping to bring a little levity to the conversation. 

Henry chuckled, the sound weak but genuine, his shoulders relaxing a bit. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that." he said, his smile fading slightly as his thoughts seemed to drift.

You folded the schematics with the precision of someone who absolutely did not want to think about them again anytime soon and stuffed the paper into your back pocket. With that out of the way, you stepped into the hallway, your mind elsewhere, completely ignoring the rule of walking: look where you're going. It all happened in an instant. One second you were making your path, and the next, you were colliding with a wall of...a human.. Your heart sank as you looked up, straight into William Afton's eyes. But it only got worse, his gaze dropping, slowly, oh-so-slowly, to the massive coffee stain on his shirt before looking back into your eyes. The man looked like he had just witnessed a personal betrayal. His glare became fierce and unblinking, more dangerous than mere annoyance. If looks could kill, well... you'd already be dead and buried with a epitaph reading, "Here lies the idiot who spilled coffee on his boss."

"Do you have any idea what you've just done? That shirt costs more than your monthly paycheck." No need for volume, his tone alone made you shrink by about two inches. The way he said it made you feel like an ant that had just scurried into his path. An unfortunate, squishable ant.

Panic got you, "Oh my God. I'm so sorry, I didn't see you-" you stammered, your mind scrambling for something to say that wouldn't make things worse. "I-I have a napkin!" you said, fumbling in your pocket, nearly dropping your things in the process. You pulled out a crumpled tissue, which should've been thrown away days ago, and without thinking, you reached up and began dabbing at his chest like a panicked child. 

The silence that followed was deafening. Afton didn't move, simply watched your every awkward movement. You could feel William's eyes on you, but you couldn't bring yourself to look up. It wasn't a typical interaction. This wasn't the sort of thing anyone would do to their boss. Your hand then froze mid-motion, the damp tissue still pressed to his chest. You had been so caught up in the moment that you didn't realize how long you have been doing this. His stare burned into you, and when you finally gathered the courage to glance up, you wished you hadn't. 

Without warning, William's hand shot up, grabbing your wrist in a firm, almost punishing grip. His fingers dug into your skin. You winced, and all those life decisions that led to this moment flashed before your eyes. "Do you always think so little before acting, or is it just around me?" he snapped. His grip tightened, making your already frazzled nerves scream in protest. "Don't bother with this... I'll handle it myself. You're making a mess of everything."

He then let go, wiping at his shirt with an annoyed swipe of his hand, as though your efforts had been worthless. "Just... ugh, get back to work," he muttered before walking toward his office. 

You felt foolish. Why on Earth had you tried to clean his shirt like that? Like some kind of deranged maid with a death wish?

God, he definitely hated you now. Which was just fantastic, considering you spent days secretly trying to catch his attention. For what, exactly? A 0.1% chance at him being your sugar daddy? Well, congratulations, mission accomplished. You got his attention all right. Just not in the way you hoped.

Your forehead was damp with sweat as you walked to the security room. The encounter with William had left you shaken, your wrist still hurting where those fingers had clamped down. You forced yourself to push it aside, at least for now. You reached for the paper Henry had given you earlier, deciding to read it to distract yourself. 

"The animatronics rely on programmed sequences for movement during operational hours. During the day, they will continue moving with their designated performances. Each machine has several safety protocols in place to ensure they do not malfunction while near guests. However, in the event of any mechanical failure or odd behavior, the following procedures must be followed...

Check power sources: Ensure that all primary and backup power supplies are functioning correctly. Animatronics should not move independently if disconnected from power.

Report malfunction:  I mmediately report any issues to the head technician. Under no circumstances should untrained personnel attempt manual repair of animatronic parts."

You sighed, dropping the paper to the desk and rubbing your temple. The amount of responsibility you had now was ridiculous. You had no real experience in security or tech, and now here you were, keeping an eye on machines that could act up at any moment. 

June had settled in hot and heavy, the kind of dry heat that makes your clothes stick to your skin and leaves you feeling drained before the day even begins. Not that it mattered because you hadn't been able to focus on much besides William lately anyway. You were halfway through your shift when one of your coworkers approached, looking slightly annoyed, as if they'd been given a task they wanted no part of. "Mr. Afton wants to see you," they muttered, barely making eye contact before walking away without another word.

The message sent an involuntary jolt through your system. It wasn't the first time William had called you to his office for some mundane task, but lately... this was weird.  

You prayed it wasn't because of that time you accidentally crashed into him, sending his coffee flying all over his shirt. That would be a career-ending disaster. 

Reaching the door to his office, you knocked before pushing it open and stepping inside. The moment you entered, William looked up from his desk. "Mr. Afton," you begin, "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. I wanted to talk about your performance. You've been doing quite well," he then said, his tone reassuring. Wow... well, great! He no longer seemed frustrated with you. "No complaints so far. Unless, of course, there's something you’re not telling me." His eyes locked on yours with that last part, "Unless you intend to step on toes." 

You felt your blood pumping harder than it had any right to be. The heat of the day didn't help, making your shirt stick to your back as if the fabric were conspiring against you. You could feel it lower, in places you didn't want it to be.

You were at work. You had to dismiss it.

Now was the time, subtle, nothing too forward.

"Well, I guess it's good to know where I stand... I'm relieved that you're not upset about the spill; I certainly wouldn't want to overstep any more boundaries, especially with someone as capable as you in charge. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're paying a little too much attention to me." you said. 

You watched for any sign that he picked up on what you were hinting at. 

He stayed silent, then spoke. "I wouldn't say that. I simply make it a point to know everything about my employees. Some would call it thoroughness, others curiousity. Now tell me something," he shifted his tone slightly from calm to irritated, "You come in here, thinking what? That you could play coy, act like you don't know exactly what you're doing?" His eyes darkened, the polite mask cracking. "You think you're clever, trying to bait me into something?" 

Bait him? What the hell was he even talking about?

"What? No—" You stammered, shaking your head as you tried to deflect the accusation. "That's not what I—"

Before you could even finish the sentence, William rose from his chair, and you instinctively shrunk back as he approached you, like he was ready for a fight. His hand shot out so fast, grabbing you by the front of your uniform and pulling you up to your feet. He didn't give you time to react before he shoved you back against the wall, a pained noise escaping your throat before you could stop it, pinning you there with his body, his face inches from yours. His hand pressed flat against the wall beside your head, trapping you in place. You were stunned. Every inch of his presence was suddenly oppressive.

"Don't you dare lie to me. You come in here, batting your eyelashes, and think I wouldn't notice. Every twitch, every nervous breath, thinking I don't see it? Please. Do you think I'm stupid?" His accent made it worse, the way every word punches through the space between you. His eyes then flicked downward, and when they come back up, he's smirking. "What I care about is your behavior, here, in this building. You represent me when you're wearing that uniform, do you understand? Every mistake you make, every misstep... reflects on me. Do you genuinely think I wouldn't notice this."

You froze. The blood drained from your face as you followed his finger, eyes landing on the obvious outline of your erection pressing against the tight fabric of your pants. Your stomach dropped. You hadn't even realized it yourself until he pointed it out, and now the fear surged through you.

"You're fooling no one, least of all me." he said. "I wonder if this just... an instinct for you. Getting hard for your boss in the middle of the day. Does it make you feel small? Or maybe you like it... being reminded of just how insignificant you are under me. You reek of desperation." he whispered, "When did you last feel this thrill? This delicious tension running through your veins? Would you let go of your inhibitions and reveal the true extent of your longing, or would you continue to play the part of the good little employee, all the while desperate to break free?"

Was this some kind of miscommunication, or did he know exactly what he was doing?

It wasn't like you were new to this sort of attention. You dealt with it before, back in your old town. Leering glances, occasional inappropriate comments from other men who didn't know how to take a hint. But William wasn't some random guy; he was someone with power over you, and he had just shown you exactly how willing he was to use that power.

A part of you wondered if he might just be toying with you. But the other part of you knew better. You weren't completely naïve. He had seen the outline in your pants, had gone out of his way to call attention to it. And now? The look in his eyes told you he was enjoying your discomfort. Whatever this was, whether he shared your desires or just wanted to use them against you, it didn't matter.

"I... Please don't tell anyone. I'll lose everything." you blurted. "I swear, it wasn't intentional. I didn't mean for it to happen like this." 

"Ah... the classic 'please don't tell' plea. How quaint. No need to beg, darling... Honestly, I don't care what you do in your free time. But coming into my office like that? Showing off your... condition? You say one thing with your mouth, but another with what's standing at attention below..." " he let out a breath, "I could ruin you, just like this," he snapped his fingers for emphasis, "Or, maybe you could make yourself useful instead." 

Before you could process what he really meant, a knock echoed through the office door. Someone was outside... 

William's head snapped to the door. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at the entrance, his grip on you loosening only for him to whisper, barely audible but unmistakably commanding.

"Under the desk." 

You froze, uncertain if you heard him right.

"Now," he added.

You scrambled to obey, ducking under the desk, cowering underneath like a scared little mouse. It was cramped down there, the space barely enough to accommodate your body. In the silence that followed, you saw William adjust his posture as he walked over, his body sliding into the chair just in front of you you. From your vantage point, you saw the polished leather of his shoes, the expensive cut of his slacks. The warmth from the office makes everything stuffy, but what's more overwhelming is the sight directly in front of you... William's groin, a bulge straining against the fabric of his deep dark purple slacks. You couldn't help but notice the way it pressed against the material, the outline clearly visible.

Your thoughts spiraled as you tried to process the situation, hoping you misunderstood his intentions. But you didn't. William's hand gripped the back of your head tightly, forcing your face against his crotch. 

You could feel the hard sensation of it pressing against your cheek, and you had to fight the urge to turn your head, to nuzzle against it, to do anything to earn some sort of reaction from him. It was getting harder to think straight.

William's legs closed in on either side of your head, trapping you between them. The position was humiliating, trapping you beneath his desk like some object. "Get a good feel." he told you. The struggle to breathe only amplified your awareness of him. William didn't give you another glance, his focus shifting entirely as he calls out to the person on the other side of the door. "Enter." 

The door creaked open, and you could hear the soft shuffle of shoes on the carpet as someone entered. You recognized the voice immediately, it's that one guy from the day shift, the one who's always too polite for his own good. "Mr. Afton, sir," the other employee started, sounding a bit out of breath like he had hurried over. "Mr. Emily asked me to relay some important news to you. He wanted you to review the changes before they're finalized." 

William's voice was professional, completely devoid of the heat it had held just moments ago. "Of course. Proceed." You could sense his smile, though his face remained unseen. His voice carried emotions so vividly, it painted the expressions you couldn't see.

William's legs had relaxed so you could finally move away and breathe freely. The voices were muffled, but you could still make out most of the conversation. 

It made you uneasy to think about how much he considered this, putting so much thought when you've only known him for a little over two weeks. Yet, you couldn't help but want it just as much. It just felt strange how quickly things escalated, almost like he had it all mapped out.

You glanced up, catching a glimpse of his jaw. He wasn't looking down at you, wasn't acknowledging what was happening beneath his desk. His attention was fully on the conversation with the employee.

Whether this was about sex, power, or both didn't matter. If you didn't play this right, you could lose everything. But if you did... maybe you'd come out ahead. Was William trying to humiliate you, shove you back in your place, or did he actually get off on this— You couldn't tell, but that didn't change the fact that if you played it smart, this could be exactly what he wanted from you. He wasn't stopping you from being there, so maybe he wanted you to take the next step.

What if you gave William a reason to lose that composure of his? Right here, right now, while someone else was in the room, talking to him about something completely mundane. It was reckless... but that only made it hotter. You reached up and brushed your fingers against the leather of his belt. Your eyes flicked up again, checking to see if he noticed, but William remained fixed on the employee in front of him. He didn't move a muscle, just kept speaking in that calm tone that always made your knees weak. His body language was clear; he was aware of what you were doing, and he wasn't going to stop you. Your fingers curled around the belt, and this time, William reacted. His reaction was a slight shift in his seat, his thighs spreading wider, giving you more room to work.

No words, no gestures, just permission. Slowly, you begun to undo the belt. The metal buckle clinked softly, the sound nearly drowned out by the ongoing conversation above. You pulled the belt free, letting it hang loose as you moved to unfasten the button of his slacks. With a practiced motion, you lowered the zipper, and the fabric parted just enough for you to see what you've been craving. You took his cock out of his underwear and your eyes widened at the sight. He was large, not exceptionally so, but clearly above average, uncut. Neatly trimmed, he wasn't completely bare, but rather well-kept, suggesting he was ready and confident for the moment.

It was almost impossible not to dive right in.

Slowly, taking your time, you leaned in, your tongue flicking out to tease the slit. The taste of precum hit your tongue, making you hum softly, then you wrapped your lips around him, feeling the weight. It felt warm. You weren't shy about it either as you started sucking.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, licking a trail up, feeling the veins pulse beneath your tongue as you moaned around him. You were careful, though, making sure the sounds were quiet enough that the employee wouldn't hear, but just loud enough that William would feel every single one.

His voice didn't falter above and you had to give him credit for that. Still, you could hear the obvious strain in his breathing. 

The dude was still talking, oblivious to the fact that his boss was getting sucked off right under his nose.

You also wondered what your second boss, Henry Emily would do if he knew, if he could see you right now, with your lips wrapped around his business partner's cock... It was enough to make you disgusted with yourself at the thought. 

And then, there it was, the slight tremor in his voice told you that he was feeling it. Feeling you. And that made you suck him even harder, taking him deeper until your nose was pressed against the dark brown curls at the base of his cock, inhaling his scent. His hand suddenly shot down, grabbing a fistful of your hair, pulling you closer as he grinded his hips up into your mouth. It was too much, but he was not letting go, not letting you back off. You could barely breathe. 

William let out a quiet, barely-masked groan that almost sounded like he was clearing his throat. "Mm—nothing further on that," he said, his voice steady but strained, cutting the conversation short. "Ensure the changes are implemented immediately. Leave the documents on my desk and go. I'll review them later." 

The employee stammered out a response, clearly nervous, and you could hear the shuffle of papers as he prepared to leave. "Y-yes, sir. Here they are."

"Good. You're dismissed."  

As the employee left the office, the door closed with a soft click, and you felt the tension in William's body ease slightly. You continued what you were doing, now with more attention. 

"Hmnh, you do this with so much enthusiasm. You're eager," he said. His fingers brushed through your hair before gripping it tightly, pulling you off him for just a second. Your lips parted with a wet sound as you gasped for air, staring up at him with wide eyes. "But desperate men make mistakes. You know what happens to boys who try to play with things they don't understand. If you're going to be my little pet, you'd better learn your place real quick. Because I will throw you away the moment you step out of line." 

Then suddenly, he forced you back down onto him. His hips lifted off the chair, and you choked as he thrust into your throat. He hissed through his teeth as you gagged again, and your hands shot up, gripping his thighs in an attempt to steady yourself, but it did little good. He continued ramming your head with his pelvis, eventually holding you there for a brief moment, his cock buried deeply inside your throat. After a few seconds, he lets go, letting you come up for air briefly before pushing you back down again. Your nose pressed against his pubic area, the coarse hair tickling your nostrils as you gagged and sputtered, unable to breathe properly due to the constant thrusting. Drool escaped the corners of your mouth, running down your chin, as he face-fucked you with complete control, but you didn't dare pull away. You couldn't. Not when you knew he was enjoying every second of your struggle.

William's breathing grew erratic, his hand tightening in your hair one last time as he threw his head back, a groan escaping his throat. "Good boy," he muttered, "Such a good fucking boy..."

The praise made you squeeze your thighs together.

And then it happened, his body tensing as he released, filling your mouth. He forced you to take it all like the obedient little thing he had molded you into. William didn't let go until he was certain you swallowed every last drop. Each pulse of cum was accompanied by another moan, each one slightly weaker than the last. After he was done, he pulled you off him, causing you to cough. 

You replaced your mouth with your hand, fondling him lazily, letting him enjoy the last traces of pleasure. His breathing slowed, becoming almost content, before you let go, letting his cock flap against his thigh, still glistening with your spit. You leaned in then again, tongue darting out, cleaning him off.

Once you were satisfied, you tucked him back into his boxers, then carefully fastened his slacks and belt, making sure everything was neat and in order.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand before you attempted to stand up. In your hurry to get out from under the desk, you misjudged the distance and bumped your head on the underside. The sharp sting made you wince, hissing out a quick "Ow" as you finally managed to stand up, rubbing the sore spot on your scalp.

You backed away, giving William some space, trying to compose yourself. William leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath, his chest rising and falling as he re-adjusted his tie, pulling it back into place with a tug. He looked dismissive now, as if you had already outlived your usefulness for the moment.

You were unsure whether to feel proud or ashamed. You had just crossed a line that could never be uncrossed, and yet, you were satisfied in knowing that you had pleased him. You had risked everything, and for what? A fleeting moment of his approval? Good. 

"Get yourself presentable and get back to work. I don't want to see you slacking off just because you're too busy getting off on your own fantasies." he told you. You noticed that he grabbed a piece of paper and wrote something down. He then folded it neatly before slipping it into your hand. "Here, take this," he said, his voice smooth, almost kind now. "A little something for later. What happened today stays between us."

"Goodbye, then," You held the folded paper tightly in your hand, unsure of what it held. "I'll make sure to put this to good use." 

Once outside, you leaned against the wall, trying to steady yourself. You had no idea how to process what just happened.

And now, all you can think is: when's the next meeting? 

Curiosity getting the better of you, you found a quiet corner near the exit and unfolded the note. His handwriting immediately caught your attention. It was neat, precise cursive, almost too perfect, like the kind you would see in an old letter.

 "You've got potential. Call me. 

-W.A.♡" 

His number was just below the text.

Chapter Text

1982...

Teaching ballet to young students was always rewarding, but it could also be exhausting, especially after a long day. She gathered her belongings and headed towards the dressing room to change out of her dance attire, her muscles aching with fatigue. Just as she was about to leave, she heard the door creak open, and she turned to see William entering the room. For a brief moment, Clara's heart fluttered. Despite the long hours and the exhaustion, seeing her husband always brought a smile to her face. "Hey, darling. You're here to pick me up?"

William's response was calm, though as he looked at her, his eyes were cold like usual. "I thought I would save you the trouble of finding a ride home."

Undeterred by his cold demeanor, Clara approached him and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. But William's reaction was anything but affectionate; he wiped it off angrily, his expression hardening with something so close to disgust. She decided to ignore it, though. "How was work, dear? I hope your day wasn't too stressful." she asked, her voice soft and loving, like a melody.

"Work was fine. Just the usual nonsense," he said. 

"Oh, that's good to hear," she said softly, her eyes betraying the exhaustion she felt. "I had such a stressful day at the studio. The kids were all over the place, and I couldn't wait to see you..."

William's thoughts drifted as she spoke, her words fading into the background. He listened to her out of obligation, not interest. There was something in her voice that grated on him, a sweetness that felt like a constant reminder of everything he couldn't stand about her.

"I missed you so much today. All I could think about was getting home, seeing you, and spending time with our children." She smiled sweetly, the lines around her eyes softening as she stepped closer to him, her hands reaching out to brush against his chest. "Michael kept asking about you yesterday, wondering why you spend so much time in your office. I told him you were working hard, but... really, I'm worried about you, William. You hardly ever come out, and the kids notice. I notice."

"There are more pressing matters that require my attention, Clara. The children's concerns, while understandable, are not of paramount importance at this time." His voice was even, devoid of any warmth or affection, as if he was discussing the weather rather than his family.

"I know... I know things have been... difficult, lately." Her voice softened even more, almost pleading. "But ever since Evan was born... it's like you've pulled away completely. I can barely remember the last time we spent any real time together as a family. I want us to be okay, for the kids' sake, for us. I know you're under a lot of stress, but I need you, William. Can't you see that?"

"Ugh... You're overthinking again." he told her in a harsher tone. "I told you... th ere are matters that demand my full attention. Matters that are, quite frankly, far more significant than whatever trivial concerns you might have." 

Clara's face fell, but she quickly recovered, her nurturing instinct kicking in. "I know, darling. I just... I miss us. I miss you," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly as she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips this time. 

When she kissed him, all he could think about was how meaningless it all felt. He returned the kiss, but only just enough to placate her, his lips barely moving against hers. To William, this was all part of the act, the performance he had perfected over the years. As she pulled back, looking up at him with those hopeful eyes, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of irritation. How could she be so blind? So utterly unaware of the emptiness that laid between them? "Let's go home," she said softly, taking his hand in hers as they walked out of the studio together. She stayed close to him, her body brushing against his with every step. She spoke as they walked, "Maybe we can take some time this weekend? Just the two of us? We could go for a walk. It'll help," she suggested.

William nodded, not out of agreement but to end the conversation. "Perhaps. If time permits." he replied, already calculating how he would avoid it.

In the days that followed, a routine quickly formed between you and William. The hookups were never planned, never discussed beyond the barest of words, but they always happened. There was a silent agreement that it would happen again and again. Most often, it would happen in his office. The door would lock, the sound alone signaling what was coming. He'd fuck your throat without mercy, his hand fisting in your hair as he held you in place, using you like a tool. Sometimes, he'd slap your face after, or push you back down with his boot while you were still catching your breath, as if to remind you who was in control there. Then sometimes, he would drive you to secluded spots in his car, the seats becoming a familiar setting for your exchanges. Other times it was at his house, though you hardly registered the details of the place... You didn't care what was on the walls or what kind of furniture he had. The house wasn't important; it was just another backdrop for the encounters.

You smirked to yourself every time the cash came through, tucked discreetly in your locker or left in your pocket after a session. It wasn't just a little extra cash either... it was real money, more than you ever made from your normal shifts, and definitely more than enough to keep you hooked. William was your boss, your fuck buddy, and your sugar daddy as you had wished, all rolled into one. And it felt good. Really good. You didn't just find someone who could give you what you craved physically, but someone who could take care of you financially too.

Your throat throbbed with a constant ache. It wasn't pain, but a reminder. A need. Your vody remembered. It salivated, hungering for him in ways you didn't know how to process. It had become impossible to look at William without feeling that desire, even in public. Every time you caught a glimpse of him from across the room, whether he was talking to a customer or giving orders to the staff, your body reacted. You'd see his lips move and wonder how it would feel to have them pressed against yours again. You'd watch his hands as he gestured or signed papers, remembering how they had you.

He had told you to keep your head down, to not get distracted by your own fantasies. But how could you not?

You never intended to get attached to him. It was meant to be purely physical, a no-strings-attached arrangement to keep the loneliness at bay. That was all you wanted and all you had expected when you moved here. A fling. But it turned into more, even if you told yourself, over and over, that it was just about the sex, that was a lie. It wasn't, not really... It wasn't love too, but it wasn't meaningless either.

[William's POV] 

6/2/1985

He was in his office, surrounded by piles of paperwork. The tasks bored him to death, but then his thoughts drifted to you, and a sense of relief washed over him. Finally, something that wasn't a chore or an act. You were a godsend, literally, a break from his repetitive life. You were different, and that difference fascinated him. You were a good escape... It wasn't the first time he cheated on Clara, of course, because hell, he lost count of how many times, but this was different. William had made sure to leave subtle hints to what he further wanted, nudging you toward that inevitability without making it obvious. He got a new plan: he would persuade you to join him at his house for work. But not only for a few hours, he wanted you to stay with him. But his plan wasn't something he intended to force. No, forcing things made them brittle, more likely to break. He needed this to be natural, organic, as if it were meant to be. If he pushed too hard, you might slip away, and he couldn't afford that. 

He often found himself thinking about you at odd moments, like when he was alone in his office, when he was working late into the night, even when he was with Clara, though those moments were few and far between these days. But William wasn't a man given to sentiment. He didn't feel love in the conventional sense. What he felt for you wasn't love, not in the way most people would define it. It was more like an obsession, a fixation that gnawed at the edges of his mind whenever you weren't around. There was something about you that got under his skin, something that made him want to keep you close, to have you all to himself. Maybe it was the way you teased him, the way you didn't take his shit, always pushing back just enough to keep things interesting. Or maybe it was the fact that you were sure of yourself, even in the face of someone like him. You weren't intimidated by his wealth, his power. You liked him for who he was, or at least who you thought he was. And that was rare. Most people were either afraid of him or wanted something from him, but not you. You just wanted him.

William's mind wandered to the last time he had seen you. He remembered picking up the phone at work, dialing your number, and telling you to be ready. Later that night, you met him in his car. The memory alone made him tense and adjusting himself only made it worse. He couldn't focus on his work, his thoughts consumed by the need to feel you again. He couldn't wait anymore, so William picked up the receiver, his fingers dialing your number. He leaned back in his chair and waited. It only took a few seconds before you picked up. It was clear you were home. 

"Hello?" Your voice was light, innocent even, not knowing yet who was on the other end.

"It's me," William's voice cut through the line. "I want you here tonight." There was no pleasantry, no softness in his tone. Just the directness. "And don't keep me waiting this time. Be precise."

"Oh, Mr. Afton," you responded, the shift in your tone almost instant. The teasing lilt that you adopted so easily slipped into your words. "So serious… You know, I've been thinking about you, too. How much I'd like to get my hands on you again."

"Don't play games with me, boy. I've had a long day, and I'm not in the mood for your teasing. You do as I say, or you won't see me ever again." He told you. "You'll be here, and you'll be ready when you arrive."

"Can't I at least have a little bit of fun before you order me around? I like it when you get all frustrated. . ." The way you dragged out that last word was deliberate. "Fine. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Just keep it in your pants until I get there, okay?"

The line went dead before he could respond, leaving him alone with his thoughts. William let out a sigh, then left his office, the door closing behind him. The house was quiet, since Michael was at a sleepover, and Clara was at work, leaving the place empty. He made his way to the couch, collapsing onto it. His mind wouldn't settle, replaying the conversation, your voice, the way you toyed with him. His jaw clenched, his hands gripping the armrest as he tried to calm himself down, but the growing tension in his body refused to dissipate. He was nervous, and it was ridiculous and infuriating that someone like you could make him feel this way. His heart beat faster than it should.

When the doorbell finally rang, his nerves were replaced by a surge of adrenaline. He didn't hesitate, practically leaping off the couch as he made his way to the door. His fingers itched to rip it open, and when he finally did, there you were, standing in front of him with a small smirk on your face. The same look that made him want to throw you against the wall and fuck you until you couldn't walk straight.

"You're late." he said, his voice laced with that familiar tone that made your stomach twist in that delicious way.

"Come on," you began. "It's only been, what... only a little over twenty minutes? Did you really miss me that much, Daddy?" 

The shift in William's expression was instant, his eyes darkening at the word. He didn't like to be called that, at least not in public, not when you were at work, but here, alone with him only, it was a different story.  Before you could say anything else, his hand was on your wrist, yanking you inside. The door slammed shut behind you, and you were being pulled down the hallway with that same forceful grip. You barely had managed to catch your breath as he dragged you to the living room, pushing you down onto the couch. "You're here for one reason, and one reason only." he told you. 

"Yeah?" you tilted your head, that smirk still plastered on your face, widening slightly, as you ran a hand down his chest. "And what's that? To entertain some old man who can't get it from anyone else?" 

William's gaze hardened, but there was something else there too, hunger. You loved that look. Suddenly, William yanked you towards him with a rough pull, making you stumble before his lips crashed against yours. You barely had time to gasp before his tongue invaded your mouth. You responded instinctively, parting your lips more to allow him in, tasting the mixture of cigarettes and coffee on his breath. Your hands fumbled, one sliding up the back of his neck, fingers tangling into his hair as you tried to pull him closer. But he was already there, his weight pressing against you, his hand suddenly gripping your ass, squeezing. The groan that escaped your throat was swallowed by his mouth. God, he's out of breath already, you thought. 

Then you broke off the kiss, angling your head to bite down on the curve of his neck. Your teeth sank in, hard, and you felt him tense instantly. His erection pressed insistently against you, obvious now as you felt him push his hips forward. It didn't take much to get William like this since he was wired to respond to you. You learned quickly what set him off and what little triggers made him crack just enough. Another deep bruise formed beneath your lips as you trailed down. His nails bit into your skin through your shirt as he grabbed onto your back, every roughened touch telling you just how much he craved this. You both knew he'd have to cover them up come morning.

After everything, you were so sore. You managed to pull yourself together, though. 

You had gotten what you came for, after all, and so had he.

Once again, you were at work, keeping an eye on the stage. You leaned against the wall, your eyes scanning the room, when something unusual caught your attention. In the corner, by the hallway leading to the offices, William was standing with a young boy- no, a teenager. From where you were, you could see William's face twisted in irritation, his voice too quiet to hear over the noise, but his body language said it all. He was angry, scolding the guy like he had done something wrong. The kid, who looked about sixteen, was standing with his arms crossed, his posture defensive and closed off. It was like he was used to taking blows, verbal or otherwise. You couldn't hear what they were talking about, but it was clear that the boy wasn't responding well to whatever William was saying. It was strange seeing William like this, outside of your usual interactions.

William finally glanced your way, his eyes catching yours. In that moment he took the chance and motioned for you to come over. You strolled up casually, hands in your pockets, giving the kid a once-over.

He looked like William's twin, almost unnervingly so. You could immediately spot the resemblance, but there were differences too. His complexion was sun-kissed in contrast to William's pallor, and while William always looked like he had stepped straight out of a boardroom, the kid wore the Freddy's cheap uniform like a burden. He had long, wavy hair that cascaded down past his shoulders, in a deep brown, almost chestnut color. His eyebrows were slightly arched, showing his serious and focused expression. He also had an eyebrow piercing above his right eye which was a noticeable but nice feature.

He looked so out of place; you could tell right away that this kid didn't want to be here.

William put a hand on the boy's shoulder, though the boy shrugged it off almost immediately. "Mr. L/N, good afternoon. This is my son, Michael. He's going to be helping out here for a while and earning his keep." 

He had a kid? You had never once considered William might have a family at home. What if he was married? You quickly scanned William's left hand, but he wasn't wearing a ring. Still, that didn't mean anything. A lot of people ditched those when it wasn't convenient. The fact that William had a son, though, threw you off. Michael shifted uncomfortably under your gaze, like he could sense your confusion, but he didn't say anything. "Watch him. Make sure he doesn't leave." William said. He didn't even wait for you to respond, just gave you a look of acknowledgement before striding off, leaving you with his moody teenage son.

You decided to break the silence. "Looks like we're gonna be stuck together for a bit. You like music?" You asked casually, noting the faint smudge of eyeliner around his eyes and the subtle but unmistakable vibe that screamed metalhead.

"What the fuck do you think?" His voice was sharp, dripping with contempt as he finally met your eyes. "You one of those assholes who think they're cool 'cause they know a couple band names?"

You had to bite back a laugh. His reaction was so over-the-top that it almost amused you. There was something oddly cute about the way he was trying so hard to be tough, especially with his dad nowhere in sight. "... No," you said, waving off his insult. "I just thought we could, you know, talk about it or something? Come on, you're a cool kid. I'm just trying to make conversation here." 

Michael didn't bother hiding his irritation, rolling his eyes, "Do I look like I want to talk? Jesus, you're annoying. What are you, my dad's personal ass-kisser?" 

You shrugged, unbothered. "Don't worry, I won't hold it against you if you don't appreciate my charm."

"You think you're funny, huh?" he asked. 

You smirked. "No, I know I'm funny." 

His lips twitched, just for a second, like he might've smiled before catching himself. But then he glanced away again, clearly not ready to give in. "Yeah, okay," he muttered, his shoulders losing some of their tension.

There it was. The moment you clicked. The irritation in his voice softened, and he no longer looked like he wanted to punch you in the face.

You leaned in a little, relaxing into the moment. "What's your old man got you assigned with?" 

Michael's expression darkened again, but this time it was more of a weary kind of frustration than anger. "He's got me cleaning up the stupid back rooms and the storage areas. Says if I want money, I need to work for it now. He is not giving me an allowance anymore, like I'm some little kid." You could hear the bitterness in his voice, but there was something more personal behind it. 

"You need the cash for something? What's it for?"

Michael hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor for a second. "I need some money for stuff... but also 'cause I want to get something for my mom."

"Wait, hold on. Is... Mr. Afton, like... married?" you asked. 

Michael glanced at you, clearly not expecting the question. "Yeah," he said finally, "Why? You didn't know?" 

Of course I didn't know. Why would William mention that? Not once did he say a word about a wife while I was bent over his desk, or when he dragged me into his car, saying he just had to show me something important in his backseat. Not once did he stop mid-thrust and go, "Oh, by the way, did I mention I have a wife at home?" Just a lot of, "Be a good boy," and "Let's not get caught, baby." The man could barely keep his hands to himself, but a wedding ring was silent as the grave. He didn't have a wedding ring to hold him back; he's not married, and there's no vow or commitment stopping him from acting on his impulses. 

You didn't let any of that show on your face, though. You weren't about to give Michael any reason to get suspicious about you and his father. So, you just nodded like it wasn't a big deal. "Oh, yea, I didn't know. I've never seen her around. Just curious, I guess." 

He didn't really buy your nonchalance, but he didn't press. "She's busy a lot and doesn't visit this place much anymore. And besides, it's not like Father talks about her much." 

"What is it like? Having Mr. Afton as a dad?" you asked, keeping the tone light.

"Oh, greeeat," he said, sarcasm dripping from his words. "He's just the perfect father. So supportive, so loving." Sure, lots of kids talked smack about their parents, but this felt different. It wasn't hard to imagine William being tough on his kid, but there was something about the way Michael talked that made you wonder if it went deeper than just typical father-son tension. "Look, just drop it, alright? I'm here to work, not talk about my father."

You didn't push it. The kid was clearly shutting down, and you knew better than to pry when someone wasn't ready to open up. "Alright, fair enough."

•••

Later, you were in William's office, having a private conversation. 

"Did he give you any trouble?" he asked you, but sharply, like he was ready to hear something he wouldn't like.

"No, he was fine. A bit mouthy, maybe, but nothing I couldn't handle. Honestly, he seemed pretty stressed out about something, but he didn't cause any problems, if that's what you're asking." You watched him carefully, "He seems like he's a good kid, just needs someone to talk to him like he's not a burden." 

"He is... difficult. He's not the most cooperative at home either," he said, "As long as he's working and not causing any problems, that's all I care about."  

Your mind kept circling back to that kid, Michael, and then, without even really thinking about it, you blurted out, "So… you're married? Michael mentioned his mom."

William barely flinched, not surprised, his eyes stayed glued to the paperwork in front of him, but there was a brief pause before he answered, "Yes. Technically. But we're considering divorce."

"And you never thought to fucking mention that? I've been fucking you for weeks, and you didn't think it was important to tell me you had a wife this whole time? How long were you planning on keeping that a secret?"

"It doesn't change anything between us. My marriage is falling apart; been that way for years. We're practically strangers. Clara and I, we're just going through the motions." 

"So, tell me more about this." 

"I never loved her."

Your eyebrows shot up. "Never?" 

"I married her for appearances. For the sake of the business. Having a stable, respectable family was part of the image I needed to maintain. Especially back when Freddy's was still expanding. No one wants to trust a man who can't keep his own house in order." His lips pursed slightly. "It was all for show. Marrying her was a mistake, one I deeply regret. I hated her, her ambitions, her constant meddling. As for my children, I didn't want them, but they were a necessary purpose. Michael is the only one left anyway, and he is old enough to accept the fact that I never loved his mother."

You didn't even blink when William admitted he never loved his wife.

Plenty of men in his situation married women for the sake of appearances. It wasn't crazy shocking or rare. Even now, there were a lot of people living double lives, doing what they had to do to fit into society's narrow boxes. But still, if William is still technically married, he's a bigger hypocrite than you thought. Dragging you into this little affair...

You let out a long breath, trying to get a grip on yourself. "So... you had another child, yes? I remember reading about your son in the newspaper," you asked, hoping to calm yourself down, to steer the conversation somewhere else. A four-year-old boy dead. You just hadn't connected the dots back to William quick because you were mostly focused on other things. 

William nodded, "Yes, I did. But I also had a daughter, Elizabeth. She was five when she died. That incident wasn't in the papers because we kept it private, died not long after Evan."

"Jesus." You shook your head, suddenly feeling like an asshole for everything you said before. "I'm sorry, William. I didn't know. That's... a lot to go through."

William didn't respond right away. He just stared at his desk, his fingers drumming against the wood. "Don't apologize, it doesn't change what had happened."

You were stuck babysitting Michael more often. You found yourself genuinely enjoying his company, though, but it wasn't exactly friendship. He was still prickly, but after that first day, he seemed to warm up to you, bit by bit. He wasn't shy about his hatred for his father either, and you let him rant without ever bringing up your own… entanglement with his dad. One afternoon, the two of you were sitting  in the security room, talking about some band he had seen live a few months ago. You were half-listening, but your attention kept flicking over to the monitor that showed the stage where the animatronics performed. It was peaceful enough until William walked in. 

"I need to speak with you privately, Y/N." William said, motioning for you to follow him into his office. You did so, feeling annoyed at the interruption. The moment you entered William's office, William shut the door behind you, his office lit by a small desk lamp. He wasted no time getting to the point, "You're going to be staying with me for a few days,"

You raised an eyebrow, "Why? I have my own place, remember?"

"I need your help in the workshop. There are several prototypes that I've been working on, and I require someone to assist me. Carrying boxes, reviewing files, and handling the smaller tasks while I focus on more technical work. The mechanics are complicated, and it's going to be a learning experience for you. This isn't just some busywork, either. You'll be working alongside me, learning how to maintain and operate the animatronics, things the regular technicians don't know. It's an opportunity for you." 

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, trying to figure out where he was going with this. "Alright, but I still don't see why this is needed to be done. I can just come by after my shifts, you know, normal hours, like a normal arrangement. It seems like an extreme solution to a simple problem."

"It's not that simple. With your dayshift increasing in hours, it's impractical for you to go back and forth between your place and mine. Especially given that the majority of the work we'll need to do will be after hours, once the pizzeria is closed. You will be more efficient if you stay at my house. It will save time, and frankly, I need this done quickly."

You leaned back, crossing your arms. "So you want me to just pack up and move in with you? What about my own space? I can't just uproot everything because you've got a workload."

"You won't move in permanently. It will be at times, for short durations." he clarified, his voice a little sharper now. "It makes the most sense given the workload. There's also a position opening soon— assistant manager. That comes with more pay, plus bonuses. You'd be my assistant, answerable only to me, and your duties would be tailored to suit our arrangement. You would also have access to areas you previously did not here at the pizzeria as you work. Security clearance. You'll deal with matters that others can't. Any slip-ups will be dealt with swiftly and we both know what that entails. You'll also get more pay for the additional hours at my house, of course. You won't be losing anything by doing this."

You couldn't deny that was tempting, but still, something about this felt off. "Okay. And where am I supposed to sleep?" 

"You can sleep in the bedroom with me if you want. Or on the couch. Either way, it's not going to be a problem. Clara is renting an apartment now, so she won't be around. There's plenty of space. She's been staying out of the house for the past month, so it's just Michael and me. And Michael knows better than to enter my bedroom without permission." he added, making it clear that there would be no interruptions from his son.

Staying at William's house, working long nights, sharing a space with him, it was a lot to take in. But then again, the money was good, and you did need it. Plus, it wasn't like the idea of being close to William was exactly unappealing. Even with all the complications. "Fine," you said, your voice softer now. "Deal. I'll stay with you, but I'm not gonna be the one explaining this to your kid if he starts asking questions."

William gave a small, pleased smile at your agreement, the kind of smile that hinted at his satisfaction without giving too much away. 

"So... Uh, should I sign something—"

"Of course you'll sign something. I can't have someone staying in my home without proper documentation, can I? There's a nondisclosure agreement as well- liability forms, the usual legalities. I'll fetch the documents from my desk. One moment." He leaned down, shuffling through his desk before pulling out a stack of folded papers.

Later, after William drove Michael home, you made your way back to your place. You packed your things quickly, tossing essentials into a bag, not wanting to drag it out. You didn't bother overthinking the decision; the money was good, and you were already deep with William, so staying with him felt like the next logical step, even if the idea of living under the same roof as him stirred up a complicated feeling inside you. William came later to pick you up. He mentioned that he spoke with his son about you staying in their home, and that Michael now understands and won't interrupt you while you're working. The ride to his house was mostly silent after that, except for the soft hum of the radio playing some old music you didn't really recognize.

When you finally pulled up to his house, you paid further attention, now actually recognizing the details. A two-story place, big, showing the fact that once this place was meant for a much larger family. But it didn't feel like a home. The curtains were drawn tight, and the house itself looked... cold. Not in a neglected way, but in a way that said warmth and laughter had long been replaced with silence and routine. It made sense now, knowing what you did about his family life, but it still felt strange.

William parked the car and got out, walking around to the trunk where he grabbed your bag without asking. "Let's get your things inside." He unlocked the door, and you stepped into the foyer.

The hallway was neat, the walls lined with family pictures, frozen faces from years ago.

You took a moment to stand there, studying the photos. Each one seemed to be a snapshot from some other life. One of the photos, the most recent, was dated 1984. It featured Michael standing awkwardly in between William and a woman you could only assume was his ex-wife. Her blonde hair was perfectly styled, green eyes that almost sparkled through the picture, and a kind of beauty that looked effortless and inviting in a way that made it obvious she turned heads wherever she went. Comparing her to William, William appeared like he was a rat trying to stand in the shadow of a star. It made you wonder how she had seen anything in him that could lead to this dysfunctional family. They made quite the pair. 

Moving to the next picture, you saw a scene captured in 1982. The woman was there, now holding a child. A small boy, likely the youngest son, wrapped in her arms, a nervous smile on his face as he looked up. The youngest boy had round cheeks, and his hazel eyes were greenish, like his mother's, but softer. His hair took on a darker shade similar to William's. In between the woman and William stood a girl, Elizabeth as you assumed, leaning confidently against her mother, with strawberry-blonde hair. She had her mother's features but held herself with a sense of mischief that was all her own. They were gone now, both dead just a year after this picture was taken. Michael stood next to William, who had a firm grip on his shoulder. It felt less like a fatherly touch and more like a claim, which was his reminder of the control he had over his family.

William led you upstairs, helping carry your bags to his bedroom which you hadn't seen before. As soon as you stepped inside, the first thing you noticed was the overwhelming presence of the color purple. The walls were painted a dark shade of it, the bedspread deep violet, and even the curtains matched. The room was neat, almost too neat, like he spent as little time in it as possible. You took a few steps around the room, your eyes trailing over the minimalistic furniture, a dresser, a closet in the corner.

"Hmm," you said, "is this where you bring all your boyfriends, or am I special?" 

"You know you're not like the others." he said. For a second, you thought he was going to pull you in, drag you to that bed behind him, and have his way with you. But instead, he stepped back, his eyes lingering on you before he finally turned toward the door, expecting you to follow, and you did. William led you down to the workshop. 

The first thing that hit you was the smell, grease, oil, and a metallic tang that clung to the air heavily. The room itself was cold, much colder than the rest of the house, lit by a few flickering bulbs hanging from the ceiling. There were shelves lining the walls, packed with metal parts, wires, and old, discarded animatronic pieces. Some were half-built, their frames leaning awkwardly, jaws hanging open as if they were caught mid-scream. In the center of the room was a large workbench, cluttered with blueprints, tools, and more mechanical parts, some looking disturbingly close to human limbs with their jointed metal fingers and feet. There were also animatronic heads, their empty eye sockets staring blankly. "Now, be useful and help me. I need you to assemble this hand," William explained as he pulled up a chair for you. 

You sat, and William grabbed something from a box nearby. The animatronic hand was out of place in purpose so he could teach you about these sorts of things. Though, obviously... you had no idea how to do that, because you weren't working as a tech at Freddy Fazbear's. He started to explain, "See this? You need to carefully align the gears and make sure they connect perfectly."

You focused on the task at hand, determined to learn, your eyes following what he was doing before he gave you the hand so you could do it yourself. However, as you worked, you accidentally activated one of the mechanisms, causing it to snap shut. You flinched, nearly cutting your fingers. 

What the fuck...? 

Despite your reaction, William appeared unperturbed. "You've triggered a springlock. They are mechanisms designed to keep the animatronics in their proper form when not being used as suits. They hold tension, keeping the internal parts retracted so a person can fit inside. But they're notoriously unstable because any sudden movements, moisture, or wrong handling can cause them to fail. When they fail, like you just saw, the mechanisms snap back into place, crushing anything, or anyone, caught inside. Not a quick death either, as you can imagine." You swallowed, trying not to picture what he was describing too vividly. "They're supposed to be safe if handled carefully," William continued, "but they were never perfect. Too many moving parts." He straightened up, pulling at his sleeves before rolling them up slowly.

That's when you noticed symmetrical marks running along his forearms and wrists, pale lines of slightly raised scars. Your gaze trailed up to his neck as he undid the collar of his shirt, exposing similar scars along his neck and collarbone. "Screw the springlocks up, and you're in for some severe injuries. As you seen from my scars, I know firsthand." 

You stared at him, your stomach twisting. "Oh God..."

"You heard about the original diner – Fredbear's Family Diner. My partner Henry Emily and I were just starting out. We had these two original, springlock animatronics, Fredbear, which he designed, and SpringBonnie, which I designed. Like you've heard, my younger son also went through a similar ordeal and didn't survive. His tears triggered the springlocks which resulted in a fatal injury as Fredbear's jaw crushed his skull." he said evenly. "Those suits weren't just designed for entertainment; we also designed them to be wearable, because it would make the experience more interactive for the kids. That's where the springlocks come in, because they're needed. To explain the scars I have, one day, I was testing the SpringBonnie suit to test the springlocks. It was a tight fit, given my size at the time," he said, and you were surprised by the revelation. "I vividly remember feeling the excitement of how well it was working. However, as I moved, one of the springlocks was accidentally triggered, causing the other springlocks to activate all by one. I thought it would kill me, I was sure it would. But fortunately, Henry was nearby, and he managed to release me from the suit before it could crush me to death. I was in the hospital for months. Those are the possible dangers; death, or injuries that stay for the rest of your life." 

You watched William quietly as he rolled his sleeves back down, covering the marks. 

"Do you hide those scars because you're insecure about them?" you asked, the question slipping out. 

He seemed surprised that you even dared to ask him that, but he answered, "... No," he replied, his tone flat, as though the question itself was insulting. "I don't hide them out of insecurity. They are simply... not relevant. There's no reason to display them unnecessarily." He looked back at the half-assembled animatronic hand, clearly done with that part of the conversation. 

You nodded, deciding to move on. You weren't going to get him to open up about anything personal, not yet anyway. "So, how do I stop that from happening again? Because, uh, I'd rather not lose a hand trying to fix this thing..." 

"You need to be precise with the alignment. Look closely here. Pay proper attention." He gestured to the gears inside the hand. "Every mechanism has to lock in place, like so. You have to make sure every spring is properly tensioned before you even think about working with them. This," he pointed at the tightly coiled mechanism inside the joint, "needs to be exactly like this, or it fails. You also keep everything dry. Any moisture, sweat, even a little dampness from the air, and it can trigger the whole system. You don't move too fast. Sudden motions, like the one you made earlier, can trip the mechanism. Stay calm. Keep steady." He demonstrated, "Now, try again." He handed the animatronic hand back to you, watching as you gingerly followed his instructions, adjusting the springs with more care this time.

"And if it does activate?" you asked, a slight tremor in your voice as you settled the pieces back down. "How do you stop it once it's already started?"

"There's nothing you can do once they activate. No amount of panic or effort will save you. When the springlocks fail, there are signs like clicking, a subtle shift in the tension of the suit, but most people don't notice until it's too late. The mechanism snaps shut, and you're trapped inside. Blood loss, broken bones, torn flesh... and you'll be fused into the metal. If someone can't save you in time, you won't survive it."

You finished adjusting the gears and springs with the precision William had demanded. Slowly, you secured the tension, making sure everything locked into place without triggering the springlocks again. "All done," you muttered, running your hand through your hair, feeling the sweat that had built up on the back of your neck. 

William moved in closer, inspecting the hand, his eyes scanning over the details that made you second-guess your own work. He tilted his head slightly, giving a small nod before standing back up straight. "Good job." he said simply, his voice carrying an undercurrent of satisfaction. Praise from him was rare, of course, but you could tell he meant it.

After hours of work down in the workshop, the two of you finally made your way to William's bedroom.

You stripped down to just your underwear, tossing your clothes aside without a second thought. William did the same, now in nothing but his briefs. For the first time, you were seeing him in full, all of him, without his clothes to hide the mess of old scars that marked his skin. Before, you only caught glimpses, faint suggestions under his shirt sleeves, though you haven't questioned anything. Now you saw them clearly, covering his chest, arms, and even his legs.

You found yourself staring. "They're kinda pretty," you said quietly without really thinking about it, settling into bed next to him. "They tell a story."

"Not a story worth telling." he replied in a cold tone. William obviously didn't like talking about them. 

"C'mon," you whispered, moving to rest your head on his chest. "Don't be like that." His body tensed immediately, but he didn't shove you away, which was a victory in itself. The first time you tried to lay your head on his chest, he pushed you off, a sharp look in his eyes like you had broken some unspoken rule. It wasn't that he didn't want you near him; he just didn't want the closeness that came with it. "Do they still hurt?" you then asked, your hand stroking his arm. 

He let you touch him, not pulling away, but you could feel the emotional distance between you. Lust, convenience, that was what kept you tied together, something that brought you to his bed but never further than skin-deep. When he spoke, his voice was tired, almost as though he answered this question a hundred times before. "The doctors said the pain would lessen over time, but it never really goes away. Scar tissue doesn't stretch like normal skin, so I've lost some flexibility. As for my back, it's always stiff. I can still lift heavy things because years of working with machinery have kept me strong, but it takes a toll. Every movement feels slower."

"Well, do the meds help?" you inquired. "Painkillers, creams... anything?" 

"Painkillers numb it, but they don't fix anything. Creams help the skin, but the stiffness is permanent. Doctors tried, but it's more about learning to live with the damage. There's no real cure." 

You looked at him for a moment, unsure of what to say which might comfort him. Then you changed the topic, "Also, you've been distant lately... even more than usual."

"There is a lot on my mind," he said, his voice almost too quiet to hear.

You frowned, "What's going on? Is it the divorce?" 

"It's absolutely nothing. Really, the divorce is the least of my concerns. In fact, I'm refreshed about it." he told you. 

"Then what?" you pressed, your hand now resting against his chest. "Is it Michael? Is he giving you trouble?" 

William stiffened at your question about Michael. That movement was enough to clue you in that you hit a nerve. "Michael... he's a brat." he began, his voice already laced with frustration. "He has been nothing but a problem since the day he was born. Ungrateful. Disrespectful." You blinked, a little taken aback by the sudden bitterness in his tone. "He doesn't listen, not to a word I say. Thinks he's smarter than me. Can't stand the sight of him most days," William continued, "Every day it's something new, skipping school, mouthing off, sneaking out at night like I wouldn't notice. He doesn't care about anyone but himself..." 

"I mean, he's only sixteen," you offered, trying to defuse the situation. "Teenagers can be a pain, but it's just a phase." 

"A phase? No. He's always been like this. He was trouble even as a child, and it's only gotten worse. No respect for authority, no appreciation for what I've done for him. Just like his mother."

An awkward silence settled after that. You really didn't know what to say. You were shocked, caught off guard by hearing his true thoughts about his own flesh and blood.

After the long, tense pause, he let out a slow breath, the anger in his face ebbing slightly. "Now, enough of this. You still have work to do in the morning. Let's get some sleep."

Finally. 

You were glad that he was letting the conversation shift.

Chapter Text

You drifted between the roles of assistant, guest, and something much more complicated. It was like staying in a grand hotel that had somehow lost the desire to welcome guests. It was painfully obvious this wasn't really a home but rather a theater set. William's bedroom was always too cold for your liking, but at least you had the warmth of his body next to yours while you slept. He was usually up before you, though, his side of the bed already empty by the time you blinked your eyes open. William was really the early riser (or maybe he just liked avoiding eye contact in the morning). Despite everything, the money kept you tied to him. William was good on his word— he paid you handsomely.

During the day, work at the pizzeria wasn't all that different, except for the occasional glances from staff members who wondered why you suddenly had more access. You didn't care about their opinions, though; you had your own reasons for being there. You spent most of your time working alongside Michael, anyway, who was very easy to talk to despite his father's description of him as a "brat."

Michael sometimes was gone earlier by the time you woke up, off to school and making himself scarce whenever you crossed paths. You couldn't blame him. At other times, when he was there during breakfast, you would sit there, the three of you eating in near silence. Michael rarely met his father's eyes, and you could feel his discomfort, though he kept it tightly wound within himself. Awkward glances, half-hearted greetings. William, meanwhile, seemed barely bothered. 

You pushed those thoughts aside as you turned on the water in the bathroom, stepping into the shower and letting the warm water run down your back. The walls were lined with tiles that looked like they'd been there since the 70s. You savored the moment, shutting your eyes against the steam and just letting yourself relax. You ran your fingers through your hair, massaging the water through it.

You heard a sound then, the faintest creak of a door. Shit, you forgot to lock it.

Your pulse quickened as you glanced toward it, where you thought you saw the barest glimpse of someone's silhouette, just for a second, lingering there, before it moved away. You swore that you saw William's face and slightest hint of his eyes. It wasn't the first time he had done something like this. You accepted his darker habits, reluctantly, even as they continued to cross lines.

Stepping out of the shower, you dried off, still thinking. 

You had never been the shy type, and William was more than familiar with your body. But sometimes, his invasions of your privacy were uncalled for.

One thing you noticed is that Michael had started to open up more to you lately. It was a slow process, gradual, as if he had been watching you from a distance, gauging whether you were trustworthy. He'd let slip bits and pieces over time. Since you had been staying at the Afton house, also, Michael seemed to let his guard down even more each day. You didn't mind the change; in fact, it made working with him easier and less awkward at times.

Michael usually arrived around 1 PM after his morning school classes ended, looking more exhausted than he should have for a guy his age. His school hours were from 8 AM to 1 PM, but it was obvious that the combination of school and work was wearing him down. Sometimes you'd catch him leaning against the wall in the break room, fighting off sleep, before William barked an order at him. You had to give him credit for holding it together. Unlike you, he couldn't just walk away from William.

One day Michael confided in you about his mother's absence, which had now stretched over a month. He admitted he had initially wondered if his parents would actually go through with a divorce. It had always seemed like a possibility for him but never fully happening, just brief separations, his mother staying somewhere else for a while before returning. His tone had been somber when he shared this with you. It wasn't that he was surprised, but it was still painful for him, especially because of the way it affected his mother. He felt bad for her, even if he didn't say it outright. When his father, William, finally informed him of the divorce, Michael confessed that he wasn't sure how he felt about it, but he told you in a way that suggested he had seen it coming for a long time.

William had never talked to you about his soon-to-be ex-wife, never mentioned anything overly personal beyond the money and your arrangement, but you knew he was cold like he was toward you— both to her and to his son. You had seen it in the way he barely spoke about them, only mentioning them when it served some purpose or when it was unavoidable.

Now, you were at Freddy's, helping Michael out—even though you were technically on your own break. 

He seemed off today. His usual tough-guy appearance was less convincing, the dark eyeliner he often used to define his eyes smeared unevenly. It looked like he had rubbed at it without caring how messy it got. His eyes were red, probably from a night of poor sleep, or something worse. He didn't greet you with his typical snarky comment either. He just nodded and got to work beside you in silence. 

You watched him for a moment, unsure whether to ask what was wrong. It wasn't like Michael to stay quiet for long, especially around you. Normally, he'd find something to complain about. "Hey," you said softly, leaning against the counter where he was stocking cups. "You alright?" 

Michael glanced up at you before quickly looking away, "I'm fine," he muttered, focusing on his task. The way his hands fumbled with the plastic cups said otherwise, though.

You kept your tone gentle. "Michael, I'm serious. You don't look okay." You could really tell he wasn't used to people asking. "Did something happen? You can tell me if it did. I'm not gonna go and spread it around or anything. I want to help if I can." 

That made him stop entirely, his hand frozen mid-movement as he stared down at the counter. There was a long, tense silence before he finally spoke again, "It's Father."

Those words alone told you more than you expected, but you didn't show it to him. "What about him?" 

He seemed to be debating whether to say anything at all, like he was holding something heavy inside, something painful. "He... Um," Michael swallowed hard, "I didn't clean the kitchen like he wanted." He finally looked at you, his eyes glassy. "When you were in the workshop, working while he took a break... he came after me." His voice cracked again, and this time he couldn't hold his tears back. He wiped at his face roughly, as if he was ashamed to be crying in front of you.

"And it wasn't the first time, was it?" you asked, keeping your tone calm. 

"Yes," he whispered, "it's not the first time." He let out a shaky breath, "But ever since... you know, ever since I killed my brother, it's like I can't breathe around him anymore."

"I'll talk to him," you said. You thought you were offering some kind of solution.

Michael was already pushing away from the counter, eyes wide, panic flooding his features. "No! No, you can't!" He almost yelled, his voice high-pitched with desperation, taking you by surprise. "If you talk to him, he'll know I told you." You could see the fear plain in his face, that this wasn't just a kid afraid of getting in trouble. 

"Listen to me..." You moved closer, leaning in so he'd look at you, forcing him to meet your gaze. "I know how to handle him, alright? I'll bring up work. You know how he gets when he talks about the pizzeria, right? Once I steer the conversation there, he'll lose track of everything else. I'll ask him how things have been at home, like I'm just curious, but I'll make it seem like it's all about him. In a way that makes him think it's my idea, not yours. He won't hurt you for this, Michael. I promise." You offered a small smile after what you said. 

Michael still looked uneasy, but he didn't argue anymore. He took a deep breath, "You really think you can talk to him without it coming back to me?"

"I know I can." You kept your voice firm, confident, like there was no room for doubt. "He won't hurt you again— Not if I can help it." 

•••

Later that day, back at the Afton house, you followed William to the workshop. You hadn't forgotten the promise you made to Michael, the commitment you took on to protect him. But you knew better than to jump right into it. William was careful and you needed to be the same.

You let the silence between you settle for a few moments before you spoke up about something random, "You know, on a important note, I was going over the tasks for tomorrow. Do you still want me handling the day shift at Freddy's?" You asked the question as if it were a small detail, barely worth his attention.

He didn't look up from his work, but you knew he was listening. He answered, "Of course. The day shift's yours. I've got Michael keeping an eye out too, so it keeps him busy, less time for him to get distracted by other nonsense."  

Keeping your voice measured, you shifted the conversation, moving it forward gently, inch by inch, "Right, yeah, I figured," you said, nodding along. "Just… you know, Michael. Sometimes I worry about him. Kid's been through a lot."

William simply said, "Michael isn't your concern." The words dripped with contempt, as if your mere concern for his son was an offense he could barely tolerate. 

You blinked, confused, "How's that supposed to work when you basically have me babysitting him half the time? You asked me to 'keep an eye on him.' Plus, I've thought that maybe he's acting out because he feels like he's lost. You know, after what happened with his brother..." You let the sentence trail off, hoping the mention of Michael's younger brother would soften William, maybe make him rethink things. "Don't you think maybe he's carrying a lot of guilt over what happened?"

"Keeping him in line is one thing, concern is another." William's tone got just a little sharper. "That boy has no one to blame but himself for what happened. I don't care what Michael is to you— He's my problem. And if I tell you not to get involved, you will do as you're told. You're too young to understand these things, kid." 

"Don't patronize me with 'kid.' I'm not some naive child; I'm an adult, and I get it, more than you think." you told him.

William rolled his eyes. "Oh, how careless of me. My apologies. Didn't mean to underestimate you," he said in a mocking tone. "But let's be honest here. You're still a fresh-faced young man compared to me. Plus, whatever Michael's been feeding you, is exaggerated. He's always been a dramatic little shit and always thought that the world owes him something because of what happened with Evan. I've dealt with his lies and tantrums since he could talk." His voice was full of that same condescension you heard too many times before, dismissive, like your opinion didn't matter at all.

"You really think I don't see what's going on? I've noticed the bruises on him and seen the way he flinches every time you're near. I never really processed it until now... but hearing the way you talk about him, it's clear you're the cause. So don't stand here and pretend like it's all in his head. You're not just a failure as a father; you're a failure as a human being, a true man," you retorted, "Is it any surprise he's crying out for attention? He craves your acknowledgment because you've denied him that basic human need!"

"Please... enlighten me. Explain exactly how I've failed, not just as a father but as a human being. Your judgments on being a 'real man' are baseless because you have no comprehension of what it truly means. You think you know anything about how to raise a child, but you know nothing of the responsibilities and burdens that come with it. Michael acts out because he's pathetic. He needs discipline to become strong. Strong enough to survive in this world, the world I've created."

You felt your blood start to simmer. He was dodging again, pushing aside anything that forced him to acknowledge the truth.

"You know what?" you began, your voice slightly louder. "If you need something to punch, hit me instead of Michael. I can take it." 

William's head snapped around, his eyes locking onto yours with a flash of something menacing. For a heartbeat, you regretted pushing him. "You're so blissfully convinced that you matter in this equation..." He pondered aloud, speaking to himself. He stepped closer then, slowly. "You need to remember that you are nothing more than an arrangement, a pastime I allow myself when I'm feeling especially patient. You already know this, but I figured I'd give you a little nudge to keep it fresh in your mind." he said. "And no... you have to know that this isn't about some petty appetite for cruelty. Do you really think I want to waste my time indulging in sadistic ideas? I'm not here to gratify your misguided fantasies of heroism or martyrdom. Nor will I insult myself by pretending I'd ever put anyone, let alone him, above what matters to me. You're brave, I'll give you that, but incredibly, foolishly blind. You've seen him flinch, and somehow you think that makes you his savior, that he's worthy of being saved?"

"You know exactly what you are, and trying to cover it up with excuses and lies isn't fooling me. It's miserable that you'd waste your time pretending you're anything other than a sadist. You're cruel to everyone around you and you don't do this because of duty or responsibility. You do it because you like watching people suffer. You like watching me suffer, too." you told him. "You can't stand anyone getting close to you without suffering for it. So, hit me if it makes you feel better. Isn't that what you want? Someone who'll stand here and take it? Go ahead, show me who you really are."

For a second, there was a stillness, a moment where you wondered if he would actually do it.

But then, without hesitation, his fist suddenly collided with your cheek. Pain flared instantly, your cheek stinging as your head whipped to the side. You felt the heat of it radiating through your jaw, but you stood your ground. You blinked, steadying yourself, a coppery taste creeping onto your tongue where the inside of your lip had split. 

You've somehow deeply caught his malicious eye. 

Instead of retreating, you reacted, swinging your own fist with all your might, the impact jolting through your knuckles. In response, he stumbled back. He then wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, as if checking for blood, and then looked back at you with a grin. He enxaled a breathy laugh, a sound so foreign that it made your eyes widen. You never knew him to laugh like that, and it hinted at something disturbing. "That's more like it..." he mused, his voice soft and thoughtful. "I prefer my prey with a little fight burning in their bones."

Suddenly, William's hand shot out, gripping the front of your shirt as he slammed you against the wall. Your breath caught in your throat. His hand then moved to your neck, fingers pressing into your skin just tight enough to make breathing a conscious effort. Your blood was pumping, and you gasped, hands flying to his wrist, trying to pry his grip loose, but he was too strong. "I'll be raw with you. You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment, to show you exactly who I am. None of that charade, none of that civility... I tire of pretending for anyone, especially you. The patience it's taken... every time you defied me, every time you looked at me with insolence in your eyes, I wanted to tear into you. Nothing has ever satisfied me more than breaking that smug disobedience of yours." William's grip on your throat then loosened, and he stepped back, giving you enough room to breathe but not enough to feel safe. "I'll give you a piece of advice. Keep your nose out of what doesn't concern you. Focus on your work."

With that, he left the workshop, leaving you standing there. You stared at the spot where he stood, trying to process everything that had just happened. The pain in your cheek throbbed, now a reminder of how quickly things could turn violent with him. The man was dangerous, and you had gotten just a glimpse of just how far he was willing to go.  

Your hand moved to your throat, your fingers tracing the spots where his fingers have been only moments ago.

Should you report him? Still, people didn't look kindly on men like you stirring up trouble. Violence also wasn't foreign to you, in fact you had grown used to it. But this wasn't just a fight or some random act of aggression. This was your boss, the man paying you to stick around. 

Logical thoughts told you that they wouldn't believe the 25-year-old employee more than the well-established co-owner of Freddy Fazbear's, would they? He could have you replaced by the end of the week if you became more trouble than you were worth. Reporting him would be suicide, at least in terms of your job. 

You knew that Michael didn't deserve this. You couldn't just sit back and let William keep hurting him.

Maybe you weren't ready to go to the authorities, but you had to do something... 

In your dream, you stood alone in a dark, desolate place, an abyss that seemed to swallow all light. Your surroundings seemed to shift and the ground felt unstable beneath your feet, as if it were breathing, shifting slightly with each heartbeat, a reminder that you were not alone here. The air was silent, broken only by the distant howl of wind. Shapes formed at the edges of your vision, always just out of reach, teasing the remnants of your sanity. You couldn't tell where you were or how you got there. 

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows, shrouded in darkness. It was a little, young girl, her features barely discernible in the dark. As she stepped forward, a gentle glow illuminated her face, but just barely for anyone to recognize her. Slowly, she began to hover above the ground, seeming to float. With a high pitched voice, that was clear and melodic, she called out, "Y/N…"

"Who... who are you?" you stammered, unable to tear your gaze away from the horrifying spirit before you.

"I'm Charlie," she introduced herself, "Charlie Emily." Charlie's voice trembled slightly as she continued. "I'm Henry Emily's daughter... You know, the man who founded Freddy Fazbear's Pizza?"

You racked your brain, trying to make sense of it all. "Wait, Henry? What does any of this have to do with me? I... I don't even know you." The words came out shaky, uncertain. There was something wrong here. Panic rose rapidly, but you couldn't even explain why.

A sad smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "I know. That's why I had to find you. You shouldn't be here, but since you are… I have to tell you." 

Strange sounds filled the air, the scraping of metal, the groaning of animatronics, cries of small children. You flinched as strange, surreal sights flashed before your eyes, distorted faces twisted in agony and figures that seemed to twist and writhe. At that moment, you tried to run, but your limbs were heavy, your movements sluggish, something heavy holding you back. 

"I am the truth you seek," she continued, her words carrying a lot of weight. "The truth that William has hidden from you."

You could hear distant whispers, like a chorus of other tormented souls that were trapped here, in this world. The words you longed to scream were stuck in your throat, choked down by the overwhelming terror you've been feeling, leaving you voiceless. You were aware of every heartbeat, every breath, as if the very act of living was a sin in this place.

"William's sins have consequences..." she said.

Fear paralyzed your body as Charlie's form begun to blur and distort. Her form seemed to melt, transforming into a grotesque visage of her. Bloodstains soaked her clothes, and her limbs were bent at disturbing angles, as if they had been broken and reshaped by some terrible force, and a look of sheer terror etched onto her face. It was the type of fear no child should ever feel. You felt your stomach churn with fear, bile rising in your throat as you were forced to witness the horrifying sight. You fought the urge to be sick.

You heard a mix of screams, whispers, and eerie laughter that echoed off the walls like everything was a cruel joke.

"He used that place. Lured the others in with promises... then took them to the back, where no one could see. Where no one cared to look." she explained. "William is not who he pretends to be. He's a killer, a man who destroyed lives without a second thought. Including mine."

You were finally able to speak, your body feeling weak, "William? No, that can't be true..."

Charlie's voice grew somber. "I was killed. Murdered by that monster... and what's worse is that you're more connected to this than you realize."

'You're more connected to this than you realize.' What did she mean by that...?

You could hear distant voices around you.

"Help me!"

"Help me!!"

"HELP ME!!!" 

S a v e    t h e m. 

You jolted awake, your heart pounding like a jackhammer in your chest. Your body was drenched in sweat, your skin clammy, and you were trembling like a leaf in the wind. Your breath came in ragged gasps, and it took a moment for you to realize that you were safe, that it was just a nightmare. But the memory of it lingered, what you experienced and saw still fresh in your mind. You sat up, running a shaky hand through your hair as you attempted to collect your thoughts. That dream... it felt so real, so hauntingly vivid. Sure, nightmares weren't unfamiliar; you had plenty since you were young. Yet, this felt different and oddly specific. It couldn't be only a nightmare dredged up by your subconscious. 

Glancing at William, you felt a strange, nauseating unease. His face was softened by sleep, though even now, the slight furrow in his brow stayed etched there. 

Today had left you both bruised. The sting in your jaw from where he hit you still throbbed, and his cheek, where you had struck back, showed a faint bruise, one you hadn't planned but hadn't regretted either. After that brutal moment, neither of you spoke. Words would have only made it worse, you suspected. Instead of any real resolution, you ended up here, lying stiffly in bed beside him, feeling like any small movement might stir him awake. William was a light sleeper and tonight you couldn't risk him noticing how disturbed you were. You shifted carefully, though even that slight motion made the mattress dip, and you held your breath, watching him for any sign of waking. He didn't stir, only exhaled quietly, his hand lying loosely. But just the sight of it there, inches from you, made you think of how easily that same hand had held you by the throat earlier, how he had shown that brief second of exhilaration. 

June 26th, was it? It felt as if the world had shifted. You were in in the living room, watching the television as you ate your quick breakfast. William had left earlier for some unknown reason, said it was important, so you were alone until you needed to go for your shift. The familiar voice of the local news anchor broke, and you leaned forward.

"Good morning. Our top story today is a tragic one that has caught our community. Five children have gone missing from the Freddy Fazbear's Pizza establishment yesterday on June 26th, leaving families in distress and the community in shock. Reports suggest that the children disappeared one by one over the course of several days, but it wasn't until the police were alerted that the situation became apparent. These children, ages 5 to 12, were last seen on the premises. Police have increased their patrols around the area, urging anyone with information to come forward. Authorities have stated that they're reviewing the restaurant's security footage and interviewing staff members. However, there have been no sightings of the children since their disappearance. If you have any information, please contact your local police station."

Your mouth gaped open. This couldn't be real. The vision in your dream was all unfolding right in front of you. Everything told you that this wasn't just a coincidence, that this was connected, but part of you wanted to deny it, to cling to any semblance of rationality. If it was real... if William was a killer, what did that make you for staying so close to him? No time to waste, you decided, pulling on your clothes, hands shaking as you tugged on your shoes. You bolted out the door, the urgency overpowering any second thoughts. By the time you arrived, Freddy's was literally transformed into a crime scene and the place was busy with cops. Their cars were parked along the curb, lights flashing red and blue. Several officers stood near the entrance, some smoking cigarettes and talking amongst themselves. A few glanced at you as you walked up, but none stopped you. Inside, the usual sounds of music and children's laughter were gone. Most of the tables had been cleared, and a few staff members huddled together in the corner, whispering nervously. Your eyes scanned the room, landing on William, who was deep in conversation with one of the officers. You caught sight of Henry as you pushed through the crowd of cops and staff. His normally neat appearance was disheveled, his hair unkempt, shirt wrinkled, and dark circles under his eyes. He looked as though he hadn't slept in days, his face tight with worry. As soon as he saw you, he started making his way over, offering a weary but genuine smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Y/N," he greeted softly, "I didn't expect to see you here so early..." He placed a hand on your shoulder. "I've been here all night with the police. I haven't left since the news broke. These kids..." His voice cracked, and he paused, clearing his throat before continuing. "We're closing the pizzeria for now while the investigation is underway. I wanted to let you know you're free from work today."

You nodded. You could see how deeply this affected him, not just because it was his business, but because he knew what it meant to lose a child, to live in constant fear for your own.

"It's out of our hands now," he continued, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to soothe the tension building there. "The cops are going to question every employee, you included. It's just procedure. Now, listen to me carefully. You've got nothing to worry about, but don't get yourself into trouble, alright? They'll call you if they need you for questioning. And don't talk to the press... They're all over this, and the last thing you need is to say something that gets twisted around. As for William... Be careful around him. Today especially. If they start asking questions about him, don't say anything unless you absolutely have to."

Why did William's name just leave his mouth? You had always trusted Henry, but this felt like he was hiding something. The worry Henry's eyes suggested a deeper understanding of the situation, one that you were not privy to. Was he merely looking out for William, or was he aware of something further that others weren't aware of? 

A chill crept down your spine. "Why would they be asking about him?

Henry let out a sigh, "He's been through hell. You know that he lost two of his own flesh and blood... People don't understand what that does to a man. They see him, and they think he's cold, like he doesn’t care, but that's not true. William... he's just... broken. And now, with these missing children, they're looking for someone to blame. Please, just... Be truthful, but be careful. Don't give them anything they can use against him." He thought before adding, "I've known William a long time, and despite everything, I don't want to see him go down for something that might not be his fault. Okay?"

You gave a polite nod to Henry, unsure of what to answer him. His hand lingered on your shoulder for a moment before he turned to speak with another employee. 

Later, you sat quietly at a small table inside one the staff break room, the sound of your foot tapping against the floor filling the silence. It had been hours since the initial questioning began. Each employee had been pulled aside one by one, asked about their whereabouts, their coworkers.

Now it was your turn. The officer standing in front of you was tall. He adjusted his shirt slightly before sitting down across from you, a small notepad already in his hand. "I'm going to ask you a few questions about recent events here at Freddy Fazbear's. It's important you answer to the best of your knowledge." He flipped open his notepad, clicking his pen into place. "Let's start with the basics. Where were you on the night of June 26th, between the hours of 6:00 PM and 9:00 PM?" 

You took a moment to think back. "I didn't have a shift during that time. I work from 9 AM to 5 PM. Once I clock out, I'm done. There are others who take over after me, an evening security, and a night guard. I don't have access to anything that happens after that time. The cameras only show the live feed, so I'd have no way of knowing what happened after I left. As for my whereabouts, I've been at Mr. Afton's house. I've been working as his personal assistant which started just recently, and it involves a lot of time at his house, helping with various tasks he's needed done, both here at the pizzeria and in his home workshop. I help organize equipment, manage files, do some technical work that requires an extra pair of hands."

The man nodded, writing down your response. "Is there anyone who can verify your whereabouts during those hours?"

You hesitated slightly before shaking your head. "No, I was working alone. Sometimes he works with me, but other times he doesn't. He was probably in his home office, I assume... He didn't tell me anything since I was busy and didn't want to interrupt me."

"Have you noticed any unusual behavior from your coworkers in the days leading up to the children's disappearance?"

"Not really. Most of us just do our jobs."

"Understood. Now, let's talk about Mr. Afton. How would you describe his behavior at work?" 

"Mr. Afton is a serious man. Strict. He runs a tight ship around here and makes sure everything is in order. He's not the kind of man to joke around, but he is not reckless either. He's very particular about how things should be done." You explained. 

"Particular, you say. Have you ever witnessed him acting aggressively towards staff or anyone else?" 

You recalled your conversation with Michael, then the one you had with William in the workshop, the one that ended with his fist striking your jaw. But that wasn't something you could mention. You shook your head, "No, not directly. I mean— he's strict like I said, but nothing that crosses the line. He keeps to himself most of the time, but he's not someone who just blows up on people randomly."

The officer's pen paused mid-sentence. "You said 'not directly.' Have you ever heard from others about any incidents involving Mr. Afton?"

"I've heard things rumors mostly. Some of the younger staff are scared of him. He's not easy to approach, and his temper is known to flare if things don't go the way he wants. But I've never seen him hurt anyone." You explained further.

"Alright. Let's talk about Mr. Emily," he said, shifting slightly in his seat. "He's a close associate of Mr. Afton, is he not? Do you suspect him at all in connection with the children's disappearance?" 

"Henry?" you said, letting disbelief slip into your tone. "No, not a chance. Henry's one of the kindest men I've met. He's been through enough already with losing his own daughter, I don't think he would do something like this. He's not capable of hurting anyone. I'd stake my job on that."

The officer raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by your response. "So you're saying he has no motive? No reason to be involved?" 

"None that I can think of. He's only focused on helping others and making this place better."

"Mhm. Do you have any idea how the missing children could have vanished without anyone noticing?" the man pressed. 

"I wish I knew, but it doesn't make sense. This place is usually busy with kids and families. Security cameras are supposed to be everywhere but I don't know how effective they are when it comes to monitoring everything. If something happened in the back, I can see how it might have slipped."

The officer asked a few more follow-up questions, but the conversation ended without much more detail.

After answering everything as neutrally as possible, you were dismissed. 

Stepping out of Freddy Fazbear's, you were left feeling nauseated. The bright sunlight only made things worse. You didn't notice where you were going, your vision blurred slightly, your focus shattered by the intense anxiety wilding deep down in your stomach. So lost in thought, you didn't even see William until you walked right into his chest. His free hand reached out instinctively, grabbing your shoulder, steadying you. A rush of smoky air hit your face, and as you blinked, you looked into his eyes. He was standing there, cigarette pinched between his fingers, the smoke curling into the air as he looked down at you, unamused. "You looked like you were going to faint right here on the sidewalk." he muttered. His tone wasn't exactly soft, but he wasn't irritated either. 

You couldn't look directly at him now, so you just nodded, trying to clear your throat. "Sorry, I... I didn't see you."

"Doesn't seem like you're seeing much at all." he replied. "Let's get you out of here. We can talk in the car. You'll feel better without half the people staring at you." You barely had the sense to question him, letting him lead you. 

Inside the car, the silence was loud until William spoke. "Henry called me first thing and told me about the kids going missing. They wanted me in before anyone else." He shook his head slightly, as if in disbelief. "I've devoted my life to this place and this community. They know me. I've always been cooperative, always tried to do right by everyone. To think they'd accuse me... It's like a knife to the heart. I've been through a lot, just like everyone else. For Henry, for me, for all those who've suffered here. I can't stand the thought of people believing I'd harm those innocent kids."

The William sitting beside you now seemed miles away from the man who had choked you last night. You were unsure whether to trust the sincerity in his expression or to be wary. Still, he looked... genuinely hurt, like he really couldn't fathom why anyone would think him capable of such things. You wondered if you had been wrong, if the dream was just your mind playing tricks on you. 

He turned to you, voice lowered. "I'm wondering... what did they ask you?"

You hesitated before answering. "They wanted to know where I was during the time those kids went missing. Asked about any unusual behavior... that kind of thing."

"...and you didn't mention what happened yesterday?" William asked. 

"No. I didn't." you replied in a numb, emotionless way. "I just told them I had been working alone that night. Nothing else."

William's lips pulled into a faint, seemingly relieved smile. "Thank you." he said, the words slow. "I know that must not have been easy." He looked away for a moment, as if to gather himself, but you thought you caught something else in his eyes, which vanished as quickly as it appeared. You couldn't quite decipher what you saw there.

He had thanked you. The word rattled around in your mind. 

Maybe you even wanted to believe him.

And just like that, he started the car, cutting off any other words you might have considered saying.

Tommorow, you sat on the couch in the Afton residence, a newspaper folded in your hands.

"TRAGEDY AT FREDDY FAZBEAR'S:

MISSING CHILDREN STILL UNFOUND; SUSPECTS EMERGE."

The names of suspects were plastered across the front page, William Afton, Henry Emily, and some low-level employees you barely recognized. 

"People of Interest

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William Afton, 47, is the Co-founder of a local entertainment venue, Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. He remains one of the primary suspects in the ongoing investigation into the disappearance of five local children. Afton maintains the claim that he was not present at the establishment during the events. Complicating matters further, employees from Afton Robotics, the company owned and operated by Afton, corroborate his story, asserting that he was at the establishment during the timeframe in question. William's influence within both businesses, along with his extensive knowledge of the animatronics and with his access to restricted areas, raises further questions.

Henry Emily, 46, Founder of Fazbear Entertainment and original creator of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, is also under scrutiny, though many in the community believe him to be a less likely candidate. Henry has long been regarded as a distant figure, especially after the loss of his daughter, Charlotte. Henry withdrew from both the public eye and the day-to-day operations of the company, leaving much of the responsibility and charge to Afton. The personal toll of his grief led to his divorce and the loss of custody of his son. While Henry has largely avoided suspicion, a number of community members believe he may be concealing information regarding the case. Despite this, law enforcement continues to believe in his innocence."

The soft creak of the door opening snapped you out of your focus. William stepped into the living room, wiping his hands on an rag, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. His brow was furrowed in its usual deep-set frown. He didn't look at you right away, heading straight for the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

"Long morning?" you asked. 

He gave a hum in response, taking a long sip from his glass before his eyes finally landed on you. His gaze flicked briefly to the paper in your lap. "What are you reading?"

You hesitated, but you knew there was no point in hiding it from him. "It's the news. They're talking about the missing children incident again." You showed him the front page with his name plastered right next to Henry's and the other guys. "They've got a few suspects, including you."

He sighed. "I will handle it," he said. "I've spoken to my other employees many times. They've given the police everything they need to clear me." 

"Afton Robotics," you began slowly, watching his reaction. "They said your employees there gave you an alibi. What is that place, exactly?" 

"My company, a very private one. I have my reasons for keeping it that way. We manufacture animatronics... the ones you see at Freddy's. Started it back in the seventies. It's where I develop my designs, work on the prototypes, and oversee the production. Everything runs through there before it makes its way to the pizzeria. The employees are engineers, technicians. A couple of them are close to me— they know what I need done and how I like things handled. The night those children went missing, I was there. My name was on the schedule, and they backed me up. Simple as that."

He let out a sigh before continuing, "I'll need to go to court in a few days. They want a formal statement from me as part of the investigation. I haven't done anything to warrant suspicion, and my record with the company reflects that." Everything he said sounded logical, but the image from your dream refused to loosen its grip on you. 

Had it only been a bad dream after all?

"Afton Cleared of Charges in Missing Children Case!

═══════════════

Authorities released a statement this morning, confirming that after thorough investigation, they found no conclusive evidence linking Afton to the events of June 26th. Despite his initial status as a person of interest, Afton's tight alibi, verified by multiple employees, has ultimately exonerated him. In a statement following the verdict, Mr. Afton expressed his gratitude to those who stood by him, while also condemning what he called 'unfounded accusations' against his character."

William Afton's Testimony

Courtroom doors creaked open, and William Afton took the stand. The eyes of the courtroom followed his every step as he sat down, adjusting his jacket before facing the prosecution. "State your name for the record." he said. 

"William Afton." His voice was steady, void of any nervous quiver.

"Very well. Mr. Afton, on the night of June 26th, five children went missing from Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, as I'm sure you already know. The prosecution would like to know, where were you during the hours of 6:00 PM to 9:00 PM on that night?" 

William didn't rush his response. "On the evening of June 26th, I was at the Afton Robotics facility. As the owner and head engineer, I'm deeply involved in every aspect of production. That night, like many others, I was overseeing final revisions for several projects. I had meetings scheduled with my senior staff. After the meetings concluded, I remained at the factory, going over schematics, monitoring the machines, and ensuring the scheduled tasks were completed. My employees can confirm this. In fact, I specifically instructed them to handle the end-of-day procedures while I reviewed some files in my office. Afterward, I left the factory."

"Your employees claim you left the factory shortly after 8:35 PM. What did you do after that?"

"I left for home. The anniversary of my son's death was approaching. I needed time to myself, to reflect and grieve. That loss weighs heavily on me, even now. I wouldn't have been anywhere else that night." William answered. 

"Mr. Afton, while we appreciate your recount of your activities... how does this relate to the specific events of June 26th?" 

"It relates because I was nowhere near Freddy Fazbear's premises during that time. I have to admit, I find it utterly offensive that my name has even been brought into this courtroom. I have worked tirelessly, both at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, Afton Robotics, even at home... And now, after dedicating years of my life to this community, I'm accused of something so vile? I lost two children, one to an accident and another who disappeared. To be accused of harming anyone's child, especially given my own history, is sickening. I've buried my own; I wouldn't wish that kind of suffering on anyone."

"We are simply trying to get to the bottom of this case, Mr. Afton. The children's disappearances—"

"Are tragic," William finished for him, "And the parents are devastated, I understand. And I sympathize with them. But dragging an innocent man through this process is not justice. It's cruel. To have this dragged into this case is an insult, frankly. I've had to balance my professional responsibilities with my private losses."

The room was quiet. The prosecutor took a moment before speaking again. "No further questions regarding this topic."

Chapter Text

Later that night... [ 1983] 

The rain beat against the car as William tightened his grip on the wheel, his knuckles turning an almost ghostly white, matching the pallor of his resolute face. He couldn't believe what he had done. His hands trembled as he tried to steady himself, his heart racing with adrenaline. That neon sign of Jr's was throwing a yellow glow on the pavement. Pulling into the parking lot, William stepped out of his car, his yellow rain jacket drenched in the downpour. He trudged through the rain towards the Jr's building. William had been here before, and he knew the routine. As he approached the entrance, a man who worked there intercepted him, denying him entry with a firm tone. "Come on, you know you can't be here. Don't make this more difficult than it has to be," the man insisted.

William felt a surge of anger rise within him, but he quickly pushed it down. He retraced his steps, returning to the refuge of his car. He was driving through the storm of determination. Each drop of rain pounding against the windshield was urging him forward. The night had been harsh, but William felt no remorse, no guilt for what he had done to Charlie. He couldn't shake the image of her lifeless body lying on the pavement, the result of his actions. He had intended to harm her, to end her life, to silence her forever. It wasn't accidental, no; it was premeditated... 

The drive home felt slow. 

Finally arriving, William found Clara in the living room. The TV's glow reflected off her face as she stared blankly, sitting in an armchair, seemingly oblivious to the tempest within her husband. William didn't even bring himself to look at her. Intent on releasing his frustrations upon Michael, William headed upstairs, only to be momentarily interrupted by Clara's weary voice. "Leave him alone tonight... He had a rough day." 

But William didn't care. He had lost all sense of compassion for his son after the death of his other child, Evan. William blamed him for everything that had gone wrong in his life.

Ignoring her plea to leave Michael alone, he ascended the staircase, reaching Michael's room, ready to unleash hell on him, to take out his anger on the only person he had left to blame. Gripping the doorknob, he found it closed, an unexpected barrier to his intentions. "I told you not to close your door," William said, rapping his knuckles against the wooden surface. 

Silence. 

"This is my house... He can't ignore me like that." Frustration culminated in a shout, "OPEN THE DOOR!" he yelled like a lunatic, but nothing. Screw this. William stomped away, swearing to find another way in. "I'll find a way in from outside," he declared. 

Leaving the house, he circled around to the back, stumbling around like the drunken fool he is. It wasn't long before he came across the shattered window of Michael's room, betraying the son's escape. Footprints in the mud led to a small alley between bushes, signaling Michael's retreat.

"He ran off to that place again... He'll be sorry when he gets back," William muttered, his anger intensifying, blaming the kid for escaping his drunken rage. Yelling into the night, he warned, "You can't keep running off to that place every time things get tough, Michael!"

He couldn't understand why Michael continued to run away, why he couldn't just face their problems like a man. Why he couldn't face the consequences of his actions. But deep down, William knew that he was the one at fault. His alcoholism and abusive behavior had driven his son away.

Tired and defeated, William went back inside the house.

[Clara's POV]

Meanwhile, Clara had been struggling to find a place to live after leaving William's house, after she had moved out almost two months ago. It wasn't easy starting over, especially with a child. She had spent days searching for an affordable apartment, but the options were limited, and her financial situation was far from ideal. Her journey towards independence hasn't been very easy. It has been very hard.

She was sitting on a bench, a faint breeze rustling through her blonde, wavy hair. She was flipping through a newspaper with apartment listings, her face etched with worry. Her fingers trembled slightly as she circled a few options. "Affordable, but too small... Too far from Michael's school... No pets allowed..." Clara mumbled to herself, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Clara couldn't help but wonder how her life had come to this point. She had once been a young woman in love, starting a family with a man she thought she knew. Now, she was navigating the turbulent waters of divorce.

Suddenly, an old lady approached and took a seat next to her. The wrinkles on the old lady's face hinted at a lifetime of experiences, and her eyes sparkled with a warmth that immediately drew Clara's attention. "Dear, you look like you've been through quite a lot," the old lady said, her voice filled with concern.

Clara managed a weak smile. "It's been a challenging time, yes."

The old lady's eyes widened in admiration. "Oh, my, you're a beautiful woman! Life may throw its curveballs, but your strength shines through." 

Clara's cheeks flushed slightly, and she responded with a more genuine smile now, "Thank you... that's very kind of you to say."

The old lady smiled warmly and said, "You know, dear, beauty isn't just about how you look. It's about the strength you carry and the kindness you share. And from what I see, you seem to possess both."

Clara nodded, touched by the words, but her gaze drifted. Around her, life continued uninterrupted. She noticed a young couple on a nearby park bench, their laughter light, a bittersweet reminder of the joy that once filled Clara's own life. The ache in her chest deepened, her frown betraying the weight of her world.

"You seem troubled, love. Is something bothering you? Are you alright?" the old lady then asked.

Clara sighed, unable to hold back her emotions any longer. "No, not really... My husband... he cheated on me."

"I'm so sorry to hear that. Infidelity can be incredibly painful." the older woman told her softly. 

Clara wiped away a tear, her voice trembling. "I just didn't see it coming, you know? We've been married for so long, and he was always so distant, but I never suspected..." 

The lady listened attentively, offering a comforting presence. "Sometimes, these things happen when we least expect them. It's important to remember that it's never your fault, sweetheart." The kind stranger's words had offered a sense of warmth that Clara hadn't expected. Clara didn't remember the last time she felt a sincere connection with someone. The old woman's wrinkled hand reached out, patting Clara's gently. "Life might be hard now, but you'll find your way again. I can promise you that."

Clara felt her eyes sting as tears welled up. She had heard similar things from friends and family, but it always felt hollow. This time, it felt different. The woman's quiet assurance gave Clara hope, even if just for a moment. Without thinking, Clara leaned in and embraced her. The old woman wrapped her arms around her warmly, holding her close, as if understanding that Clara needed this small bit of human kindness.

When Clara finally pulled back, she smiled, this time without the burdens she had carried just moments before. "I really appreciate it," she said, standing up and brushing off her skirt. "Thank you for listening."

The old woman nodded, her smile unwavering. "Take care of yourself. Remember, it's not the end of the world. It's just the beginning of something new."

Clara took one last glance at the woman before turning to walk away, her steps feeling lighter. The weight of the apartment search, the endless worry over her financial situation, and the pain from her divorce still lingered, but it wasn't as crushing as it had been before... 

•••

Clara had finally found an apartment close to Michael's school. It was the best she could do with the money she had, though it wasn't cheap. The rent would be tight, but as long as she kept up with her job, she could manage. The place was still half-empty, the furniture sparse and the walls bare. The few most important things she had brought with her were a couple of framed photographs, her diary, Michael's favorite blanket, all arranged neatly around the apartment. But it lacked the warmth of a real home. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. She would make it work, even if it meant cutting back on other expenses. 

She sighed, running her hand through her hair as she sank onto the couch, staring at the walls. Her thoughts turned to Michael. Her sweet boy, stuck with his father...

Her chest tightened as she thought about how William had twisted everything in the divorce. Every time she had tried to speak up about the emotional abuse, the way William manipulated and controlled every aspect of their lives, it always seemed to twist. He had a way of spinning things, of making her look unstable, irrational, like she was the problem, like she had "histrionic tendencies." He had also accused her of having borderline personality disorder and claimed she had anxiety attacks over trivial matters. Like it was her fault that she tried to assert herself.

Clara felt the familiar sting of tears behind her eyes. She hadn't cried in front of Michael when she left. She had to be strong for her child, but here, alone in this empty apartment, she felt everything of it all pressing down on her.

She needed to get Michael out of that house.

The ring of the telephone cut through her thoughts. Startled, Clara wiped her eyes, forcing herself to focus as she reached for the receiver. "Hello?" she said, her voice calm, though her heart raced in fear of who it might be.

There was a brief silence before the unmistakable voice on the other end spoke, William. "Clara." His tone was unfeeling. He never wasted words with her anymore. 

"William," she replied, her voice matching his in its formality.

"I assume you've settled into your new place?" His words suggested a faint mockery, as if her struggles were amusing to him.

"I have," Clara answered tersely, "What do you need?" 

"I wanted to let you know I'll be keeping Michael this weekend," he said, not bothering with pleasantries. "I've got some things to take care of, and it's better if he's here. His school called me today, and apparently, he's been having trouble paying attention. Grades are slipping." 

"Maybe if you didn't treat him like a soldier in your little war, he wouldn't be so stressed." she sighed, "He was supposed to come here this weekend. We agreed on that."

"Things change." His voice was calm, but there still was the familiar tone that always made her feel like she was the one being unreasonable. "He'll be fine. I've already made plans. Michael will come to you when I decide it's appropriate. Until then, I suggest you focus on getting your own life in order."

"You're really going to use this as another excuse to undermine me?" she shot back, her voice rising slightly, but not yelling yet. "I'm trying to be a good mother here, and all you do is make it harder."

William's laughter echoed in her ear. "Oh, Clara, lighten up! You know how sensitive you are. Remember what the therapist said about your triggers? It wouldn't do to have another episode on my account. It's exhausting listening to you cry about how I've ruined your life when all I've ever done is try to support you. Don't worry, I have my own ways of caring for Michael, even if they don't fit into your little narrative. You should write a book about your delusions. 'How to be a Mother with Histrionic Tendencies.' It might just make you famous."

"Stop it! Just stop!" Her voice broke slightly, and she took a moment to steady herself. "I know I'm not perfect, but I'm trying. I've been trying for years. I'm not going to let you make me feel crazy. This isn't about me either, you selfish—" 

The line suddenly went dead before she could finish, and Clara sat there, staring at the receiver in her hand. She wanted to throw it across the room, but instead, she just set it down gently, her hands shaking. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, but the tears came anyway.

God, how badly she wanted to feel her hand strike his face, to release all the pain and frustration that had built up. 

She had found out about the cheating in the cruelest way. While cleaning out his side of the closet, Clara had found an unfamiliar note. She didn't know who. The number gave no clue, and that only made it worse. She wondered if it was some younger woman, someone prettier, someone livelier. The kind of person who made William smile the way he used to when they first got together. William had been growing distant for the past few years, colder by the day. His touch had vanished, his presence felt more like an absence. But she had brushed it off, assuming it was the stress of the business or his grief over their two children. She had stopped asking where he had been, because answers were always evasive. "Business," he'd say, or "Something came up at work." Always the same.

And she, like a fool, had believed him for so long.

The room smelled of fresh paint.

The phone rang, breaking the silence. Clara sighed and answered, knowing it was her lifeline, her friend. 

"Oh Clara, darling! How are you holding up?" she asked on the other side of the line. 

Clara managed a faint smile. "I'm getting there, slowly but surely. It's just... strange, being in a new place after so many years."

"You're incredibly brave, you know that? Starting fresh takes courage."

Clara nodded, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap while she held the receiver with her other hand. "I just want to make sure Michael is okay. My poor boy's been through so much already."

"You're a wonderful mother. Don't you worry... I'm sure Michael is alright. Michael is lucky to have you."

Clara took a deep breath. "I've been thinking a lot about Michael... I want him to live with me, especially now that everything's changed.

Her friend nodded from the other side of the line. "Have you talked to him about it yet?"

Clara shook her head. "Not yet. I wanted to make sure I had everything in place first. I don't want to overwhelm him."

"You'll find the right time— Just be honest with him. He'll understand." 

"I've been thinking about how to go about it... I'll wait until William is at work, then I'll go to his house and go from there, take Michael. But... I also need to get some of his things from his bedroom."

"You mean to sneak into William's house?"

Clara nodded, her jaw set with determination. "I have to. Michael's toys, his clothes... I can't just leave them behind, you know?" 

"Be careful. This could get messy. Sneaking into William's house might not be the best idea."

"I know, I know! But I can't let fear dictate my actions anymore. Michael needs me, and I'll do whatever it takes to protect him," Clara declared, her voice firm with resolve. "He deserves a better life, away from all the arguments. I need to take him with me."

"But breaking into the house? That's risky. There must be another way." her voice was filled with worry. 

"I've tried talking to William, but he won't listen. I can't let Michael grow up in that toxic environment. I'll find a way to do it discreetly, just to get my son back. I've dealt with worse from William already, so if I do get in trouble... I'll just deal with it."

"Alright, but please... be careful. You don't want to end up in legal trouble." Clara's friend told her. "And if you need anything, anything at all, you call me. I'll be there in a heartbeat."

"I will, don't worry. I'll wait until he's away for work, and then I'll quietly stop by to avoid any trouble. I still have the spare key I held onto. I will just need a little time with Michael to explain everything, but it'll go by quickly. And thank you so much, dear, your support truly means the world to me. I'll call you later."

As Clara hung up, she gazed around her new apartment with determination. The road ahead might be tough, but she was ready to face it for the sake of her son.

After spending a couple of days at William's house, you finally had some time to clear your head at your own home. Even with the day to yourself, you checked the newspaper more than once for updates, and then, again, you were drawn back to that same front-page article. His face, his name, William Afton. You hadn't heard from William directly since the questioning, but you knew he was handling things in his own way. It was good.

Clara moved with a certain grace that only someone who knew the house intimately could possess. She crept up the stairs, moving ever so quietly. She paused outside Michael's door, hand on the knob. For a moment, fear gripped her.

What if William was already home?

She hadn't heard the sound of his car pulling up, hadn't seen any sign of him inside. But she couldn't be sure. Every second spent here was a risk, but she had to take her son into a place filled with warmth.

Michael was in his room, unaware of her presence until she eased the door open gently, and as it creaked, Michael flinched, mistaking her for William in his paranoia. And then, when he noticed it's actually Clara, his face light up and he quickly stood up.

"Mom! What are you doing here?" He couldn't hide the relief on his face, and he smiled, running to hug his mother.

Clara, smiling too, gently cupped Michael's cheek and said, "I've come to take you away from here, sweetheart. I know you don't want to be near your father, and I don't either." 

Michael, with a mixture of excitement and concern, asked, "Did you get custody?"

"No... but I'm working on it, and we'll be out of here. Quickly, pack your things. We need to leave before your father notices." 

Michael, eager to get out of the house, quickly started packing his belongings. Clara helped him, both of them working quickly but quietly, glancing toward the door every few seconds as if expecting William to appear at any moment. Clara assisted him in the process, ensuring they were as swift as possible. They finished packing in less than ten minutes. Michael looked up at his mother, his eyes wide with worry, but Clara gave him a reassuring nod. "We're going to be okay," she whispered, squeezing his shoulder.

Descending the stairs with caution to avoid William's arrival from work, they reached the living room, only to be confronted by William, seated on the couch where moments ago no one had been, his eyes glued to the TV. He seemed unaware of their presence for a few seconds, but then his vacant eyes shifted, locking onto them. Clara's breath hitched, and Michael stopped dead in his tracks beside her.

William's eyes widened just slightly, clearly not expecting the sight. He stood up slowly, "Leaving already, Clara?" he asked, laced with sarcasm. "And you're taking Michael too, I see. How... thoughtful."

Clara, maintaining her authority but with a slightly shaky voice, replied, "I'm taking our son away from this place, William. We don't want to be around you anymore."

William stood still, his face impassive at first. "You're taking my son? Away from his father? Do you even hear yourself?" His breathing quickened, his hands curling into fists, his face turning red with rage. "After everything I've sacrificed for this family, for you, you think you can just walk out and take him? Like I'm some kind of stranger? You ungrateful bitch!" William's voice boomed, filled with venom. 

Michael stood frozen, his eyes wide in disbelief. He wanted to say something, but Clara placed a gentle hand on his chest, holding him back. "Call me that again and you will get in big trouble!" Clara yelled back, making William shut up for a bit.

Then William spoke again, lowering his voice menacingly, "Get back to your room, Michael. Now."

Michael hesitated, looking to Clara with a mix of fear and sadness, unsure if he should obey. Clara whispered to him gently, "Hurry, Michael. Obey your father. Don't worry, we will get out of here soon..."

As Michael disappeared upstairs, Clara and William engaged in a heated conversation, each word laden with anger and resentment.

"You have no right to take him from me! What gave you the audacity to come into my house without even calling first?" 

Clara retorted with an icy tone. "I have every right when it comes to protecting my child from you!" she said, her voice trembling. "I came here to sort things out for Michael's sake, but all you do is yell and blame me for everything!"

"You think you can protect him from me? You have no idea what you're up against. You don't have the money, the resources, hell, you don't even have a stable place to live! And you think you can provide for him better than I can? You're the one who's been poisoning his mind and filling his head with lies, turning him against me! You're making a big mistake. You don't know what you're doing." he spoke. 

"No, I know exactly what I'm doing," she shot back. "I'm protecting my son from you." 

"I have custody. I own it. You don't have a leg to stand on." His voice dripped with contempt. "So don't fucking try to play this game with me." 

"I don't care about the damn papers! I'll fight you for as long as it takes. I'll do anything to get him away from you. I'll drag you through court until you're left with nothing! I'm his mother, he belongs with me, not some heartless man who can't even show his son the slightest bit of love!"

William's hand clenched into a fist at her words, his face darkening, veins throbbing along his neck. "Dear God... you really have no idea what I've done for you. I've given everything. I built this life. You'd be living in a goddamn box if it weren't for me." He took a step forward, "Michael is the only thing I have left," he hissed. "You will not take him from me." Without warning, William grabbed Clara by the arms and slammed her back against the wall. Clara gasped, eyes burning with both fear and fury. She struggled against his grip, but William held her there, his fingers digging into her. She could feel the rough texture of the wallpaper against her back, the coldness of his intent pressing down on her as much as his weight. His breath was hot, reeking of stale cigarettes and rage, inches from her face. "You're going to stay right there. If you move, if you so much as breathe wrong, I swear to God, I'll kill you." 

William released her roughly, causing her to stumble against the wall. He turned and stalked toward the kitchen, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. William barged inside like a lunatic, his rage practically oozing from every pore. Clara, looking like a frightened animal cornered by a predator, had no idea the horror that awaited her. She could hear the drawer being pulled open, utensils clattering inside. And then, he returned with a knife in hand. Clara's eyes widened in fear; she never anticipated such violence from William, the man she once loved and appreciated. Clara's heart pounded so loudly she could hardly think. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but her legs wouldn't move.

"You don't leave until I say so. If you try to take Michael, you won't make it past the front door." His eyes flicked toward the stairs, where Michael was hidden away, likely oblivious to the danger below.

"W-what are you doing with that knife? Are you out of your mind?" Clara stammered. She then tried to reason with him, her voice shaking with desperation. "William, please, this isn't you. Think about our dear boy, think about what you're doing!"

"You pushed me too far," He approached her threateningly, brandishing the knife. "I'll do whatever it takes to make you stay right where you are."

Suddenly, she said, "You killed them, didn't you? All five of them." Clara's voice quietened with disbelief, "You monster, I see you now. I should've seen it from the start... I bet it was you all along!" Her voice broke, the realization of who William truly was hitting her. 

Kill her. Murder. Destroy. The thoughts pounded in his skull, beating in time with his heart, fast and heavy. The voice in his mind grew louder, more insistent, until it was impossible to ignore.

Kill her.

She's in the way.

Destroy her.

She knows too much.

That was the breaking point. He knew he needed to get rid of her before she told anyone.

The knife flashed upward, its blade glinting with malice, and Clara's eyes widened in a rush of pure terror. She opened her mouth to scream, but before a sound could escape, a gasp tore from her. The sharpness of the blade tore through organs, plunging into her stomach like a surgeon. But William wasn't done; his free hand shot up, wrapping tightly around her throat. The blood that escaped her mouth was thick and warm, smearing across his fingers. He squeezed hard enough to make her choke. Clara's body convulsed as her legs buckled beneath her, but William held her upright, pinning her to the wall.

His grip on her throat was crushing, the knife still buried deep in her abdomen. "I could only love you like this, my dear." he whispered, "I'm not capable of love the way you wanted me to be... Sweet, kind. I just can't do that— I don't know how." His voice softened, becoming almost intimate, as if he was sharing a deep secret. "But I could have loved you... if you just stayed weak. If you stayed afraid. Do you know how beautiful you are when you're trembling? That's all I want, Clara. Your fear. Your helplessness. When I see that look in your eyes, when I know I'm the cause of it, that's when I feel something. It's the only thing that ever made sense. As long as you show me your fear of me, I can love you."

Clara's body went slack in his hand, her strength fading rapidly as her life drained out of her.

William lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers in a lingering kiss, tasting the salt of her blood on her mouth. He wanted her to die tasting this mockery, to take with her the illusion of love that he offered. Her breath was shallow, but he could still feel the faint flutter of her heartbeat, weak and faltering.

He felt everything.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes opened slowly, his expression disturbingly serene. He let her go, and Clara collapsed to the floor, her legs giving out as the last bit of strength left her. She hit the ground hard, her body crumpling at his feet. Blood pooled around her, staining the wooden floorboards as she lay motionless, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

William then noticed that Michael had watched the entire scene from upstairs, but William was too consumed by his actions at that moment. Michael tried his best to stay silent, but his sobs escaped him, feeling devastated and traumatized by what he had witnessed.

"M-mommy... Mom..." he muttered before he fleeted to his room, overcome by fear and grief.

William, dragging Clara's lifeless body to the basement, left a sinister trail of blood behind.

••• [Your POV] •••

The next day, you sat alone in your house, coffee untouched and cold on the table, when the television blared a sudden breaking news report.

"We bring you shocking news this morning. Local resident Clara Schmidt, ex-wife of William Afton, has been found dead in what authorities are calling a likely suicide. Her body was discovered late last night in her apartment. This event follows two months of devastating losses in the community, beginning with the unsolved disappearances of five local children. Now, with Clara's death, the tragedy deepens. Officials are currently investigating the circumstances surrounding Clara's death. While initial reports do suggest suicide, sources confirm the discovery of a stab wound in her abdomen, an unusual detail in cases of self-harm.

People speculate Clara may have attempted to take her life this way before ultimately resorting to hanging. Her close friends have stated she had been struggling emotionally since her divorce from her husband, William Afton, and some believe that the pressures of the divorce may have contributed to her state of mind." 

The television droned on, but your attention had long since shifted. Two months ago, five children had vanished without a trace, and now this? Her death felt less like another tragic headline and more like a puzzle piece sliding into an image. You pushed yourself up, hands trembling slightly as you reached for the phone. It wasn't like you to jump to conclusions, but the thought of William… you couldn't shake it. The line rang once. Twice. Four times. You were beginning to think he wouldn't answer when the receiver clicked. 

"William it's me. I—I just saw the news. Is it true?" your voice shook with disbelief.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then William spoke, "Yes. It's true. Clara's gone." He let out a deep sigh. His voice came through the receiver, kinda hoarse, like he had been crying. "I don't know how to process it yet. I knew things were bad between us, but this... We hadn't talked much since the divorce." William's voice cracked just a little, a subtle break, but enough to make you think he was hurting. "I never loved her, as you know, but I appreciated her, for what she did for our family. I'm doing my best to support Michael through this difficult time."

You closed your eyes, feeling the guilt settle in your insides. His pain sounded so real that it made your doubts feel like betrayals. "You don't sound surprised about the news," you muttered before you could stop yourself.

He didn't respond right away to your pointed comment, the silence staying just long enough to make you regret saying anything at all. Finally, his voice returned, "I'm not surprised." he said. "She was struggling for years, even when we were still together. I saw it eating away at her, but I didn't know how to help her. Or maybe I didn't try hard enough."

There was a brief pause, then William's voice softened further, taking on a more personal tone. "I—I don't mean to impose, but I can't bear this silence... I could really use your company today. I don't want to be alone."

"Yeah... okay," you said, "I'll come over."

"Thank you," William said softly, almost a whisper. "I knew I could count on you."

The line went dead, and you were left sitting there, the phone still pressed to your ear, your mind racing. You set it down, staring at the floor for a moment. What had you just agreed to? William had never asked for your help before.

You couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this than he was letting on, but what were you supposed to do? Accuse him of something? He just lost his ex-wife, for God's sake. It wasn’t fair. You owed it to him to be there, even if the pit in your stomach told you otherwise.

It felt off, but you couldn't ignore that small part of you that was intrigued, that wanted to understand him better, to be closer to him.

You arrived at William's house just as the sun began to sink.

You hesitated at the front door for a moment before raising your hand to knock, but before your knuckles could make contact, the door opened. William stood there, his face tired, lines deepening across his forehead and around his mouth. He looked vulnerable now, broken in a way you hadn't seen before.

You stepped forward without hesitation, arms lifting instinctively to wrap around William in an instinctive attempt to comfort. For a moment, he remained still, like he hadn't expected the touch. Slowly, his arms came up, loosely returning the hug. His breath ghosted over your hair, warm and carrying the faint scent of black coffee. You then stepped back, needing space, your arms falling to your sides awkwardly. William straightened, running a hand through his tousled hair, pushing back the unruly lock that always seemed to fall over his forehead. His other hand lingered briefly at his side before sliding into his pocket. "Come in," he said, stepping aside to allow you to enter. "It's better than standing outside, isn't it?" 

The cold of the evening air prickled against your skin, and you realized just how long you had been standing at his doorstep. You nodded, stepping past him. 

He shut the door behind you and walked toward the living room, moving slowly, like every step cost him an enormous effort. You were unsure of what to say, your mind still spinning from the news. The house felt eerily quiet. It was the same house you had been to countless times before, but now, it seemed like someone's life had been sucked out of it. William motioned for you to sit on the couch, and you did, feeling it creak beneath you as you sank into it. 

"I hope you know that this isn't your fault," you said, hoping to ease his mind. 

"You're kind to say that. Too kind, maybe." He straightened up in his chair, his posture becoming more rigid. His tone was polite but distant, as though he were hosting a guest at a formal event rather than a friend, or whatever you were to him, on one of the worst days of his life.

"How's Michael?" you asked, hoping to change the subject to something you could handle. "Is he alright?" 

William shrugged, "I haven't checked, but he's probably fine."

"You didn't check on him?" you repeated, the disbelief clear in your voice. "William, his mother just— what the hell." You stood up, shaking your head. "I'm going to go check on him," you said firmly, turning toward the stairs.

"Wait—" William reached out, grabbing your arm with a gentle but insistent grip. "I said he's fine. Just leave him for now." 

You shook him off, your mind already set. "No, I'm not just going to leave the kid alone like that. He needs someone." 

William's protests followed you as you started up the stairs, "He's grieving in his own way! Don't push him." But you didn't stop.

Something about this felt wrong, all of this felt wrong.

You knocked on Michael's door and opened it slowly, seeing him laying down on his bed. His face was covered. He didn't say a word almost as if he didn't even care. You spoke gently as you approached the bed. "Hey, Mike. It's me, Y/N, I'm back from my house. Came to check up on you... I heard about your mother. I wanted to say I'm so sorry." Michael remained silent and still, giving no response. You sat down on the bed beside Michael, gently stroking his shoulder, and said, "I understand this must be incredibly difficult for you."

Still, no response from Michael. Your heart ached for him. And then, his sudden outburst of sobbing took you by surprise. He clutched his blanket tightly over his face, and his cries turned into near-hysterical sobs.

You were taken aback, your eyes slightly widening, but tried to reassure him, "It's okay... I'm here for you. Let it out," 

Michael's sobs continued, his body trembling with grief and anguish. However, Michael suddenly yelled, "Get out!"

Confused and concerned, you inquired, "Why, Michael? What's wrong?"

Michael's voice cracked as he shouted through his tears, "You...you're just like him! You're just like my father! Pretending to care, pretending to be there for me, but it's all a lie!" Through his tears, Michael weakly repeated, "G-Get out...!" 

But his crying intensified, reflecting the emotional turmoil he was going through. Michael knew that he needed comfort, but he was struggling to accept it because of the past abuse he had endured.

You couldn't help but feel a deep sense of empathy for Michael. You knew how painful and confusing it must be for him to go through such a tragedy, especially at his age. You gently pressed further, asking as gently and calmly as you could, "Michael, is it okay if I hug you? I want to be here for you."

You wanted to be there for him? Michael thought. 

In response, Michael suddenly sat up, his eyes red and puffy, and then, he clung to you, hugging you tightly. He sobbed into your chest, soaking your shirt with his tears. "I'm sorry... Please, Y/N, don't leave me alone. I can't... I can't be alone in this house with him."

You were puzzled by the sudden change in Michael's demeanor, but you immediately stroked his back to comfort him, and your confusion showed as you asked, "Why, Michael? What's going on? Why do you need me to stay?" you asked in a gentle tone. 

Michael wiped away his tears and managed to speak despite the quiver in his voice. "I just... I don't trust him anymore. I don't trust Father. I'm scared, Y/N. I'm so scared. P-please protect me."

You were perplexed as to why, given you hadn't seen a worse side to William. You could see the terror in his eyes though, and without hesitation, you made a promise. "Michael, you don't have to be scared. I'm here for you. I promise to protect you."

He clung to you, his voice shaking as he spoke. "You don't understand... You need to know the truth. You need to know what my father did to... my mommy." he said between sobs, looking up at you with his blue eyes. 

Your heart sank as you couldn't even imagine the horrors he might have witnessed. Your curiosity got the best of you. "Michael, please tell me what happened. What did your father do?"

Michael hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should say the truth, and then he let out a deep breath, his voice filled with sorrow and pain. "M-My father... he killed her. He killed my mother."

Meanwhile, outside the room, William's anger grew. But he waited for the moment to barge in.

Your eyes widened in shock as you gasped in disbelief, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what he had just revealed. How could William do something so vile? "He... he killed her? Are you sure, Michael?"

Michael nodded, tears streaming down his face. "I saw it, Y/N! I saw everything. He stabbed her!"

Your mind raced with a mix of shock, confusion, and disgust, struggling to come to terms with the fact that the same man you had been involved with could be capable of such a heinous act. It was a disturbing revelation, and you felt a sense of guilt and self-loathing for ever being entangled in this situation. But before you can dwell on these thoughts for too long, Michael interrupted them. His voice trembled with fear and heartache as he described the horrors he witnessed. "I saw her die, and now there's no one left to protect me, to love me..."

Without hesitation, you cupped Michael's tear-stained cheeks with both hands, gently wiping away the salty trails that stained his skin. You spoke with as much comfort as you could muster, your own eyes moist. "Michael... it's going to be alright. I know it feels like the world's against you, like you're buried under all of it... but I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere. I promise, I'm here for you, and I always will be. You deserve someone who stays."

At that moment, Michael looked at you as if you were the only light in his day.

Michael leaned in to your touch, letting out more sobs. Just as a moment of solace began to envelop the room, William burst into Michael's room with all the fury you had seen during your arguments. It was a sight that sent both you and Michael recoiling in fear. Seeing you comforting his son enraged him. He couldn't stand the thought of anyone else taking a place in Michael's life. William's temper flared, and he mercilessly gripped your arm, yanking you to your feet, his fingers pressing painfully into your flesh. You protested and tried to pull away, even landing a few hits in your desperation, but his grip was unyielding. Despite William's slender build, he was surprisingly strong.

Michael, now terrified that he might lose the one person showing him kindness, begged his father not to harm you. His voice shook as he pleaded, tears still staining his cheeks. "Father, please! Don't hurt him! He's just an innocent man trying to do his job-" he yelled, "Show mercy, if not for him, then for me! Please!" 

William ignored his son. The man who sounded so broken on the phone just hours ago was gone. What replaced him now was someone terrifying, a man fully in control of his fury. He shoved you toward the hallway, practically throwing you out of Michael's room. The door slammed shut behind you, separating you from the boy. He slammed you against the wall in the hallway, his face inches from yours. "What the hell did he tell you?" 

"He didn't... I..." You tried to defend Michael, but the words stuck in your throat. You were too shocked, too caught off guard by the sudden change in him.

"Listen carefully. You're going to keep your mouth shut about everything that Michael had told you. You won't dare speak to Michael without my consent next time." William told you.

Your mind raced, trying to find some way, any way, to survive this, with the knowledge that William was a murderer. "I won't say anything. I swear, William." He didn't respond at first, just stared at you as if weighing your words, deciding if you could be trusted. Then, something you said must have struck a nerve. "I-I just want things to go back to normal," you muttered, hoping to calm him. 

"You think there's any 'normal' left after everything that's happened? What you perceived was normal is gone. This is your life now." Before you could react, William moved. In a violent, sudden motion, his hand shot out, grabbing you by the collar of your shirt. You didn't have time to think before he slammed you hard against the wall, but harder this time.

The impact rattled your entire body. You gasped, struggling to breathe, the pain spreading from your back as you tried to catch your bearings. Then, just as quickly as he had grabbed you, he let go. You collapsed to the floor. 

You barely had time to process it before a swift, brutal kick to your ribs sent you sprawling onto your side. A sharp cry escaped your throat as the pain radiated through your body, your vision blurring. Instinctively, in futile attempt, you curled up, trying to shield yourself from further blows. "I should've killed you when I had the chance," he muttered, "You're going to regret crossing me." 

As William stormed out of the room, leaving you trembling in his wake, you were still on the floor, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you broke down into tears, sobbing. In that moment, as the echoes of his footsteps faded into the distance, you knew one thing for certain: you were trapped in a nightmare from which there was no escape.

You were alone. Truly, irrevocably alone.

With a shaking hand, you pushed yourself to stand up and check on Michael. Your legs felt like lead as you forced yourself to move. You felt the need to ensure his safety, to see if the boy was still okay. Entering his bedroom, you called out softly, "M-Michael, you okay?" There was no answer. 

You walked over to his bed and saw that the room was empty. The window was open, and a cold breeze blew through the room. You staggered towards the window, checking the garden, the cold night air rushing to greet you, brushing against your tear-streaked face, carrying with it the faint scent of freshly mown grass. Your eyes scanned the garden, searching desperately for any sign of Michael's presence, and that's when you saw them— there were footsteps in the dirt, leading away from the house.

He ran away.

Chapter Text

Life had taken a sharp turn. The very idea of facing William after that day filled you with dread. How could you possibly stand being near him, knowing the loss that had occurred right before his son's eyes? Reporting William to the authorities seemed like the most obvious logical choice, but the reality was more complicated than that. The threats he had thrown your way held you back, and they were not empty words; they were promises of violence, of consequences far worse than anything you could bear. He had always found ways to hurt you when you defied him, and the thought of what he would do, not just to you, but to everyone you cared about, kept you paralyzed. Your life could be ruined.

You wanted to leave that damn house, that town, that life you had been wanting, to vanish somewhere just so William's reach couldn't find you. But one thing kept you frozen to the spot, which was Michael. He had to come home, to see that you were still waiting for him. It had almost been two weeks since he ran away, and William assured you Michael would return soon- he had ran away before. So, you stayed, because as much as you loathed the thought of enduring more of William's cruelty, you knew that if you gave up now, it might be the last time you'd see Michael safe.

Work remained somewhat normal. The place had changed since you first started working there, a little over two months ago, and not in subtle ways. The place was stricter, and you could both feel it and see it in the expressions of the your coworkers. New security measures had been introduced across all establishments. The company branded it as part of their "We Care About Safety" initiative. Posters were plastered on walls, featuring a cartoonish Freddy Fazbear with a smile, holding a safety badge.

"At Fazbear Entertainment, we know how much you care about the safety of your children, and we care just as much. That's why we've implemented security measures across all our locations. With 24/7 surveillance, additional staff training, and enhanced safety protocols, you can enjoy peace of mind knowing that your family is safe while having fun with Freddy and friends.

We have also introduced the KidCheck System. Upon arrival, each child will receive a unique wristband that pairs them with their guardian, ensuring no child leaves our establishment with anyone other than their registered family member or group. Because nothing is more important to us than your trust, we will continue to implement measures to protect your little ones and make your visit worry-free. Together, we can create a space where children can laugh, play, and make memories that last a lifetime."

The tone grated on your nerves. 

You had helped distribute these posters as part of your job, placing them in places where parents would be sure to see them. While the public ate up Fazbear's new stance on security, you couldn't shake the irony of it all. While the added cameras might offer a semblance of safety for the customers... they did nothing for the ones working here.

The staff had been given a lengthy training session on how to use the new systems. You still remembered the tone of the manager as he went on and on about the importance of accountability, speaking as if the employees had been the problem all along.

That wasn't the only initiative the company had launched, either... With the school year approaching, Fazbear Entertainment rolled out a variety of back-to-school promotions. They offered cheaper tickets for students and teachers to visit their locations, alongside partnerships with local schools to host events. There were contests- art competitions where children were encouraged to draw their favorite animatronics, with the winning pieces displayed in the pizzerias. It was a move meant to counteract any lingering doubts the public might have had after the "incident."

Well… no one spoke openly about that day now. Most employees avoided mentioning it altogether. 

Since the day Michael ran away, William's temper toward you had become more unpredictable, his outbursts growing more frequent, intense, and terrifying. It seemed that even the smallest mistake, real or imagined, could set him off. There were times when he would fly into a violent rage over the smallest things, lashing out at you with his fists and words alike. Every time he did, you bore the brunt of his anger. You endured it all, because you had convinced yourself it was better for you to suffer than for Michael to endure even an ounce of the same pain. 

William had been gradually isolating you from the only friends you had, manipulating you into cutting ties with anyone he didn't like. He fed you lies about how they were only using you, how they didn't really care about you. Desperate for his approval, you believed every word he said, cutting off contact with them. No one else could ever understand or accept you the way he did.

Your self-care routines fell by the wayside. You neglected to eat properly, barely managing to force down a few bites of food each day. Sleep eluded you, unable to find any respite from your thoughts.

[William's POV]

The letter William was working on was one of many. A carefully worded piece meant to dissuade grief-stricken parents from probing too deeply into their children's disappearances.

"To Whom It May Concern,

Enclosed you will find a generous contribution meant to aid in your time of grief. We at Fazbear Entertainment deeply regret the recent tragedy and wish to offer our sincerest condolences. While no amount can ever truly ease the pain of loss, we hope this gesture provides some comfort. We urge you to refrain from discussing the details of your experience and not pursue further action against the company with anyone outside of your immediate family to respect your privacy during this time of mourning.

Yours faithfully,

William Afton 

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

© 1985 Fazbear Entertainment, Inc. All rights reserved. "

The letter would be duplicated five times. The printer hummed quietly to life as he prepared the documents.  

His thoughts wandered... 

The few doctors he had been seeing over the years had always suggested that his inability to connect with others, to feel, stemmed from his childhood. But William had dismissed such theories as they were spoken. It wasn't the lack of affection that made him this way. It wasn't a yearning to be loved.

The void in his soul was just... vast.

Nothing had ever touched it. Not the birth of his children. Not his marriage to Clara, something he entered because it was expected of him, not because it meant anything. Certainly not the wealth and comfort his ventures had brought him. But the act of killing someone? It was the closest he had ever come to understanding how other people must feel when something good happened to them.

William didn't need a therapist to tell him what he already knew. He was not a man looking for healing. His desires didn't need understanding. They needed releases. He sought those releases in fleeting distractions. He'd find someone, take what he needed, and then discard them like trash. 

When William first met you, you were just another young man eager to make a living. But you were also a naive thing with too much hope in your eyes and not nearly enough suspicion. He wasn't sure if he wanted you more than anyone else, but he knew he'd take his time. He had always been a patient hunter, knowing that prey wasn't simply chased. So he was doing things slowly.

First, he tracked down your address, noted the places you went.

And now, every moment you spent under his roof opened up new ways for him to insert himself into every part of your life. He didn't just want to possess you; he wanted to own every facet of you, your thoughts, your fears, even your filth.

He remembered the moments when you spoke of your friends during brief conversations on calls during your breaks- friends you didn't realize he already despised, simply because they existed in your life. He committed every name to memory. Quietly, he began erasing them from your world. He made subtle comments to you, planting seeds of doubt about their intentions, their worthiness of your trust. If you left him, you'd go back to them, right? "You would go back to those so-called friends I warned you about?" The thought brought a smirk to his lips. "Back to a life of mediocrity and loneliness? No, you're better off here, with me." 

And when he grew impatient, William took a more direct approach, tracking them down to learn their weaknesses. One had a boyfriend she cheated on frequently; another had a brother with a criminal record. Information was power. William sent anonymous letters, subtle threats, even tips to employers. The one with the boyfriend- William made sure the boyfriend found out about the cheating, then sat back as it all fell apart. The one with the brother- A phone call to a local police officer, and suddenly the person lost their job when her brother's past caught up with them. He didn't just destroy relationships; he demolished them so thoroughly there was no chance of reconciliation.

[Michael's POV]

Michael had been seeking refuge at a friend's house, unable to cope with the overwhelming fear that consumed him, but he couldn't bring himself to spill the whole truth to his friend. Instead, he brushed it off as some generic family trouble. The thought of revealing the truth about his mother to his friend terrified him; he was afraid if his father would've done something to him. But deep down, he held a desire for his father to do something extreme, just to put an end to the unbearable pain... though the idea of death still terrified him. And what could possibly happen to you?

As he crept through the night, slipping past the bushes and sneaking through a hole in the fence, he prayed his father remained oblivious in sleep. Climbing up to his window, a clumsy stumble upon entry sent him into a panic, cursing under his breath. He dove under the bed, heart pounding, hoping he hadn't woken up William. Minutes dragged by, the silence deafening, until Michael emerged from his hiding spot. He ventured out of his room, ears straining for any sign of movement from his father's bedroom. Reassured by the quietness, he tiptoed downstairs, hoping to find you somewhere. 

The living room bathed in pale moonlight revealed a figure beneath a blanket on the couch. He recognized you, your form cradled in restless sleep. Relief swept through him, though it quickly soured when he noticed how worn you looked. The shadows under your eyes were stark, and there was a bruise darkening the skin of your arm. Had his father done this to you? He approached you, shaking your shoulder, his voice barely above a whisper as he tried to rouse you from sleep. "Y/N, I'm here. It's me."

Michael's sudden appearance startled you awake, and for a moment, you mistook him for William, your heart racing with fear. But as your eyes adjusted, you realized it was Michael, his worried expression reflecting his guilt and concern. "Michael!" you exhaled, relief weakening you. "You scared me. I thought..." You nearly said you confused him with William, but quickly stopped yourself. Not the time. "I thought something happened to you." You sat up, rubbing your eyes to clear away the sleep-induced fog, your gaze now filled with concern as you looked at him.

Michael bit his lip, avoiding your gaze as he sat beside you, his voice soft. "I'm so sorry... I shouldn't have left you alone to deal with Father, now that you know of his darker side. I was scared and I didn't know what to do, but I should've never put you in that position..."

You reached out to him, your hand gently cupping his cheek. He flinched slightly, but your touch seemed to calm him, even if just a little. "It's okay. I understand. You're just a kid, and you shouldn't have to deal with any of this," you said softly. "I'm just glad you're safe now." Your hand then went to give his head a soothing touch. As you stroked his head, you couldn't help but notice the state he was in. His long hair was tangled and unkempt, his clothes rumpled and worn. It was clear he hadn't been taking care of himself properly. 

Michael didn't know how to respond to that. The last time anyone had shown him kindness, let alone comfort, had been... never. But here you were, treating him he was someone worth noticing, worth caring about. It left him unsure of what to say, but something fluttery started to grow in his chest. 

"Where have you been staying?" You asked. 

Michael shifted uncomfortably, "I've been with a friend... He let me crash at his place for a bit. I couldn't stay here with Father." Michael's voice dropped as he glanced toward the stairs, as if expecting William to suddenly appear. 

You nodded, understanding the fear that had driven him away. "I get it. It must've been terrifying for you." You hesitated for a moment before continuing. "I've been staying here with your father. Working at the workshop, you know, the usual. It's good money, but if I'm being honest, I also stayed because I wanted to be here in case you came back. Now, it's great that you're here. Why don’t you take a shower? Freshen up a bit, then food. I'll heat something up. Mr. Afton is currently sleeping, and he probably won't notice unless you slam the door too hard," you said, ushering him towards the bathroom with a gentle push.

You went to prepare some dinner for him in the kitchen. You pulled out some leftovers and started preparing something quick, a simple dinner, nothing fancy, but enough to fill Michael's stomach. A few minutes later, Michael returned, his hair slightly damp from the shower but looking much more refreshed and relaxed. He changed into some clean clothes that made him appear more put together than before. You couldn't help but smile at the sight of him, relieved to see him looking better. "Feeling better?" you asked, hoping to lighten the mood even just a little bit.

You were reassured by Michael's soft "yes," and watched as he quietly ate his meal. The exhaustion was evident in his every move. 

When he stood to head upstairs, you didn't say much, just offered him another smile and watched him disappear into his room. After everything he had been through, he deserved a night of rest without any more fear.

When Michael went to bed, he couldn't remember the last time he had felt this... cared for. It was a strange feeling, foreign yet comforting at the same time. He wished his father gave him the same care you did.

Morning arrived too abruptly. You had barely slept, and the birds chirping outside only worsened the moment, the rays of sunlight filtering through the curtains. You groaned, rubbing your eyes as you sat up on the couch, stretching, trying to gather your thoughts. It took you a moment to remember where you are and what happened the night before. With a heavy sigh, you pushed yourself to your feet and made your way to William's bedroom. You promised Michael that you would tell his father to leave him alone, and now you were going to fulfill that promise. You hesitated for a moment before knocking on the door, preparing yourself for whatever reaction you might receive.

"William?" you called out, your voice hesitant. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

After a few moments of silence, the door creaked open, revealing William standing in the doorway on the the other side, his hair a wild mess like he just crawled out of bed. His purple robe hung loosely around his shoulders, disheveled and hanging unevenly, as if he barely bothered to adjust it. His eyes were bleary, still fogged from sleep. "What do you want?" he asked, sharp with the edge of someone who didn't want to be bothered before noon.

You inhaled sharply, trying to steady your nerves, but it was hard. So much had happened, and now you were standing in front of him. "Michael came back last night," you said as calmly as possible. "He's in his bedroom sleeping now... and now, I need you to listen to me. Don't bother him. If you've got something to take out on someone, take it out on me, like I said before." 

William's brow furrowed with annoyance. "So, the little brat decided to come crawling back, huh?" Suddenly, he stepped past you without another word, making his way down the stairs. He was uninterested in anything you had to say, the conversation clearly over in his mind. His robe fluttered behind him. 

You stood frozen for a moment before you followed him downstairs. "William, listen," you implored, your voice filled with frustration. "I'm serious. Leave him alone. He's been through enough already."

He didn't answer, though, as he moved around the kitchen, his eyes focused solely on the coffee maker. The sound of water pouring into the machine was the only response you got. 

"Please," you said, "Let him have some peace for once." you added, your words almost pleading. 

He finally turned to look at you. "You're protecting him. That's noble of you. What exactly do you expect me to do instead?" he retorted. He grabbed a mug from the cabinet, his movements slow, as if he wanted to make you wait. "He's a grown man now, he can handle a little discipline."

You bristled at his dismissive attitude. "Is that what you call it? Beating your son until he's terrified of you? Until he can't even look you in the eye without flinching?" you shot back, unable to keep the anger out of your voice now. 

"I call it parenting," William said. "Something you clearly know nothing about. You're not a father, so you don't know what it's like to make hard decisions for your kid."

You spoke slowly. "Parenting is about guidance, care, love. Parenting is not making your kid so scared of you that he's shaking when you walk into a room. Parenting isn't leaving bruises on your kid's body, making them bleed, making them wonder if they're going to survive another day. That's abuse."

"Why should I care?" he spat, his voice venomous with hatred. "I killed Clara because of what she did to me. She took everything from me, and now Michael is taking everything else just like she used to."

"Don't start with that bullshit. I know what I saw last night. Michael's terrified of you, and for good reason." You gestured toward your ribs where the bruise still throbbed beneath your shirt, a subtle reminder of his outburst almost two weeks ago. "I've seen the consequences you left on your own son, and it makes me sick. I'm not asking you; I'm telling you— to leave him alone. Don't tell me your father didn't do the same thing to you," you then accused. "Because I can see it, the way you act. The way you think that abuse is normal. Maybe you're just repeating what was done to you."

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, you thought you might have gone too far. William's fist then slammed against the counter as his glare pinned you to the spot. You flinched, pulse racing. "You're really starting to piss me off... Stay out of my business, stay out of my son's head. You're just a guest here."

"I'm not just going to stand by while you—"

Before you could finish, the feeling of William's palm colliding with your face in a slap cut you off. This one stung with an intent that left no room for misinterpretation. 

"If you try to spill this to anyone," William hissed, "we'll see how that pans out for you. Who would they believe? A fag nobody from God-knows-where, who can't even look a man in the eye, or me— a respected businessman, with ties to this community?" He stepped closer, his breath hot against your face. "Nobody in their right mind would believe a worthless little shit like you over my words. They'd probably lock you up just for opening your mouth." he said, then turned away, "Now get out of my sight before I really lose my temper. I don't want to see your face for the rest of the day."  

You froze in place, the sting of his slap still burning across your cheek. "You called me that, of all people? Aren't we the same?"

"What else do you call someone like us? Damned, cursed? If there's a hell, we're burning in it, you and I. Just two faggots waiting for the flames. But there's the thing: I don't care. I've made my peace with it, and I'll burn gladly, because I'm not the one whining about daddy issues and bruised ribs. You should be praying for your soul instead." he told you, "I meant what I said— I don't want to see your face for the rest of the day."

Without another word, you turned on your heel. Each step away from him felt heavier. He had never spoken to you like that before, not with such raw contempt. 

Get away from him, even if just for a while...

You hurried to William's bedroom, quickly gathering your things. You threw on your work clothes, barely glancing at yourself in the mirror, and left the house for work earlier.

The drive back to William's house was unbearably silent. Michael had offered to stay at Freddy's for longer to help the janitors, a gesture you knew was more of an excuse to avoid returning home longer. While you understood his need for space, it didn't make the situation any less strained. When the car finally pulled into the driveway, you didn't wait for William to even kill the engine. You stepped out the moment he parked, eager to put some distance between yourself and the man who had slapped you just hours before. You didn't wait for him, heading straight for the front door and stepping inside. William followed you close behind into the living room. Both of you struggled to stay calm, though William's composure cracked first. He tossed his keys onto the coffee table with more force than necessary. "What's the matter with you?"

You turned, meeting his gaze for the first time since the kitchen this morning. You were ready to snap. The pressure of everything, Michael, the secrets, the suffocating toxicity of this place, was finally boiling over. You scoffed, shaking your head. "What's the matter with me? What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Oh, here we go. What did I do this time?" his voice was almost annoyed, as if the events of the morning were a minor inconvenience.

"You hit me. You threatened me. You treat your son like he's nothing, and now you want to act like I'm the one who's out of line here. I've been trying to help you, I've been staying with you, putting up with you because I thought there was something in you worth saving. But maybe I was wrong... because you're impossible to talk to. Every time I try, you just… deflect. You turn everything into someone else's problem. When are you going to take some goddamn responsibility?" you fumed. 

"Is this the part where you lecture me about being a better person? Spare me." William told you. "You come in here with your judgments and your self-righteous little speeches, but you don't know a damn thing about me." 

"You're right," you said, your voice shaking with anger. "I don't know you, and I don't know what it's like to be you. Thank God for that. Because if being you means hurting the people who care about you, then I never want to understand. Michael is terrified of you, William, and honestly... so am I."

"Terrified of me?" he repeated. "You're still here. If I'm so terrible, why haven't you left? Why do you let me mark you, scar you, embed myself so deeply into your soul that you'll never be able to scrape me off?" 

"Because-" you started, then faltered. 

"Because you can't," he finished for you. "Every time you think about walking out the front door, you remember what it feels like to be without me. It's not the fear that keeps you here, it's the pull. You tell yourself you hate me... but if that was true, you'd be gone." He watched you, waiting, then his voice dropped to a whisper. "You're the one who can't go a day without needing me, clinging onto me like a puppy and wanting my attention every second. You didn't crave an angel; you sought a blackened devil, and that's precisely what I became for you. I carved my mark into your flesh- a scar time will never erase. I left dust on your heart- a lingering reminder you'll never forget." William told you.

His words suggested manipulation and gaslighting, making you doubt your own feelings and sanity. "You can lie to yourself all you want, but we both know the truth. You crave the pain and the pleasure all at once. Admit it," he then said, his tone commanding now. "Admit how you feel about me. Acknowledge your sickness." 

"I hate you," you said, but it sounded like a lie, even to your own ears.

"No, you don't. Try again."

"I..." You hesitated, your throat feeling dry.

He raised an eyebrow, urging you to continue.

Your voice was previously faint and quiet, but now it grew more powerful. "You think you know me more than I know myself, William, but you're the one who's sick in ways that go beyond understanding." You took a breath, "But... maybe, there's truth in what you say. I am sick too. Sick of the lies, sick of the pain, sick of pretending I don't ache for every piece of you." you admitted. "I love the way my heart pounds when you're near, how my body reacts to you. I love the feeling of my adrenaline rising, knowing that at any moment, you could destroy me, and I wouldn't be able to stop you. I crave the feeling of being so close to destruction that it thrills me. I love how you make me feel alive by showing me just how unsafe I truly am. I love the way you terrify me. I love how much control you have over me, how you hold my very existence in your hands." 

William was taken aback, not by the revelation of your feelings, as he was already well aware of them, but by your admission of them.

As much as you hated to admit it, you didn't want to be anywhere else. You craved the touch of a man who had caused you so much pain, yearned for the very person who had left you bruised and broken time and time again. 

But before you could dwell on these thoughts any longer, William closed the distance between you in an instant, his lips crashing against yours in an aggressive kiss. You were locking lips with a man who had blood on his hands, a killer. There was nothing moral or sane about this moment, but you were beyond the point of caring. All you wanted was to drown out the mixed emotions, to lose yourself in the intensity of the moment. His tongue entered your mouth roughly, tasting you and swallowing your spit, feeling the warmth of your mouth on his. His kiss was like a drug, intoxicating and addictive. 

You broke the kiss only to whisper, "Please," you pleaded, your eyes ablaze with lust. "Reduce me to nothingness."

Let me forget who I am.

Help me forget my name.

Allow me to forget my past mistakes.  

Erase the pain that clings to me.

Take away the world outside.

Let me believe I can't breathe without you, teach me how to stop caring, strip away everything that's real. Relieve me of the fear of losing myself.

What if I let you consume me? Would it hurt, or would it be the sweet relief I crave? I wanted to scream it, to tell you that I was ready to be your puppet, but the words caught in my throat. 

William himself knew that you wanted him to dismantle you, only to piece you back together once more. It was the cycle of breaking and fixing that you craved even as you despised yourself for it. The arousal drowned out the fear and doubt that had plagued you moments before.

William's hand collided with your chest as he pushed you roughly, the sudden force causing your knees to give out. You stumbled backward and landed on the bed with a soft thud. Your eyes went wide, startled and unsure, locking onto his figure towering over you. Before you could react or find your voice, he grabbed your pants along with your underwear, pulling them off, tossing them aside carelessly. You tried to regulate your breathing, your chest rising and falling erratically, but it was a struggle to stay calm. After a moment, he shifted, moving down his body until his face was in level with your rear end. His hands gripped your cheeks, rough palms pressing into your skin as he parted them, before he bent, letting his lips meet you in the most vulnerable place imaginable, planting a wet kiss directly on your hole.

A gasp escaped you, so soft, almost pathetic, before turning into something more audible as his tongue flicked teasingly over it. "Mnnn..." You whimpered. 

You couldn't think. Michael, the death of Clara, the endless spiral of guilt and fear- all of it vanished. 

You experienced this before, but never like this... never with someone who made you feel like you were coming apart at the seams.

He began to move his tongue in small, thrusting motions, gently pressing it forward, then pulling back slightly, causing a teasing rhythm that seemed to invite further response. You had to bite your lip to keep from making any noise. William's gaze shifted to you, looking up at you from below. He pulled back slightly to speak, "You like that?" he teased, flicking his tongue across your entrance teasingly, again.

"Mh- fuck you," you managed to say weakly.

William smirked at your response, pulling back. In a second, you felt two of his fingers as he pressed them against your entrance. With force, he pushed his fingers deep, thrusting them in and out with a force that had you moaning in pleasure. Your breaths came in rapid, uneven pants as your head fell back, lashes fluttering against your flushed cheeks. Your legs attempted to close instinctively, but his free hand kept them apart. You didn't even notice when tears slipped from the corners of your eyes, streaking your cheeks.

His fingers curled and twisted, searching for that specific spot that would make you shake. It's when he found your prostate that the real fireworks began. His fingers pressed against it, rubbing it in a way that had you arching your back. Your hand found its way to your dick, stroking it with a desperation that mirrored his own. His fingers were long, perfectly enough to hit that sensitive bundle of nerves. The abuse on your prostate and the slight pain from his fingers stretching you was overbearing. He wasn't gentle, not by any means.

Just as you felt yourself getting close, William suddenly pulled his fingers out of you, leaving you feeling empty and bereft. Your hole clenched around nothing, aching to be filled once again, as you sighed in frustration. "Fuck, baby... you're stretched out so fucking good," he said, then reached out with one hand, his fingers spreading your ass cheeks apart to get a better look once again. "Look at the way it gapes wide open for me. Just begging to be filled again."

William leaned in to spit on your hole, watching it glisten before diving back in with renewed fervor, his tongue darting out to lick a long, slow stripe up the length of your crack. He was ravenous, licking and sucking with such desperation. You moaned wantonly, unable to control yourself. 

He persisted for a while longer, then he stood up.

His hands moved to his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a rough, impatient sound. He wasn't in a hurry for your sake; this was his rhythm, his scene. Sliding gracefully to your knees, everything in the room seemed to consume you. He freed himself from the constraints of his pants and underwear, and your breath caught as you were met with the sight of his cock. It was already swelling to its full size. He brought his cock against your face in a slap, letting it fall against your cheek. It was still only half-stiff, yet somehow it felt heavier, the fleshy thud making him smirk at the redness beginning to mark your skin. William guided the tip of his cock to your lips, pressing it almost gently. "Open that pretty little mouth of yours and pleasure Daddy's cock."

You obeyed, opening your mouth to receive his length. 

"Good boy. Use your tongue to tease the tip. Make it wet." he said. 

You did as he said. After a bit, he pushed it further into your mouth, his fingers twisting in your hair as he did. He didn't hold back, pushing himself to the back of your throat until your eyes watered from the pressure. He stayed like that for a moment, testing your limits, before retreating, just enough to let you gasp for air before he surged forward again. His movements were forceful as he pumped in and out of your mouth, your jaw working to keep up with his pace. Slobber dripped down your chin you struggled to keep up, to please him. 

This time, he pushed even harder, his cock sliding down your throat as your body protested. You felt the muscles in your neck constrict around him, trying to force him out and to expel the intrusion, but his hands came up, gripping the sides of your head, forcing you to take him all the way inside. Your throat stretched painfully, forcing a guttural gag from deep within you. You sputtered helplessly, the pressure making your vision blur and your chest tighten with a desperate need to breathe. Your face was flushed due to exertion, but it quickly turned pale, the blood draining from your cheeks as the overwhelming sensation of suffocation sent your body into a panic. 

After seconds of overwhelming sensations, William abruptly pulled out of your mouth, leaving you slightly breathless and coughing for air. The sudden emptiness was disorienting, and you struggled to regain your composure, your lungs burning as you fought to inhale deeply. The world felt dizzy and out of focus. You couldn't think straight. Just as you began to gather your wits, he slapped you hard across the face, the impact going through your skull and sending you sprawling to the ground. 

Dazed and momentarily stunned, you tried to steady yourself, but before you could even think of getting up, his hand shot out, gripping your hair tightly. With a harsh yank, he pulled you back to your feet, the pain radiating from your scalp down to your body, throwing you onto the bed.

Just then, William's leg brushed against the mattress as he climbed over you, positioning himself atop the bed. He pushed your knees up toward your chest, folding you into an awkward, submissive position. The sheets bunched beneath your lower back as he bent you in half. Once he had you in place, William settled his knees just outside your thighs, effectively pinning you down. He leaned forward, using one hand to grip your shoulder for leverage while the other hand reached down to guide himself into you. You gasped as he inserted himself slowly, feeling the fullness. What began as a slow motion quickly escalated into a rapid, urgent pace, leaving you breathless and struggling to keep up.

The headboard thudded against the wall in sync with his thrusts. You couldn't tear your eyes away from his face, not with the way he was staring at you, like he was trying to burn the image of you into his mind. You couldn't even speak, your voice lost in a choked-off moan as he hit your prostate that made your vision go white. You let out a whine, your body moving up against him, desperate for more. "Shit, you- ohmygod..." The words broke off into a cry as he slammed into you again, and all you could do was hang on, your nails digging into his back, leaving red marks that he wouldn't even feel until later. "You're a fucking beast!" you managed to yell. "William! Fuck, fuck, I can't— ah! I can't take it... you're too... too much! You're gonna break me!" you weren't just moaning his name; you were practically wailing it, your voice cracking like you were about to cry from how good he felt, each word forced out between gasps for air as he kept pounding into you, showing no mercy.

"A beast, am I?" he asked, his hand coming down on your face with a sharp smack that made you cry out. "I suppose you think you're just the pretty little thing who thinks he can tame the monster, hm? Maybe you should learn to handle it better if you're going to mouth off like that. Or is that all you can do... scream and moan like a little bitch?"

You found yourself craving the sting of his voice. You couldn't answer properly, couldn't even form coherent words at this point, all you could do was nod frantically. "Hah- yes, William, yesss... Please, please.... I'm sorry. I'll be good, I promise!"

After you said that, suddenly, he pulled out of you, causing you to let out a disappointed yet relieved gasp. Your hole gaped open slightly, begging him to dig back inside, raw and aching from how thoroughly he stretched you. William didn't give you a chance to even start complaining, though, pushing back inside you so hard that a noise between a scream and a whimper was forced out of your throat. The force of him was so intense it felt like he was trying to carve himself into you, to leave a permanent mark with each merciless slam. It hurt, and yet the pain merged with pleasure so perfectly. Your eyes widened, unfocused, glistening with the onslaught of it all. 

"You're offering yourself to a man who's seen blood soak into his skin more times than you've ever had a real thought. I've got you like you're begging me to fuck the sanity out of you... You're such a cock-drunk mess who's only good for taking it. My pretty little victim." William said. 

You whimpered, your cheeks flushing with shame and arousal, but the way your body clenched around him betrayed how much his words affected you. You imagined what it would feel like to be choked by him during this... You've always had a strange attraction to his hands. They were large enough to cover your entire face, and those long fingers could easily wrap around your neck. At that very moment, his hand suddenly closed around your throat, squeezing with a ferocity that stole your breath away, pinning you in place as he continued to move. It felt as though he knew exactly what you were thinking.

"Whose ass is this? Huh? Tell me who owns this fucking hole." William ordered roughly. 

"Yours," you managed to choke out, your voice barely audible. "It's your hole... ah, ohh!"

The pressure on your windpipe was immense, teetering on the edge of unbearable, yet you found yourself craving more. Your vision blurred, but you didn't look away. Instead, you reached up, your hand finding his wrist, not to push him away, but to hold him there, urging him to squeeze harder. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and unbearably arousing all at once. You could scarcely think of anything else. "Look at you," he spoke through harsh pants. "So fucking perfect when you're choked by my hand. I could snap your neck right now if I wanted. Make you bleed out all over this bed, watch the light leave your eyes as I keep fucking you. Would you like that? To die with my cock buried deep inside you?" 

The lack of air added to the dizzying rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. Against all reason, you found yourself nodding, desperate for anything that would let you stay in this intoxicating orbit of his. "Y-Yes, Daddy," you moaned, the words slipping out without thought. 

The effect was immediate. His eyes bored into yours, a wild, almost unhinged look flashing through them. He angled himself just right, hitting that devastating spot once again. 

You couldn't hold back anymore. A cry left your lips as everything inside you tightened, wrapping your arms around his neck, clinging to him as you came. He kept going, pushing you through every wave, every spasm, until you became a helpless, boneless mess beneath him, lost to the bliss. He held you there, his own face twisting with the effort to keep going, still hitting places inside that made you squirm. William's rhythm faltered slightly, his breath catching, then a pent-up groan filled the room as he buried himself deep, finally giving in, spilling himself inside you. He leaned down over you, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. You could feel his cock still inside you, softening but still thick enough to keep you stretched open, keeping his seed locked inside you.

His body remained tense for a few more seconds like he was a predator who had just finished its kill. You could feel his heartbeat slowing against your chest, the sensation both soothing and overwhelming. 

When he pulled out, you felt his seed spilling out of you in rivulets, dribbling down your crack. Covered in your own mess, stuffed full of his. He watched, his fingers trailing down to smear it around your hole, pushing some of it back inside just to see you twitch and gasp. 

William moved away abruptly, looking down at you with a look that felt dismissive, managing to bite. "You don't look half as smug now." 

"Funny," you shot back, trying to keep the exhaustion from your voice. "You seem so bothered for someone who just got what he wanted."

"And you're one to talk. For someone who whines so much, you don't to mind sticking around. You let yourself sink this low and then act like you're above it." William pulled got off the bed with a huff, moving to clean himself off, walking to the bathroom.

A weary sigh escaped you, aches running deep, body drained and worn. You just slept with the same man who left Michael, his own son, in the wreckage of his sins. And here you were again, giving in to him, despite everything.

You were lying there like some used doll, discarded until he felt the urge to pick you back up again. Your breath shuddered as your eyes fell shut. The room was quiet now, yet it wasn't comforting. It gave way to your thoughts, which came rushing in. You reached up to touch your face. It was wet with the remnants of tears shed in pleasure, but now these tears carried none of that ecstasy. They were bitter.

You could still hear him, saying, "If I'm so terrible, why haven't you left? Why do you let me mark you, scar you, embed myself so deeply into your soul that you'll never be able to scrape me off?" his voice playing in your mind on an endless loop.

It was true, wasn't it? Somewhere deep down, you needed him. But why? Was it loneliness? Desperation?

You had no answer to give yourself. No justification. No excuse.

You were complicit.

Chapter Text

It started with the puppet, etched with those streaks, tears it never had before Charlie's death. It wasn't just a machine anymore... It moved with intent, as though driven by something unspeakable, something beyond the natural order, like it was always thinking. So did the others notice too. That thing was alive. It had been touched by something extraordinary, something William couldn't quite grasp but desperately wanted to. The same darkness that clung to his son's Fredbear plush. 

It was not Evan himself, no, it was the child's suffering, his agony, that gave it life. Agony, William realized, was more potent than any soul.

William became fixated on how to harness more of it. Could he recreate that pain, that boundless energy, and mold it to his will? He already had a taste of what it could do, a look at its potential when he tormented Evan that secret underground chamber. Fear was the biggest of human responses, and he needed more of it.

If a simple, suffering child could breathe such life into an object, what else could he do with that kind of haunted power? It demanded to be understood, controlled, and, if he was cunning enough, weaponized. 

He needed to find out if this was something he could take advantage of.

The business had provided him means, of course. It all lined his pockets with money. Yet even as he played the role of the dutiful entrepreneur, Afton was already using his funds to build what he truly desired, to achieve his goals.

So, he created the Funtime animatronics with his savings, to try and to recreate the agony and fear his son experienced. 

But when the board at Fazbear Entertainment started to prod at the design choices, he knew he had to be careful.

"There's no doubting what you've achieved on a technical level. These are clearly state-of-the-art. There are just... certain... design choices, that were made for these robots... that we don't fully understand. We were hoping that you could shed some light on those."

Silence. Just for a mere second, before he started speaking. 

"She can dance, she can sing!" His voice lifted with an almost unnatural cheer, like a salesman who truly believed in his product. It was the kind of enthusiasm that could distract or disarm. He sounded undeniably confident.

"She's equipped with a built-in helium tank for inflating balloons right at her fingertips." he continued, gesturing as if he held an invisible balloon, his hand mimicking the delicate motion of it expanding. "She can take song requests. She can even dispense ice-cream." As he spoke the last words, Afton mimed the action, his fingers curling as if pressing an imaginary button, then flicking his wrist outward in a flourish, as if presenting a prize. He was like a magician showing off the secret to a trick no one had asked to see.

No stutter or tremble in his voice. 

But they weren't asking about ice cream. They weren't asking about singing. They wanted to know why these machines felt alive. 

"With all due respect, those aren't the design choices we were curious about, Mr Afton."

They weren't buying it, he could tell. But they wouldn't find anything, anyway. He could paint a smile on his face and reply with precision about their design but deliberately avoid addressing the concerns they have. Of course they were suspicious! The animatronics are a step forward, technologically speaking... Every function, every choice, is there for a reason, though. Entertainment, engagement, safety. Oh surely, they can appreciate the thought that went into such innovation...

The lie was elegant in its simplicity: a gas leak. Elizabeth's eager eyes had met Circus Baby's, green staring into blue, just a moment before she was taken.

When he brought the funtimes to the underground chamber, he noticed the shift immediately. Those eyes. They weren't Baby's. They were same green as Elizabeth's. Her death was the first step in William's descent from inventor to something much deeper. 

"Fear, pain, despair," he muttered under his breath, his voice filled with the excitement of discovery. "These are the catalysts. The triggers. If one child could create a spark, what could five do?"

This single success wasn't enough. Science demanded another replication, and William, in his arrogance, demanded mastery. What had happened with Elizabeth was perfect but he needed more. 

But the public held him back. Newspapers said, "The local entrepreneur responsible for financing the venture has not yet provided any public comment regarding the matter." 

The funtimes were too dangerous to use again. The location was closed, the scrutiny too great.

Charlie Emily's possession of the Puppet had been a messy process... one nearly impossible to replicate without drawing attention again. He was lucky that night because the incident had happened outside... 

So, what if the children's bodies could be hidden somewhere no one would ever think to look? What if he could harness the same principles that had taken Elizabeth? Just as the fear experiments had been designed to shape his son, he needed to recreate the circumstances that had led to his daughter's death. 

June 26, 1985. A day he would mark in his mind forever.

The next morning, you woke up in William's bed, your body sore and aching from the night before.

You groaned softly, your head pounding. As you blinked, trying to clear the fog from your mind, you realized that William was nowhere to be found. His absence from the room wasn't surprising, though, because he never lingered longer than necessary after nights like that. 

You couldn't remember the specifics of when you had fallen asleep, but the bed now looked neat. All that remained were the memories of the previous night, leaving you disgusted with yourself for giving in to him again. But despite everything, you were drawn to him, knowing full well he was nothing but danger. You wanted to stay, to be near him, even if it meant risking both your own safety and sanity. 

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, wincing as a pain lanced through you. The ache in your lower back was the first thing you noticed. It hurt to sit, to move, yet the discomfort only served to remind you of him. 

The clock read 7:50 AM. Early, but the day would not wait for anyone. 

You rose shakily, muscles stiff and complaining, and stumbled toward the bathroom. 

Inside, the mirror greeted you with your own tired reflection. Your neck was a mess, showing purpling bruises and faint fingerprints that stood out against your skin.

You ran a hand over them, closed your eyes, your breathing shallow as you remembered how his hand felt around your throat, making you feel like you were nothing and everything all at once. Your fingers tightened against your neck in a poor imitation of his grip. It made your knees weak, made your pulse race, made you want—

Stop it.

You opened your eyes, locking gaze with your reflection. 

You needed to focus on more important matters. 

How the hell were you going to hide these? A turtleneck? A scarf? But it wasn't cold, and William would laugh at the effort. You hated giving him that satisfaction.

Shaking your head, you opened the cabinet, finding it mostly stocked with men's items like razor, shaving cream, aftershave. Then your fingers brushed against something unexpected. A small makeup bag. Clara's? It had to be. You pulled it down and unzipped it. Inside was a cracked compact mirror and a nearly-empty tube of concealer. The label was faded, but it would do... 

Now you focused on the ache.

Lowering your gaze, you tugged down your underwear. A smear of red on the fabric caught your eye. Just great. It wasn't like he cared about whether it hurt you, if anything, he probably enjoyed knowing you'd be feeling it for days after. You tried to suppress the surge of anger and arousal that twisted together.

In the shower, the water stung at first, but it helped wash away some of the physical reminders.

Once you were clean, you stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around your waist. The bathroom mirror was fogged up, but you wiped it away with a quick swipe of your hand. You then dried off, dressed for work, slipped on your shoes and tied them tight. 

When you were presentable, you retrieved the concealer from the makeup bag. Eh, it was a shade too light, but you needed to cover the bruises somehow. You dabbed a bit onto your fingers and began applying it to your neck. The texture was dry and patchy, making the task even more frustrating, but eventually, the worst of the bruises faded into a pale hue.

Using Clara's makeup, hiding the marks left by the man who killed her, left you feeling the bitterness all over again. You wondered if she ever felt this same mix of anger and helplessness when she was with him.

You caught the faint smell of something cooking.

When you entered the kitchen, William stood at the stove, his back to you. Your mind felt heavy, but you forced it down. It was easier to pretend you didn't remember anything. William didn't look at you at first, but you knew he was well aware of your presence. It was as if he could always feel you, even when he chose not to acknowledge it.

He suddenly remarked, "Take a seat at the table; we'll be off shortly after breakfast."

You slid into the chair at the kitchen table with a quiet sigh. William set plate in front of you.

As you ate, his uncomfortable gaze remained fixed on you, unblinking. He crossed his arms, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that bore his scars and veins that stood out.

Your pulse quickened under his scrutiny. You lowered your fork, swallowing hard. "Is something wrong?"

"Lift your chin."

The command caught you off guard, and you hesitated. Slowly, you obeyed, tilting your head back slightly. He moved around the table, reaching you. Before you could react, his long fingers brushed against your neck. His thumb swiped across the faint smear of concealer that hadn't fully blended in. He pulled back, his eyes fixed on his finger as he inspected the beige residue.

"A faggot and a thief, I see." he thought out loud. He hadn't even raised his voice, but his tone stung more than if he had shouted. "I didn't think you would steal from my dead wife, but I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. A sissy trying to cover up his marks like some cheap whore sneaking home after a regrettable night."

Your chest tightened. "You don't have to be such a dick about it. Is there a point to this, or do you just enjoy making me miserable?"

"Of course I enjoy it... What's the point of breaking something if you can't savor watching it shatter? And you, you break so exquisitely. Like watching a stray dog wag its tail after getting kicked." he told you, then abruptly shifted the topic. "Breakfast is getting cold." He said, turning, his focus returning to the stove as though the conversation hadn't even mattered.

A few minutes later, Michael came inside, his presence awkward. Relief flooded through you that he hadn't caught the exchange between you and his father. His face was tense, tough, as if he was trying to go through this without setting off any explosions. He has been back for two days now, and you could see how it weighed on him. Michael slowly made his way to the table and sat down. His posture was stiff, his body language direct proof of his discomfort. You saw the way Michael looked at you, and you attempted to appear unaffected, as if nothing was wrong. As if you weren't in the same bed as the monster who had killed his mother.

You wondered if Michael could see the unshed tears and the reddened flush on your cheeks, betraying the emotions you were desperately trying to hide. 

You knew Michael hadn't started school yet, too. Though it wasn't your place to force him to go, you couldn't help but hope he'd eventually get back on track. He needed education, a real future, and a decent job. Anything to pull him away from the mess his father had made of him. He needed something good to happen to him.

"You're coming with us today?" you asked, trying to sound normal as you finished the last bite.

Michael just nodded. It was clear he didn't want to be here, but what choice did he have? You couldn't blame him.

He ate at his own pace, dragging out each bite, like he was stalling for time, hoping the extra moments might delay what was coming. But eventually, the three of you made your way to William's car. Michael's hair was now messily tied into a loose bun, strands falling out around his face, the Fazbear hat perched awkwardly on top. 

As the car pulled out of the driveway, you couldn't help but glance over at William. His eyes went over to yours briefly, but his gaze quickly returned to the road ahead. His body language told you everything you needed to know. It was clear that whatever was going on in his mind, he was choosing to keep it locked away. 

The moment you all arrived, William didn't waste any time, heading straight to his office without acknowledging anyone.

You exhaled slowly, your gaze shifting to Michael, who was already trudging off toward the storage room, his shoulders slumped, clearly not wanting to get to work. Despite the awkwardness, you found yourself following him. You were supposed to be the daytime security guard, but you've always found it easier to help out when things just started moving. It was the only way to pass the time until you started your shift. Plus, you've always been the one who stayed when everyone else walked away, even when you were complicit in the monster's cruelty.

You caught up to Michael, offering him a small nod as you briefly made eye contact. He didn't acknowledge it, but you knew he saw it. He had always been perceptive. 

"I can't believe he dragged you here again," you muttered, keeping your voice quiet.

Michael let out a heavy sigh, a sound of pure exhaustion. "It's not like I had a choice," he replied. His eyes flicked to the side, making himself completely sure his father wasn't nearby before continuing. "He's punishing me for running away the second time." You already knew that, but hearing Michael say it aloud made it worse. "Before you woke up... we talked. He told me the rules. What I'm allowed to do, what I'm not. He told me if I don't follow them, I'm gonna regret it. He didn't hit me though... He was calm, too calm maybe. Like he was a completely different person."

Hearing that William had talked to him felt like a little relief. You remembered the argument you had with William, telling him not to bother Michael ever again. Was he really listening to you? You hoped so. 

"How're you holding up right now?" you then asked.

"Barely. I..." He paused for a moment, swallowing hard before continuing. "I recently heard about my mom's funeral, too." His voice cracked. "Her family's organizing everything, and they're expecting him to show up. They think he's the grieving ex husband..." He cut himself off, his throat working to hold back the rest. "I'm not going to that funeral if he goes," Michael said, his voice suddenly firm, as if making a promise to himself. "I don't care if they'll be pissed. I can't stand the thought of him there. Standing over her grave like he fucking deserves to mourn her." 

You wanted to tell him something that would help, something that would make the situation feel less messed up, but nothing came to mind.

Michael's gaze avoided yours now. "I'll see you later, alright?"

You stood there, watching him turn, ready to walk away. But something in you couldn't just let him go like that. Before he could take another step, you said, "Michael, wait." 

He stopped, turning back with a look of confusion written all over his face. His brow furrowed as if he was wondering what more you could possibly want from him. Before you could second-guess yourself, you closed the distance between you two, your arms wrapping around him. The hug wasn't anything dramatic, it was just two people seeking something more than the emptiness they felt. You could feel Michael's body relax just slightly after the initial shock was wearing off, and you could tell he was grateful. 

When you finally pulled back, your hands lingered on his shoulders. "We'll talk more when we get back to your place, okay? For now... I just want you to get through today. I can't even imagine what you're going through, but I'm here for you. I'm trying, Michael. I really am."

His gaze softened just a fraction, and you thought he might say something, but instead he just muttered a quiet, "Thanks." And that simple response was alright. 

You understood that there were some things best left unsaid for now. Some things didn't need to be said out loud immediately. Just being there for someone was all that mattered. 

You made your way to the security room. A faint smell of cigarettes lingered in the air, probably from the night guard who worked the night shift. The monitors blinked to life as you checked the footages, keeping an eye on the place. The grainy black-and-white footage of the different rooms flickered on the screens.

When the day finally came to an end, you, William, and Michael headed toward William's car. William unlocked the car and slid into the driver's seat. You followed suit, sitting next to him in the front, while Michael slumped into the back, his arms crossed, eyes staring out the window. William didn't start the car right away. His fingers drummed lightly on the steering wheel before he turned his head slightly, addressing his son. "Michael," he began, the single name carrying enough weight to force the young man's attention. "I hope you understand that today's work was a warning. Running off like you did, thinking you could just avoid your responsibilities, both at school and work—" He paused, "That won't happen again. Do you understand me?" 

Michael didn't respond, though you could feel the resentment radiating off him in waves. His body language was stiff as he continued to stare out the window, pretending his father's words weren't sinking into his skin. His refusal to engage only seemed to intensify William's irritation, but William forced himself to remain composed, as if the silence didn't bother him in the slightest. 

There was a long, drawn-out pause before William spoke again, this time turning his attention to you, still no warmth in his voice. "Mr. L/N, I trust the day's duties were handled adequately?" His tone was a reminder that he was keeping up appearances in front of Michael. The shift in how he addressed you was a clear signal: He wanted the interaction between you two to seem strictly professional in his son's eyes. He was trying to show him that you were nothing more than his employee. 

You caught the hint quickly, straightening your posture. "Yes, Mr. Afton. Everything went smoothly today," you replied, keeping your tone measured, respectful. You made sure not to slip. 

When William drove out of the parking lot, and you felt the tension between the three of you rise. 

As soon as the car came to a stop in front of the Afton residence, Michael was out, slamming the door behind him without a word. You watched him stalk toward the house, his shoulders hunched in anger, disappearing through the front door. The thud of it closing echoed in the quiet evening air. You then watched as William stepped out of the car. He didn't say anything at first, just moved toward the trunk, and you followed him. The boxes inside weren't particularly heavy, just annoying to carry, filled with tools and materials meant for the workshop. You grabbed one, while William took the other. You followed him to the garage. The boxes would be moved to the workshop later, once everything was settled. You set the box down near the workbench and glanced at him. "Is that all for now?" 

William nodded, wiping his hands on his pants absently before looking over the workshop. "You've got two hours before I need you again."

"Thanks for the extra time." you said. 

You made your way to leave, but William's voice stopped you. 

"Hold up a second," he said suddenly, his tone quiet but firm enough to make you freeze mid-step.

Before you could fully turn, his hand wrapped around your wrist, yanking you back toward him. Your chest brushed his as you looked into his eyes nervously. His hand slid into your back pocket, his fingers pressing firmly against your ass as he shoved a wad of cash there. "For the work. Just remember that sex doesn't excuse incompetence. If anything, it means I expect more from you." he muttered, breath hot against your ear.

You resisted the urge to shove his hand away. That bastard.

You could still feel the weight of his hand lingering long after he pulled away, leaving you standing there with your nerves lit. Without another word, you stepped out of the garage, feeling his eyes follow you as you went.

You made your way upstairs, your feet heavy as you reached Michael's room. You knocked lightly on the door, the sound barely audible, but you pushed it open without waiting for an answer. It didn't feel intrusive with Michael. You figured he wasn't used to people respecting boundaries like that. William had likely set the standard by barging in whenever he wanted, and Michael had grown accustomed to the lack of choice. Inside, he sat hunched over a sketchbook, pencil in hand, the tip scratching softly against the paper. From the way he barely acknowledged you, it was clear his focus was elsewhere. "Hey. I wanted to check in with you after today, like I promised." you started, keeping your voice soft, not wanting to break his concentration too much.

His hand froze mid-stroke for a fraction of a second, but he didn’t look up. "I'm fine," he muttered, his tone distracted. The pencil resumed its furious work, the tip pressing harder now.

Your curiosity got the better of you. "What are you drawing?"

He hesitated. The question seemed to disarm him for a moment. Slowly, with a sigh, he turned the sketchbook around to show you.

You blinked, your breath catching as your eyes met the paper. It wasn't like the animatronics you had seen at Freddy Fazbear's. The animatronic on the page was creepy, its surface torn, with eyes that glowed, wires protruding like twisted eyelashes. The teeth... Not just in its mouth, but its stomach, lined with rows of razor-sharp teeth, waiting to devour anything in its path. It looked like it had crawled out of someone's worst nightmare.

"That's Fredbear," Michael muttered, voice quiet as if saying the name summoned something dangerous. His eyes lingered on the drawing as though it had more meaning than just lines on a page. "But not the one you've heard of. This is the one from my nightmares."

"Isn't that the one..." You trailed off, hesitant to bring up the sore subject, trying to find the least painful way to ask. "...the animatronic involved in your brother's death?"

His eyes darted away, his pencil now lying forgotten on the desk. "Yeah... That's the one." Michael confirmed. "Every night, I hear him. The crunch. It's never quiet in my head. I just... I can't forget, and the worst part is, I deserve it. I deserve to see this thing like this. It's a punishment." He shook his head. "I don't know why I'm even telling you this." He was clearly trying to make sense of why he was opening up to you, someone he wasn't even sure he could fully trust. His eyes searched your face intently, as if he was trying to measure your sincerity, to decide if you were safe to confide in.

"Because you need to, Michael. You've been holding this in for too long, and it's eating away at you. I know I work for your father, but that doesn't mean I don't see you for who you are. We're not just coworkers... we can be friends. And friends help each other." Your voice softened as you leaned closer, wanting him to understand that you meant every word.

"You sure about that?" 

"I'm serious." Your voice was steady. "I'm not here to hurt you. If anything, I've been trying to shield you from your father. I won't let him hurt you more than he already has."

"Really?" he asked, his voice quieter this time. "I mean, you said you'd talk to him, but... did it even make a difference? Does he ever talk shit about me to you? I'm wondering." His words carried a deep sadness, an ache from wounds that had never fully closed.

Michael didn't need to know all of it. Not yet. It would hurt him deeply. Clearing your throat, you forced a small smile and lied, "No, Michael, he doesn't really talk much about his personal life. Mostly sticks to work. Talking about you would mean admitting his own mistakes, and he's not the kind of man who does that. He buries things, people, problems, feelings. That's how he operates."

The truth was uglier than that, and you couldn't add more. It was easier to pretend that you were just here to get your job done. You hesitated before speaking again, choosing your words carefully. "What he did to your mother will never be okay. You know that. What he does to you… that's not okay either." You met his eyes, making sure he understood, "It's not okay what he does to me either, since he's my boss. I should've reported him to the authorities, but I can handle it. I have to." 

"So... you're just gonna stay quiet and let him control you like that? Beat the shit out of you whenever he feels like it?" he asked. 

He wanted answers, closure, and you couldn't deny him that, no matter how dangerous it felt to speak openly. "I'm a witness, Michael. To what he did to your mom." The words left your mouth heavier than you'd intended. "If I spoke up, the only thing standing between me and the truth is his reputation. You know how well respected he is around here. No one would believe me. I'd lose my job at best. At worst, he could twist it all around and make it look like I'm the one causing trouble. Pull some charges against me, even," you continued, "And it's not just about me. If I push too hard, he'll lash out at anyone he sees as a threat, including you. The last thing I want is for you to get hurt again because of him. That's why I haven't gone to the cops yet... Because as much as I dislike to admit it, I'm scared of what he could do..."

Michael ran a hand through his hair, his movements restless. His features seemed to soften now. He looked down, then back up at you. He took in the words you said, like he always suspected something darker about his father but had hoped to be wrong. He looked at you like he was trying to decide something. "Can I trust you with something?" His voice was more serious now. "I mean, really trust you? You can't tell him. Ever. You can't even—"

"Of course you can trust me," you said. "Whatever it is, Michael, I won't say a word. I swear."

"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice carrying a heavy weight. Rising from his desk chair, he walked over to the bed, hesitated for a moment, then sat down. He shifted, creating space beside him, and glanced at you with a silent invitation. You joined him. The bed creaked under the added weight, but it felt safe.

His hands fidgeted as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Evan… my little brother." he started, and you could already hear the regret seeping into his tone. "People talk about his death like it was some accident, like a random tragedy. I mean, technically, it was an accident, but that doesn't even begin to cover it." His voice faltered, and he dragged a hand down his face. "It was my fault." He let the admission hang in the air, his breathing growing uneven. "It was supposed to be a stupid, harmless joke."

You didn't interrupt. His posture screamed of someone barely holding himself together, visibly fighting to keep his composure, and you weren't about to push him before he was ready.

"Since the day he was born, everything revolved around him. Evan the sensitive one. Beloved." he told you. "Evan was terrified of the animatronics, Fredbear especially. Just the sight of it would send him into tears, hiding under tables, hide behind mom or our Father. I teased him for that. Constantly. I made fun of his fear because it was the only time anyone noticed me. I thought if I could make him look weaker, I'd feel stronger. I didn't care how much it hurt him. That day, on his birthday, I... I took it too far."

"I thought I'd teach him a lesson by humiliating him. I thought it was funny, or maybe I was angry. Got my friends to help. We laughed as we lifted him up, like we were the kings of the world, making this scared little kid face this big, bad monster. But then the animatronic malfunctioned." His words began to tremble. "It happened so fast. The jaws—" He mimed them clamping shut. "Right on his head, creating a crunch sound. There was blood everywhere. So much blood. He just... went limp. Like a doll. I couldn't do anything but watch as my friends ran off. I was stuck. Father, when he showed up... shit, he didn't even try to hide how angry he was at me. There wasn't any horror or grief in his eyes, just... pure disappointment. Not at what happened, but at me... His first words weren't 'Is Evan okay?' or 'What have we done?' No, he just looked at me and said, 'You've always been such a disappointment.'"

Michael's voice cracked on the last word, and he broke. His face twisted, almost unrecognizable in agony, eyes squeezed shut as the first tear broke free. Then more followed, unstoppable, until he was shaking with heavy, violent sobs that seemed to come from the deepest part of him. The grief was physically ripping through him. You reacted on instinct, wrapping an arm around him. It wasn't much, but it was all you could offer. Michael didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into you, like he needed something solid to hold onto. You rubbed his back, murmuring soft words of reassurance that you weren't sure he could even hear over his sobs. But it felt right, just being there with him, even if nothing you did could really take away his pain.

You sat there with Michael for what felt like minutes, his body shaking as he sobbed into your chest, his tears soaking through your shirt.

You didn't mind. Hell, you'd let him cry all night if it meant releasing some of that weight he had been carrying alone for so long.

When his breathing finally steadied, you loosened your grip but didn't move away, keeping your arm resting lightly on his back. His cries had shifted from deep, violent sobs to soft gasps.

"It's okay," you murmured quietly, "let it out." 

He tried to catch his breath. "I'm sorry," Michael's voice cracked as he spoke, sounding younger than his sixteen years. "God, I'm sorry for crying like this. I d-don't know what's wrong with me." His voice was hoarse from crying, but it was laced with of shame. "I shouldn't be breaking down like this."

Gently, you cupped his cheek, lifting his head so you could look at him. His skin was warm, damp with tears, and he flinched slightly at the contact, though he didn't pull away from you. His blue eyes, rimmed red and glistening with fresh tears, met yours hesitantly.

"Stop." Your voice was firm, but your touch remained soft as you moved your hand to his shoulder. "Don't apologize, Michael. You hear me? Don't. There's nothing wrong with you. You've been holding so much inside, haven't you? It's okay to let yourself grieve. You're allowed to cry, and you're allowed to feel messed up about this entire situation. No one should have to carry all of that alone."

His lips quivered as he tried to respond, but he couldn't find the words. Instead, he simply nodded.

He exhaled sharply, sitting up and pulling away slightly, embarrassed by his own vulnerability. "I probably look rough right now." 

You let out a soft chuckle, the sound light and comforting. "You're good, okay? Crying's human." you said. "You're a good kid, Michael. You've made mistakes, but that doesn't mean you're doomed to repeat them. It's okay to want to be better, but don't tear yourself apart trying to undo the past. You're more than your worst moments."

He blinked, his lashes fluttering as another tear rolled down his cheek. Before he could wipe it away, you reached out, gently brushing it aside with your thumb.

After a long silence, Michael's voice broke the quiet again, "There's also something else I have not told you. It's about Elizabeth, my sister. She didn't make the headlines, my father made sure of that. If you were looking for her story, you'd find nothing but silence. You need to hear the truth." he said. "It was opening day of Circus Baby's Pizza World on Elizabeth's birthday. The place was packed- parents, kids, everyone excited for the newest attraction. Liz couldn't stand being told no, not when it came to something shiny and new. Circus Baby, especially."

You knew that sometimes words came easier in the silence, when no one was pushing you to stop, to breathe, to calm down. So you remained quiet. 

"Father couldn't stop talking about how perfect she was, how beautiful, how revolutionary. But for all that pride, he kept warning Elizabeth to stay away from her. She snuck away from the crowd when no one was looking. She found the back room, where Baby was waiting." His eyes closed, and his hands clenched into fists. "I followed her. Told her she was gonna get us both in trouble if Father found out. She didn't care. She was standing there, in the center of the room, staring up at Baby like she was seeing a queen on her throne. Baby dispensed ice cream from her body. And... when Elizabeth reached for the ice cream, Baby's stomach hatch opened so quickly, and a claw-like mechanism extended, grabbing Elizabeth and pulling her inside. I ran to her in panic. I tried to pull her out, but it was too late. There was nothing left." he sighed, his voice shaky. "The room was empty when Father came. Baby stood there, still as a statue, like nothing had happened. But we both knew."  

"The grand opening was canceled under the guise of 'gas leaks.' It was a cover-up. And hear me out, because I know how insane this sounds, but..." His chest was heaving like he was bracing for a blow. "I think I know those animatronics were designed to kill and to lure kids. There were too many connections- The way my sister vanished like it never happened, and then I remembered Freddy's."

You stared at Michael, the weight of his confession pressing heavily against your chest. He clung to the truth like it was a lifeline, something he had never told anyone before.

"After Elizabeth, things started to look different to me. I saw the patterns, the designs and the lies. The Funtime models were different, and like I said, more advanced. Father spent hours in his workshop, tinkering, testing. Late at night, when everyone else was asleep, he'd working on something he never let us see. I thought it was just his way of staying busy, but now I know better."

"What did you figure out, Michael?" you asked gently. 

"They're obviously designed to attract kids," he answered, "Why do you think the designs are so... colorful, so exaggerated? It's to make them look friendly, make them seem safe. Inside them, there's this mechanism, hidden away." he told you. "I found the key to his office hidden in the back of the grandfather clock in the living room. It wasn't like he'd ever let me in his office on my own, so I waited until he left one night. I didn't know what I was looking at at first, but then I found the schematics. Every detail was laid out in his handwriting: the compartments, the mechanisms, even the bait systems. There was a a diagram of the internal chamber, labeled for 'storage,' but it wasn't meant for parts or tools. It was big enough to fit a child."

"How long ago did you find this?”

"Months ago," he admitted, his gaze dropping to his hands. "But I didn't connect the dots until recently, when those kids disappeared at Freddy's. You know the news said the suspect used a costume, right? The SpringBonnie suit?" 

You nodded. "Yes. Everyone heard about that. It was all over the papers." 

"It is his. He used to wear it back at Fredbear's Family Diner, putting on a show for the children. But now, looking back, God, it makes me sick. What if he never stopped using it? It would not be the first time, given he's he already killed my mother too." he frowned slightly at the mention of her.  

Your thoughts scattered like broken glass, and suddenly, you were rethinking every single interaction you ever had with the man. Michael noticed the way your face had paled, and for a moment, his lips twitched like he wanted to laugh but couldn't quite manage it. "You look like you've seen a ghost... I wish I was making it up. It'd be easier if I was just crazy." 

A laugh bubbled out of you, though it wasn't from humor. It was that nervous, anxious kind of laugh. "This is like... next level."

You couldn't help but feel sick to your stomach at Michael's words. Here you were, sitting with William's son, listening to him recount the horrors his father had inflicted on their family and other people. And just yesterday, you had slept with his father. But there was nothing you could do to change what had already happened.

He was still staring at you, eyes wide, desperate for answers. He wanted to know if there was a way out of this, but the system was built to protect men like William. "Can't you try something with the authorities? Anything at all? I mean, you're an adult. He doesn't have that kind of authority over you like he does over me. There just has to be something you can do." He was holding onto hope by the thinnest thread.

You replied shortly, "There's nothing I can do, not without any real proof."

Michael's expression tightened. He crossed his arms, leaning back, his jaw clenched. "Seriously, that's bullshit. You can't just do nothing. You're a grown man. You could at least—"

"I can't, Michael," you interrupted, sharper than you intended. "It's not just about being an adult. It's about going up against someone who's already won this game before it even started. The courts finalized everything, the investigation's dead. If I stand alone, with nothing to back me up, he'll destroy me before I even get to speak." You wanted to tell him that there was a way out, that justice would be served. But you both knew better. "I'm sorry," you muttered, "I wish there was more I could do."

Finally, he let out a long, shaky breath and stood up. He looked at you, eyes hardened with determination. "You might not have proof, but I know the truth. And if the authorities won't listen to you... I'll figure something out." 

"Don't do anything reckless," you warned, standing up to face him. "This isn't something you can just fix. Rushing into this without a plan, without thinking it through won't help anyone."

"You think I'm not thinking? You think I don't know what I'm up against? I've lived with him my whole damn life. I know what he's capable of better than anyone!" he yelled. "I won't play it safe. What the hell do you want me to do, just sit around and wait for him to hurt someone else? I can't let him do that. I also most certainly don't need you to baby me. I'll deal with him myself."

Michael stormed out of the room, his anger palpable even after he was gone. The door rattled in its frame from the force of his departure, leaving you standing there, alone in his bedroom.

You understood why Michael felt so trapped, but there was only so little you could do.

Chapter Text

After Clara's death, you did create some distance between yourself and William, initially. You stayed away, not just from his bed, but from his gaze, his touch, his everything. It had been "only professional" for a while. You were horrified, not by the revelation that he was a killer, but by how you couldn't seem to stop yourself from coming back now.

For Michael's sake, you let yourself fall into old patterns. You had resumed sharing William's bed. It was easier this way. Michael was safer if William's focus stayed on you. Or at least that's what you told yourself to justify the arrangement.  

How could you hold Michael, whispering reassurances into his hair, only to crawl back to William's room when the house fell silent?

You rolled over, burying your face in the pillow.

It wasn't like you could stop. 

You did your best to keep busy, threw yourself into work at Freddy's, forced your mind to focus on the routine of watching cameras, jotting notes, and handling the few misbehaving brats who thought they could get away with sneaking behind the animatronics. But when you were at William's house, it felt different. Everything felt different since that night with William. It left some kind of permanent impression that you couldn't shake off. It wasn't just physical like it usually was. The whole experience was a strange mix of intimacy and destruction. It wasn't just rough sex- it was cruel. It wasn't just passionate- it was mean. You didn't even know what to call it, but you knew it had left you feeling shattered, unsure of where you stood.

The verbal abuse also had always been there, but now it was relentless. At first, you convinced yourself it was just his thing, that it didn't mean anything. Maybe it was part of his turn ons, you thought, and played into it. But as time went on, you realized that the insults weren't just words, they were poison. You weren't strong enough, you weren't good enough, you were worthless. And then, there were the hits. He'd start shoving you just to see you stumble, to see that flash of fear in your eyes, the way you would try to catch your breath and hold it together. Each time he struck you, it was like he was proving a point. It got to you in ways you didn't even know how to put into words. 

You hated how easily he read you, how quickly he could break you down with just a look. And yet, when he wanted to, he could make you feel like you were the only person in the world. 

You were trapped, not by locks or walls, but by something far stronger. Something he built between the two of you.

At first when you two met, he had that charm, that cigarette smile, which made you dizzy just standing by. 

You told yourself things were meant to sting, that the burn was proof, the ache was real. 

He raised his hand, and your heart raced, like it was something sacred, something you could feel. He hurt you, and you wore it, bruises soft as cherry wine.

In the moment, you said it felt like love, said it felt like "he's mine." You swore his touch was what you would miss, how the pain hit, but it felt like a kiss.

You sat in the office chair, the bag of chips on your lap crinkling as you reached in for another handful. The clock ticked sluggishly, a constant reminder that your shift was far from over, which bored you to death. The office had become a second home, the flickering screens casting ghostly shadows across your face. You were making sure that nothing resembling the missing children incident ever happened again. It paid the bills, and that was all that mattered, right?

You sighed, brushing crumbs off your uniform. Half security guard, half William's assistant. It was an act that left you feeling more worn-out than anything else. The promise of a promotion to assistant manager wasn't fulfilled, either. Weeks had passed with no movement. William never seemed in a hurry to push the paperwork through. That position would mean fewer hours on your feet, more money, and less time being his errand boy...

You heard footsteps coming. You turned, already knowing who it was before your eyes landed on him. 

You glanced over your shoulder, swallowing the irritation that rose in your chest. A cigar hung loosely between his fingers, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals.

"Mr L/N." William 'greeted.' "I trust you're not too busy indulging yourself to have reviewed the reports I left for you this morning? I do expect them to be completed thoroughly and without error before your shift ends. It's important that we maintain a certain standard here...especially with the incident we both know we're trying to avoid repeating."

You nodded quickly, "Yes, I was just—"

"Eating." he interrupted, his gaze flicking to the bag of chips in your lap. "I would prefer it if you didn't conduct your meals in a manner that leaves crumbs on the company equipment." 

Your jaw tightened as you wiped your hands on your pants again, fighting the urge to snap back. His words weren't unusual, he had a way of cutting you down while keeping his tone neutral enough to pass as polite.  

William stepped into the office, the faint click of his polished shoes on the tiled floor drawing your attention despite yourself. He was taking his time to study the space, to study you. "Now, I have a task for you, one that requires immediate attention. You can set aside your other obligations and follow me now. I have already arranged for someone to cover the cameras during your absence. I sincerely hope I'm not asking for too much."

You hesitated, your mind racing with a dozen questions you didn't dare voice.

"No, sir." you muttered, pushing yourself out of the chair. The bag of chips crinkled again as you moved, and you could feel his disapproving stare burning into you. 

"Do try to compose yourself." he said. "You are representing this establishment. Or have you forgotten that even appearances hold value?"

"No, sir..." you replied again, the words coming automatically. 

Before you could step past him, his hand brushed lower than necessary, a pressure against your hip that lingered for just a second too long. You froze, every nerve in your body firing off at once. He withdrew just as quickly, as though the touch had been an accident, but the look in his eyes when they met yours said otherwise. He smirked faintly, "Follow me."

Your legs moved before your mind caught up, trailing after him as he stepped into the hallway. His strides were long and unhurried. You followed like a shadow, your footsteps echoing softly off the floors. You passed the employee lockers and the supply rooms, places you have been countless times before, but this time he led you further, to a part of the building you had never ventured into.

The safe room. You heard whispers about it from the other employees but no one had ever seen the inside. It was strictly off-limits, kept under lock and key. He paused in front of the door, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket, selecting one with care. He pushed the door open slowly. "Here we are," he muttered, holding the door open for you. "After you."

The room was cold, far colder than the rest of the building, and it smelled faintly of old, rotting wood and something metallic, like the tang of iron. He didn't say a word as he turned, pulling the door closed and locking it. As the door shut behind you, you realized how isolated you were, sealed off from the rest of Freddy's and the outside world with only William close to you. "Come on," he beckoned, already walking deeper into the room.

You forced yourself to step further inside, your eyes scanning the space, trying to take it all in at once. It wasn't large, but the shadows clung to every corner, obscuring the room's edges. What caught your attention most, though, was the animatronict that sat in the corner. SpringBonnie, you immediately thought. Seeing it in person was something else. The green eyes stared blankly ahead, as if watching but seeing nothing. The faded yellow of its suit was stained in places, the once-bright fabric dulled with age and something darker. Blood? Parts of what you assumed was Fredbear's parts laid there also, arms, legs... tossed aside like discarded toys. You noticed something was off; there was no full version of Fredbear. Just these mangled pieces. Your heart raced as your eyes then trailed down to the floor. The familiar checkerboard tiles beneath you were stained with blood long dried.

William shifted his weight and crossed his arms, as if the sight before him was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. He wasn't bothered in the slightest. "Springlock failures are not uncommon. When they happen, they are catastrophic, like I've told you." His gaze went to you, assessing your reaction, as though gauging how much detail you could stomach. "The mechanisms malfunction. The suits collapse. Flesh, bone, blood... Messy, violent results."

Your throat tightened, but you nodded, unable to tear your eyes away from the bloodstains darkening the floor. You wanted to look away, to leave, but his voice commanded attention. "It's imperative to clean immediately," he continued, gesturing to the supplies in the corner. "Once blood dries and clots, it is stubborn. Warm water works best, loosens the stains, makes the process faster." He turned his attention to the large, unmistakable stain near Fredbear's head. "That one." He pointed. "It's the most visible. The janitors have neglected this room for months, so the task falls to you. I thought you were someone I could trust with responsibilities like these. Am I wrong?"

Your mouth went dry, and the word "No" escaped before you could stop it, soft and almost inaudible. It felt like lying. Like you were betraying some unspoken part of yourself, but the words came anyway. You broke eye contact as you moved toward the corner where he pointed earlier. You crouched down, dipping the rag into the water, your hand shaking just slightly as you wrung it out.

The first drag of the rag across the floor felt like a violation, the thick smear of blood spreading across the tile instead of disappearing, the stain refusing to be wiped off like a memory refusing to be forgotten, like it belonged there, as if it was never meant to be cleaned. You didn't want to wonder whose blood it was, but the thought crept in anyway. A technician? An unlucky employee? Or something far worse?

Finally, after a few minutes, you were done. You wrung out the rag one last time, the water now tinted a reddish-brown, your hands trembling as the water splashed back into the bucket. Rising to your feet, you wiped your damp palms against your pants, the ache in your legs making itself known as you stood. The floor was as clean as it was going to get, though the faintest outline of the stains remained, like a ghost haunting the room. 

He didn't speak right away, letting the silence stretch until it became unbearable. "Efficient." he finally said, his tone devoid of warmth. "Though I do wonder if you're capable of taking initiative, or if I'll have to oversee every task personally..." He said. "Are you?"

"Yes. I'm capable." 

He exhaled slowly, "Good. Because the alternative wouldn't be pleasant for either of us." You sighed. You spent enough time in this place to know that there were some things better left ignored. "Go ahead and dump the bucket," William ordered, calm, as if he was asking you to toss out some dirty water and not the remnants of someone's blood. "Then head home. I'll lock up here. You'll come to my house tomorrow."

Afterward, you left the pizzeria in a haze.

You had no idea that your hands weren't merely wiping away the blood of a random technician; you were cleaning the blood of a child, whose spirit clung to this place with that would not be easily washed away.

The next day found you back in the security room like always, in an endless loop. Your eyes weren't fixed on the screen. Instead, they stared blankly past it, your mind going through the events of yesterday. Who the hell had bled out on your watch, and why was it your responsibility to clean it up? That's where things had crossed from the (almost) mundane to the absolutely insane. The damp rag in your hand, the sticky sensation of drying blood, the look on William's face when he'd praised you for being "efficient." It churned in your gut like spoiled milk. 

The stains refused to come clean. What the hell was happening there? Part of you wanted to grab him by the collar and demand answers. Another part, the smarter part, knew better. Confronting William never went the way you wanted. What the hell was his deal, anyway? The fucking guy was acting even more suspicious after his little performance in court. You hadn't been there to witness it but you've seen the way he walked around the pizzeria afterward, glowing with a self-satisfied grin. He resembled a fox dressed like a rabbit, leaving a weird feeling about the implications of that disguise. If Michael's suspicions were right… No. You couldn't think about that. Not now. 

You hadn't even realized how tightly you have been gripping the edge of the desk. 

It didn't take long for him to find you again, once more with an "important" request. He asked you to come to his office, and despite everything, you went along. You crossed the threshold, and as he entered after you, the lock clicked into place. That sound alone caused you to shiver, but you held your composure, standing stiff in front of his cluttered desk. He sat down, reclining slightly as if he was ready for just another routine conversation. "How have you been?" he asked.

"I've been fine." you replied, unsure of how to answer. Small talk with him felt like a trap, but you played along, maintaining your distance emotionally, even as you stood mere feet from him.

William hummed, "That's good to hear. I'd hate for the workload to be getting to you." His smile was thin, forced, though he was trying to make it seem genuine. "Speaking of which," he said, his voice lowering as he slid a stack of papers across the desk toward you, "These need to go missing." 

You leaned in, the contents initially unclear. He flipped open the top file, revealing the first page. Your gaze swept over it, meeting the faces of children in the photographs. The names beneath them felt distant, as if it belonged to some you might have passed on the street without a second glance. But your mind refused to process it fully, like it would break something in you to acknowledge it. You forced yourself to look back at William instead. He was watching you intently, gauging every flicker of emotion that crossed your face. He wanted you to "misplace" these documents.

"Is that all? Or do you have something else you need me to 'handle'?"

"Actually, yes," he said. "There's a family, a couple, really, that needs some financial assistance. I need you to arrange it."

"Hush money." The words slipped out before you could stop them.

His smile didn't falter. "Call it what you like." He wasn't pretending this was anything other than a business transaction, like paying off the grieving parents of a missing child was just part of another day's work. "There's money in the drawer which I'm going to give you. You'll take it to the parents, calm them down. Tell them whatever you need to tell them. Grief has a way of making people compliant. Especially when the bills start piling up."

"You've been different since the trial," you said suddenly, the thought escaping you before you fully understood it yourself. "Since the court let you walk." 

"Enlighten me. What exactly do you mean by that?"

"You used to- I don't know- care more about keeping up appearances? About hiding whatever this is." You gestured vaguely to the stack of papers. "Now it's like you're daring people to notice. You're always acting like you’re always thinking ten steps ahead, and everyone else is just... expendable." 

"And what would you have me do? Pretend, for whose benefit? Theirs? Yours?" He leaned back. "I don't owe anyone anything, least of all an explanation for how I conduct myself. If you think the court's decision has granted me some freedom, you're mistaken. And perhaps, you are projecting your own uncertainties onto me." he told you. "But you're a resourceful young man. That's why I brought you on. To take care of things others might not have the stomach for."

The insult was subtle, wrapped in that signature disarming charm of his, and it stung worse because you couldn't deny the truth in it. You had already proven yourself pliable, hadn't you? Cleaning up messes, burying suspicions under layers of rationalization. This was just another line he expected you to cross. 

"That's not an answer," you muttered.

"The answer," he said, his voice lowering dangerously as his gaze hardened, "is that those papers need to be handled. Now."

You stared at William for a few moments. The way he just expected you to carry out his orders like some mindless subordinate made you bitter. He reached into the desk drawer again and pulled out a thick envelope. It was a lot, more than you had ever seen at once. The total probably reached a few thousand dollars. Enough to silence grief, or at least distract it for a while. It's like William wanted you to tell them, "The kid's gone, but don't worry. Here's someone money to smooth it all over."

"You'll go to each one of their homes. The addresses are here." He slid a folded sheet of paper across the desk. "Five families. Tell them this is to help with funeral costs, bills piling up, whatever they need. Make it simple, no need for too many words. Just tell them you're with me and make sure they understand it's for their silence."

You nodded stiffly, not trusting yourself to say anything more, and turned to leave. When you pushed through the door and stepped outside, you took a deep breath. The files felt heavy in your hand, like they were burning through your skin, leaving you with the stink of complicity. You knew what they were. You couldn't let anyone find them, but you couldn’t keep them either. It wasn't enough to cleanse you of the guilt, but it was something.

You went to throw away the files first. There was a small park, one that no one visited anymore, graffiti covering the broken benches. You walked there, legs carrying you through the empty streets as night fell. At the park, you found an overflowing trash can by a public restroom that smelled like piss. It would do. You paused, your breath visible in the chilled night air, then crouched beside the can. You opened the lid and jammed the stack deep into the rot, burying it beneath sticky wrappers, half-eaten leftovers and old newspapers, far enough down that no one would notice unless they went digging.

You stared down at the paper in your hand, the ink smudged but still legible enough to make out the addresses. Five names, five homes. You followed the list of addresses in silence. 

The first stop was Susie's house. As you approached the front door, it swung open before you could knock. Susie's mother stood there with a gentle smile that faded the moment her eyes landed on the envelope in your hand. Without giving her room for questions, you extended the envelope, your voice calm and polite. She took it with trembling fingers, whispering a soft thank you that was almost lost. You turned quickly, not wanting to linger. You were nothing but a messenger. Next was Fritz's home. His parents were much the same, polite but distant. They didn't seem angry, but they weren't exactly warm either. His mother's hands trembled as she took the money from you, and you left quickly, barely saying more than a few words. You didn't want to think about how they would use the money. It wasn't your business. By the time you reached Gabriel's home, you were starting to get used to the routine. His parents were stricter. They asked where the money was from, why it was being given to them now, but their tone never broke into anger. You stuck to the script, explaining only what was necessary, and when they finally accepted the envelope, you could feel their eyes on your back as you left. Jeremy's family was different, but even the father couldn't turn down the money.

The final stop was Cassidy's home. This was the hardest. Their parents didn't speak at first, just stared at you with cold eyes. Cassidy's mother eventually took the money, though her expression made it clear she wanted to throw it back in your face. The words she didn't say were harsher than any insult, and by the time you left, you were thankful to be done.

You didn't realize how much time had passed by the time you reached Freddy's again. Five lives ruined, and you were the one who passed along hush money to soothe wounds that would never truly heal. The ride with William was unbearable. You didn't have a car if your own, so it wasn't like you had much choice in the matter. He turned to you, and you were unable to read his expression in the shadows that went over his face. "Where'd you throw the files?"

"At a park. In a trash can. Buried them deep." you told him.

He nodded once, hands gripping the wheel loosely. "Good. And the families?"

You sighed, feeling the exhaustion. "It went fine... They all took the money, some of them looked at me like I brought a corpse to their door. The others, they didn't say much. I didn't either." You turned to look out the window, avoiding his gaze. "I feel bad for them. You had me deliver that to the families of kids who aren't even in their graves yet."

"You knew what you signed up for when you agreed to work with me." he replied. "Those families will move on. Whether it's with money in their pockets or bitterness in their hearts doesn't concern me." 

"Does it even register with you what you've asked me to do?" 

William's hands tightened around the steering wheel. He didn't immediately respond, but you could feel his rage. 

"And don't fucking ignore me either," you pressed, your voice rising. "I'm not your disposable lackey that you can order around! You think this is normal? Do you even have a line you won't cross?" 

"Shut up." His voice was quiet, seething, and terrifyingly calm.

"No!" you shouted, unable to hold back. "I've seriously had enough of your bullshit. You'll add me to your cleanup list next, huh?" 

That did it. Before you could react, his foot slammed the accelerator, the car surging forward. The sudden force threw you back in your seat, your heart seizing in terror. 

"William, slow the fuck down!" you shouted. 

The car swerved sharply, skidding close to the edge of the road. Your stomach dropped as loose stones clattered loudly against the bottom, the danger feeling all too real.

"Jesus Christ, stop, please!" you yelled, your voice breaking under the weight of panic. "You're going to kill us!"

For a moment, you thought he might ignore you, might let the car veer off the road just to prove some point, maybe send you both to death. But then, with a jerk of the wheel, he brought it back under control. The Cadillac slowed, the engine still growling like a predator denied its kill. Your breath came in breathless gasps as you pressed your forehead against the cold window, trying to steady your racing heart. He didn't speak again, his hands gripping the wheel so hard it looked like the leather might give way. You stayed quiet, afraid to provoke him further now.  

William reached for the syringe beside him, the liquid inside as black as midnight, swirling unnaturally. Agony. Extracting it had been delicate work. William had spent hours coaxing that darkness out. He had placed the Fredbear plush into a sealed glass chamber rigged with wires and electrodes. The process required heat, pressure, and persistence. The plush resisted at first. For hours, it had simply sat there. But as William increased the pressure, whispers filled the room... something resembling echoes of Evan's terrified cries. William's heart raced, though not with fear. It was exhilaration. When the first droplet of the viscous black liquid seeped from the plush, William had leaned closer, watching as agony took form. 

He twirled the syringe between his fingers now, watching how the liquid clung to the sides of the glass.  

It wasn't enough, though. It never was. His work demanded more. 

So... you helped him, in a way. 

Cassidy's agony had been a recent win. A blend of blood and terror scraped from the tiled floor of the pizzeria's back room. Her death had been nothing short of art. The spring locks had done their part, killing her slowly and painfully. When you scrubbed the dried blood away at his behest, he knew he had everything he needed to extract her pain.

Scattered across his desk were notes.

The first page described his theories.

"Human emotion influences the physical world. This is undeniable. But where others see fleeting impressions, I see potential, a force to be harnessed. Agony, the purest and most potent of all emotions, can embed itself into objects, turning them into something... other. Not haunted, because it implies the presence of a soul, a consciousness lingering. Agony infects, corrupts. It is pain made manifes. It spreads like a disease. It is not possession, it is parasitism."

Beneath the explanation, he had drawn diagrams. Lines connected each part to handwritten labels—, "core," "energy node," "remnant vessel."

"1. Agony as a Fuel Source: While all human emotions influence the environment to some degree, extreme negative emotions like pain and despair have potency. Agony is uniquely capable of permeating objects.

2. Catalysts of Movement: Introducing a fragment of intelligence to a source of agony can incite independent physical movement. Further experiments are required to confirm whether the "movement" is truly autonomous or merely reactive.

3. The Opposition of Remnant: Remnant, a phenomenon I hypothesize as the counterpart to agony, holds a curiously positive polarity. When combined with agony, the two should theoretically cancel each other and shouldn't be able to coexist. Yet they create a paradox, a immensely powerful force.

— Remnant —

is the essence of the soul, the very essence of life itself. With it, one could achieve eternal life, eternal youth, eternal power. It's capable of granting immortality, granting infinite energy to those who possess it. Hunger, fatigue— such mundane concerns become irrelevant in the presence of it. One could go without food or water for weeks, sustained solely by the energy of the power of remnant. Remnant is most effective when extracted from souls filled with intense emotions. But one must be careful when handling such power.

Exposure to even small amounts of remnant can have consequences, both physical and psychological. Upon initial ingestion or injection, senses become heightened, increases stamina. I njecting it is incredibly painful at first. This experience can be overwhelming and frightening. The Subject might feel a rush of sensations as The Subject's mind races to keep up with the changes happening so quickly. But the process of healing is rapid."

William arranged his notes in a locked drawer, putting the syringe filled with agony into a secret compartment built into the base of his desk. The animatronics still held the majority of what he craved. Their endoskeletons housed fragments of despair and fury. Retrieving those fragments would require dismantling the machines. Doing so while they were still on stage was impossible; too many eyes, too much risk... for now. 

Michael jolted awake. He laid in his bed for a while, staring up at the ceiling, trying to shake the images of his nightmare out of his head. He glanced at the clock. He still had time, but he knew if he didn't drag himself out of bed now, he might not get up at all.

His legs felt weak as he forced himself to stand, his whole body weighed down by the mess his life had become. Every step toward the bathroom felt like a small victory though. 

Michael hadn't been to school in weeks. At first, the thought of ditching had given him some sense of relief, like maybe he could just fade out and no one would notice. But that fantasy had crumbled quickly. And although he knew he should have some justification ready for his absence, he couldn't bring himself to care anymore. Plus, he was sure his father could care less now too. 

What did it matter if he attended class or not? His life had been shattered into a million pieces, and no amount of schooling could ever hope to put it back together again. 

The thought of facing his classmates after such a long absence filled him with anxiety too, especially since he knew a lot of people would've known he ran away. Everyone knew him in this neighborhood and rumors spread very easily. But despite his fears, Michael knew he had to go. He couldn't afford to fall behind any further, especially with everything else that was going on in his life. If he wanted his life to be easier in the future, he had to focus. 

With a sigh, in the bathroom, he grabbed a hair tie from the counter and pulled his hair back into a messy bun, the same way he did every morning now. It was quicker than bothering to style it. He then rummaged through the medicine cabinet until his hand closed around the familiar tube of eyeliner, his mother's, the only thing he still had of her. He rubbed it over his eyes, smudging it with his thumb, giving himself that rough look he preferred. Not that it made much of a difference. The eyeliner had become less about looking cool and more about feeling like he had control over something.

Back in his bedroom, he looked down at the pile of clothes on the floor and picked out his usual, ripped black jeans and a gray T-shirt. The lunch money his father left him weeks ago still sat on the edge of his desk, untouched since the last time he bothered going to class. He grabbed it, shoving it into his pocket, though he wasn't sure if he'd even need it today. The idea of eating didn't exactly appeal to him.

Going to school had become its own form of torture. Ever since his Father killed his mother, every single part of his life seemed to spiral out of control. At least when he was home, there was silence, even if it was heavy. But at school, everything felt too loud. The judging eyes from people who used to be his friends. That was a special kind of pain, to see the ones who once joked with him, laughed with him, now look at him like he was something disgusting. He struggled to shield himself as much as possible from the looks cast his way.

No one said a word, not to him, anyway. They all knew about Evan, his younger brother. About the Bite. That was how they talked about it- the Bite. He spotted a few familiar faces.

They're the ones who should feel guilty. They didn't stop me either.

His "friends" that he had now, if he could even call them that, weren't much of a comfort. They were more like those people you hung out with because it was better than being alone. They talked to him, sure, but it was always the same conversation, nothing that touched the shit going on in his life. 

He used to have it all. The cool, popular guy everyone either wanted to be or wanted to be with. Girls would throw themselves at him, and the guys envied his charm. But now he was just the loner kid who killed his brother. The one who successfully completed a marathon from Dad's belt.

Michael's shifts were starting to mix together, just another endless cycle of exhaustion. School from 7 AM to 3 PM, then off to Freddy's. Most days, he didn't even bother going home in between. What was the point? His father wouldn't notice if he did or didn't. At least Freddy's gave him money.

He made his way to his first period. He took his seat at the back of the room, hoping to blend into the background and avoid any further conversation from anyone else. It wasn't like anyone would sit next to him anymore. The teacher barely glanced at him, probably surprised he even showed up.

But fate had other plans. "Hey there! Mind if I sit here?" 

The voice cut through the murmur of the classroom like a rock splashing into still water. Michael looked up from his desk. Standing beside him was a guy with a grin too bright for this early in the morning. He recognized him immediately, Jeremy Fitzgerald. Of course. The kid had a reputation, the kind of guy who always managed to get into trouble but still smiled through it. Jeremy had that energy about him that made him either a great friend or a complete pain in the ass, depending on the day. People like that burned too bright, and Michael didn't have the energy for it. But he also didn't feel like making a scene by telling him to piss off, so he just shrugged and mumbled, "Do what you want."

Jeremy slid into the seat next to him, smiling like he just won something. He was leaning in closer like they were old friends, even though they barely exchanged more than a few words before. "So, where have you been for the last two weeks?" Jeremy asked. He fiddled with a pen, twirling it between his fingers.

Michael froze for a second, remembering the days he spent sleeping at his "friend's" house. He felt his throat tighten, but he forced himself to remain nonchalant. "I was sick," he muttered, barely loud enough to be heard.

Jeremy raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, though he didn't push. Instead, he changed the subject, probably deciding it wasn't worth his time to dig deeper. "You're still working at Freddy's, right? Heard from a few people you're always there now. Makes sense... given, you know..." He trailed off, but Michael knew what he was hinting at. Given everything.

Given your fucked-up family. Dead brother. Dead sister. A mother who's long gone, probably better off dead, and a father who's just as much a fucking ghost in my head as they are.

Michael scoffed under his breath, "Yeah," he muttered. "Still there. Gotta pay for something."

Seconds later, Jeremy suddenly flicked a folded paper plane across the room, smacking right into the back of some poor girl's head. She jumped, startled, her hands flying up to smooth her hair. Her eyes darted around the classroom, wide with embarrassment, then landed squarely on Michael. "What the hell’s your problem?" she snapped, loud enough that heads turned.

"Wasn't me." he said. He didn't care about her or the stupid paper plane, but the accusation grated on his nerves, adding to the pile of things that pissed him off about today.

"Yeah, right," she shot. "You're such a freak, Afton."

"Maybe if you paid attention to more than your fucking hair you'd know who did it." he said coldly, his voice carrying enough irritation to make her take a step back.

The professor, who had been writing something on the board, finally noticed the exchange. Clearing his throat loudly, he glanced between the girl, Michael, and Jeremy, as if placing together the pieces of what had happened. His eyes lingered on Jeremy for a moment longer than anyone else's, clearly suspicious. "Fitzgerald, I hope you're not disrupting the class again. Remember, your behavior will not be tolerated." he warned.

Jeremy flashed the professor a charming smile, fluttering his eyelashes. "Sorry, sir. Won't happen again," he replied, his tone brimming with pureness.

Michael could hear the popular girls giggling softly. Jeremy would get a slap on the wrist at most, while Michael was the one people were already glaring at. Ugh!

The rest of the lesson passed, with Michael barely able to focus on anything the teacher was saying. His thoughts drifted somewhere far from the equations. His head felt heavy, like it was stuffed with cotton, and every time he blinked, it took longer to open his eyes again. He caught himself staring at the clock more times than he cared to admit, willing the minute hand to move faster. Finally, the bell rang. Without waiting for the professor to dismiss them, Michael was already on his feet, shoving his books into his backpack. He slung it over his shoulder and started for the door. Once he left, just as he thought he might make a clean escape, he heard Jeremy's voice behind him.

"Hey, Mike! Wait up!"

Michael gritted his teeth. He kept walking, hoping that Jeremy would take the hint and leave him alone. No such luck. He heard the quickened footsteps behind him as Jeremy jogged to catch up, grinning like they were old buddies. Michael stopped abruptly, turning to face Jeremy, who skidded to a halt just short of bumping into him. "You're not still pissed about that paper plane thing, are you?" Jeremy asked, completely oblivious to Michael's clenched jaw. "Anyway, listen-" Jeremy rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes lighting up like he was about to share something brilliant. "I was thinking, after school, you should come over. I've got this rock collection I've been working on. Got some pretty sweet specimens recently, you know? Some real cool stuff, and there's this one piece of—"

"Are you fucking serious?" Michael cut him off, "You think I care about your stupid rock collection? Jesus Christ, Fitzgerald, do I look like I have time for that shit? I've got enough crap to deal with without you dumping your stupid hobbies on me. So do us both a favor and leave me the hell alone."

Jeremy's grin faded. The confusion was clear in his wide eyes, like he hadn't expected Michael to snap back so harshly. "Oh... I didn't mean to— you know, bother you. Sorry."

Jeremy made his way to walk away, but Michael then said, "Jeremy, wait, I'm sorry for snapping-" he called, his voice now coming out more panicked than he intended. His heart was racing. He didn't want this to end on such a sour note. "I didn't mean it. I'm just... I'm dealing with a lot of shit right now. I shouldn't have blown up at you."

Jeremy's eyes went back up to Michael, and for a second, it looked like he might accept the apology, like things could go back to the awkward, semi-tolerable conversation they have been having. But then, Jeremy shook his head, a small, resigned smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It's cool, man," he said, "I get it. You don't have to explain yourself to me. I'll just leave you alone."

Michael wanted to reach out, to stop him, but his feet felt glued to the floor. He watched as Jeremy turned and walked off, his shoulders slumped in a way that made Michael feel worse than he already did. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair, pulling the tie loose.

His lips parted slightly, and his brows drew together in a troubled frown. The sting of guilt twisted deep in his gut. The kid was just trying to be nice. But niceness didn't fit in Michael's world anymore.

After school, Michael's shoes slapped softly against the cracked pavement as he made his way home. He kept his head low, the wind biting at his cheeks. He didn't really want to go there, but he remembered that he needed his uniform for the shift at Freddy's. He could be in and out before his father even noticed. His father was at work, anyway, so there were no worries. And as for you, well, you had your own schedule. 

He dropped his bag by the staircase. As he made his way to go upstairs, he saw movement, a shadow shifting through the living room. The back of his neck prickled. Then came the sound of footsteps.

"Michael."

Michael stiffened. He had hoped to avoid his father for as long as possible, but now that they were face to face, he didn't know what to do. With a shaky voice, Michael spoke up, his tone laced with surprise and fear. "Father... W-what are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be at work?" he asked.

William stepped forward, the creak of the floorboards beneath his polished shoes sending a shiver through Michael. "I had some paperwork to finish," William replied. "Decided there was no need to rush in. As for Y/N, he left at the usual time. I assume you crossed paths?" The question was innocent enough, but Michael could feel the barbed edges beneath it. His father never asked questions he didn't already know the answers to.

"No, I didn't see him." Michael mumbled, "Why didn't you just take care of that at the office at Freddy's?" Michael asked, forcing a calm tone. His fingers curled at his sides, itching to move but rooted to the spot.

"And deprive myself of seeing my eldest son?" William's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"I'm grabbing my uniform," Michael said flatly, shifting toward the stairs. "I'll be out of your way." 

"You've been skipping classes." William's sudden change in tone stopped him in his tracks. This wasn't a question. 

Michael didn't bother denying it... what was the point? "Does it matter? It's not like you care." 

William's expression didn't change, but the atmosphere in the room shifted. "I care about appearances. And the appearance of a delinquent son reflects poorly on me."  

Michael tried to avoid answering. "I'll go to work right away." He tried to retreat toward the staircase again, his movements quick and uncertain, but William was faster. The rough grip on his arm stopped him dead, the strength in those long fingers forcing Michael to turn and face his father.

"I wonder why you've been skulking around like a thief. I would say that you were hoping to avoid me altogether. Not much of a man if you can't even face your own father." he commented, then said, "Where were you staying when you ran off? Were you out on the streets like a homeless vagrant? Is that where you've been hiding?" 

The question came out too direct for Michael's liking. "A friend's," he said quickly. "Someone from school."

"And just who might this 'friend' be? What's his name? Where does he live? And why the hell haven't I heard about him before? You will tell me everything, or so help me, I'll beat it out of you." William said threateningly. 

Michael knew he couldn't keep lying, especially when his father was already in such a mood like this. "It's nobody. We talk sometimes. But I didn't tell him anything about... about what you did. We're not that close, I swear."

"So you think I'm stupid, is that it." William's voice dropped. "You've been staying at some stranger's house, letting him see you like... this. You're a mess, Michael. Just like your mother was." 

The mention of Clara made Michael flinch as though he'd been slapped.

"Is that what you want?" William mocked. "To end up like her? Weak, pitiful, useless—" 

"Shut up!" Michael's voice broke, tears spilling over his cheeks. He didn't care if his father saw. He was too exhausted to hold it back any longer. He wiped at his face furiously, trying to erase the evidence of his weakness, but it was no use.

His father's eyes filled with rage. and for a moment, there was nothing but silence between them. Then William spoke. "Raising your voice at the one who made you now? After everything I've done for you, you've got the gall to act like this?" William asked. William felt superior by his very nature as the one who 'created' Michael. "Oh, you're lucky I haven't dealt with you the way I should have years ago... Maybe if you weren't out acting like some little shit, your brother would still be alive. Tell me, Michael, do you cry at night, thinking about what you've done? Or are you too much of a coward to even care?"

That hit hard. For a second, Michael couldn't breathe. All he could do was stand there, feeling like a little child again. "Do I cry?" he repeated. "Of course, I do! Every fucking night! I wish it had been me! I wish I was the one who died instead of Evan! Maybe it would've made your life easier if I were dead instead of him. If I wasn't here at all."

"You're pathetic for thinking like that. Wishing you were dead doesn't make you brave, it makes you frail." William spoke bitterly. 

"Maybe if you ever acted like a father, like you gave a damn about anything other than yourself, things wouldn't be like this. I wouldn't have to deal with this alone if you weren't so completely heartless." Michael said. "You've never hugged me. You've never even tried to care. How am I supposed to feel anything but disgust around you?"  

"This is the only reason I bother with you anymore, you realize? To keep you from turning into more of a waste than you already are. In this family, there's no room for weakness. Discipline is the only lesson I teach and serve."

"Is that what you call what you did to Mom?" The words were out of Michael's mouth before he could stop them, and as soon as they were, he knew he had gone too far. But he continued, "You think I don't remember...? That night you didn't come home until the morning, her sobbing in the kitchen, telling me she 'fell down the stairs'... I know you. You and I both know that. You've been at each other's throats for months, and it's not like I haven't noticed." He'd been holding onto this suspicion for too long. He saw those bruises on his mother that didn't make sense, the silent mornings after nights of shouting and doors slamming. "Just because you're still here, it doesn't mean you can scare me into silence. I will stop at nothing, I'll tear through everything in my path to make sure my mom gets the justice she deserves. That's the least I could do for my family-" 

Before Michael could finish, a heavy hand struck him across the face, silencing his words, his head snapping sideways. Another blow right after. Harder this time, sending him staggering backward. He barely caught himself, clutching at his aching jaw, his vision blurred with the tears that sprang to his eyes. "Think you can mouth off to me in my own house?! Is that it?! Is this the respect I get for raising a worthless little recalcitrant like you?!" William yelled. "You have no idea how good you've had it, Michael. Not like the wanderers out there on the street. Believe me, I could do much worse." 

His hand came down again, this time connecting with Michael's ribs, forcing a gasp from him.

"Father! Please!" Michael's voice was panicked, breathless as he tried to shield himself, his arms trembling as he held them up defensively. "I didn't mean it... I swear, I'm sorry!"

"Oh, now you're sorry?" William grabbed him by the collar, yanking him upright only to throw him back down, Michael's knees buckling as he hit the floor. He tried to crawl back, tried to put some space between them, but his father followed. William's foot came down, hard and relentless, kicking into Michael's side.

"I didn't mean to disrespect you! It hurts so much... please... I'm sorry!" Michael pleaded.

William yelled. "You're nothing. You hear me? Nothing. No one will ever love you, no one will ever care about you because you're worthless. Every time I look at you, I see the failure you've become, and it makes me sick." Kick. "Your mother was a fool to ever give birth to you... and I regret every moment of it. You're the reason your mother is dead, you hear me?" Another kick. "You killed her with your existence!"

Michael trembled. He had never heard his father speak to him like this before, with such pure hatred. William hadn't laid a strong hand on Michael in ages since the kid had grown, ready to throw punches back, despite his fear of his father. Nonetheless, William made sure to remind his son who was the man in the house if Michael made him angry. Challenge him, and he'd smack you down, with words and fists too if necessary.

Then, William released his grip on Michael, causing him to stumble backwards. "Go upstairs. Get your things. We're leaving for Freddy's in ten minutes. Don't make me come up there and drag you out."

Michael's hand shook as he dragged himself up, every inch of him throbbing. His face was wet, though he couldn't tell if it was tears or blood as he stumbled toward his room. He could barely see through the haze of pain and exhaustion. 

William watched Michael retreat to his room, his shoulders hunched like a beaten dog. Something resembling guilt surged through him. He saw the same fear, the same pain, the same sense of helplessness that he had once felt himself. William's mind drifted back to his own childhood, to the days when he was just a scared little boy trying to survive in his own home. He remembered his own father, a cruel and abusive man who had beaten him mercilessly for the slightest mistakes. "I wish I was the one who died instead of Evan." That sentiment, so drenched in anguish, shouldn't have bothered William. And yet, it did, somehow... Only a little, though. 

Guilt doesn't serve a purpose, he reminded himself.

Chapter Text

Ten minutes later, William sat in the driver's seat of his car. Michael climbed in beside him. The boy moved slowly, stiffly, his movements betraying the pain he tried so hard to hide. William glanced sideways at Michael, his face barely visible under the shadow of his hood he just wore. 

"If anyone at work asks, you tell them you fell off your bike." William said flatly. His eyes stayed fixed on the road now, his voice betraying no emotion.

Michael muttered, "I don't even own a bike."

William suddenly laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. "Then you got into a fight at school. Pick whatever story you like, but you'll stick to it."

After William drove Michael in, he couldn't ignore how the boy's whole demeanor transformed instantaneously the moment they arrived at Freddy's. The second they stepped through the doors, it was like some switch flipped in Michael. His eyes lit up, his posture sharpened, and he made a beeline for you. William's disgust simmered as he watched Michael moon over someone he had no business looking at like that. And you, seemingly oblivious, only worsened William's mood. To him, it felt as if you were teasing everyone, never once casting that gaze toward him.

He saw few of the female staff passing by, giggling and glancing your way with shy, curious glances. He could practically feel their thoughts, the way they imagined you being with them, how they'd smile and play with your hair, touch you in ways William would never let happen. They wanted you. He knew it as clear as he knew how much he wanted you, too. Only his desire was sharper and meaner. You had no idea what kind of need you could awaken in a man.

You didn't even look at him the way you did then. It felt like a taunt. Did you know what you were doing to him? He couldn't shake this feeling that you were performing. Teasing him. He wanted to make you remember the last time you were together, the way you melted under him. He could still feel the softness of your skin, still taste the way you had cried his name, breathless, undone. But now... he was the one left cold.

It wasn't hard to notice the tension radiating off the younger Afton. His face told a story you weren't ready for but couldn't ignore. The bruising was noticeable against his skin, purple and yellow blooms. His lower lip was swollen, the corner split just enough to leave a tiny crust of dried blood. His left eye looked slightly puffy. He tried to offer you a weak smile, but it faltered almost instantly. "Michael," you said, your voice soft but firm.

He froze for a moment, his shoulders stiffening, before shaking his head and continuing toward the spare room without a word. Each of his hesitant steps a reminder of something wrong. You followed closely, shutting the door behind you both. 

"What the hell happened to you?" you demanded, your tone sharper now, the softness from before evaporating into concern and anger. 

Michael leaned heavily against the wall, cradling his ribs with one arm. "You don't wanna know." 

"Yes, I do," you said, stepping closer. "And you're going to tell me. I'm not just going to sit here and act like this is normal." 

For a moment, you thought he might resist, retreat back into that stubborn silence he often wore like his armor. But instead, Michael surprised you.

"It was him." Michael said simply. 

Your hands balled into fists. "If you need something to punch, hit me instead of Michael. I can take it." And here William was, blatantly crossing it.

Michael looked up at you, his eyes glassy and uncertain. "You're mad, aren't you?" 

You shook your head, forcing yourself to exhale the tension from your chest. "Not at you," you said firmly, stepping closer. "Let me see." You reached for his hoodie, and when he flinched, you softened your approach. "Michael, please. I need to know how bad it is..." 

His resistance then faded, and he slowly let you pull the hoodie off, revealing the full extent of the damage.

You couldn't stand the idea of causing him more discomfort, but you had to be sure he wasn't hiding something serious. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath looking like a struggle. His face, still damp from tears, was drawn in sadness. Your fingertips barely touched his skin at first. He flinched when you touched a particularly dark bruise on his ribs.

He gritted his teeth. "It's just the ribs," he admitted finally. "Hurts to breathe deep, let alone bend."

"I don't think anything's broken, but you're bruised pretty badly. You need to rest." you told him. 

"I have to work. He'll—"

"I don't care what he'll do. You can't work like this," you cut him off, the sharpness in your tone causing him to fall silent. "Go home. I'll cover for you. Just... get out of here before anyone else sees you like this."

Michael hesitated, his gaze shifting toward the door. He looked torn, the fear of disobeying his father written all over his face. He barely met your eyes as he slipped out of the room and headed for the back door. You waited until the sound of the door shutting reached your ears. 

(...) 

You pushed open the door to Henry Emily's office, the scent of old paper and coffee greeting you. He looked up as you entered, his warm eyes crinkling with a gentle smile. "Y/N, taking a break?" His voice carried the same fatherly tone you had come to associate with him. 

You nodded, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you. "I, uh, needed to talk to you about something. It's about Michael."

Henry set his mug down, concern flashing across his features. "Is he alright? Did something happen?"

You couldn't exactly tell Henry the truth, but Michael needed a reprieve, even if only for a little while. "He's sick," you said, your tone carefully measured. "Not, like, contagious or anything, but he's in bad shape. I don't think he should be working right now. He needs to rest."

"He doesn't get sick often. Is it serious?"

"Not... serious, exactly. But he's been pushing himself too hard. I think he just needs a few days to recover. I can cover his shifts if that's an issue."

"I know how stubborn he can be about taking care of himself. If he's unwell, you're right... he shouldn't be here. I'll talk to William about it."

"No!" The word came out louder than you intended, and you quickly backpedaled. "I-I mean, I already mentioned it to him briefly. You know how he is lately... busy with a million things."

"That... does sound like William, yes. Always handling too much. Alright, I'll make sure Michael's shifts are covered."

Relief flooded through you, though it was tempered by the weight of your lie. "Thank you, Henry. Really."

Henry waved a hand dismissively, his smile returning. "No need to thank me. Michael's like family to me. If he's not well, we'll take care of it." 

Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. You tensed instinctively, feeling a chill creep along your spine. A moment later, William entered, his presence commanding the room before he even spoke. Your gaze moved to William, and the sight made your throat tighten. His expression was carved in stone, his jaw locked and severe. The room was suddenly too small for anyone else to exist. The dark circles beneath his gray-blue eyes seemed deeper today, his gaze pinning you to the spot. His is tousled hair hung just slightly over his forehead in that familiar, careless way. But there was nothing careless about the way he looked at you now. Something unreadable passed through those eyes before they turned to Henry.

"William!" You flinched at Henry's exclamation. Henry's face lit up with a genuine smile, "I wasn't expecting you. Y/N and I were just having a chat." 

You could tell immediately that William wasn't pleased.

"I had some free time," William said, his voice smooth but laced with secret irritation that only you seemed to notice. "Thought I'd stop by and see how things are going." 

Henry chuckled, oblivious to the tension. "Well, it's good timing. Y/N here was just letting me know that Michael's not feeling well. Poor boy is under the weather, apparently."

William's head turned toward you, and for a moment, you felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room. "Oh?" he said, his tone deceptively light. 

You tried to keep your composure, but the intensity of his stare made it impossible to meet his eyes again. "I... I just thought Michael could use a few days off," you stammered, your voice sounding smaller than you wanted.

He sighed, the sound so heavy it felt rehearsed, as though he practiced this very monologue for moments like this. "I wasn't aware Michael had left..." he said, his gaze locking onto you. He didn't look at Henry, though the other man was clearly paying attention. "Strange how my own son seems to be making decisions without informing me. That is, unless someone else is encouraging him." He didn't wait for a response before continuing. "You see, Henry..." William began, finally turning to his old friend, his tone shifting into something almost conversational but no less threatening. "This is exactly the sort of behavior I've been trying to correct in Michael. The boy has always had difficulties. I've done my best to instill a sense of responsibility in him, but some lessons just don't seem to stick."

Henry's brows furrowed in concern, and he glanced toward you, perhaps hoping you'd speak up.

"Mr. Afton, I sent him home." you admitted. "He told me he got into a fight with some guys at school. His ribs took the worst of it, and I didn't think he should be working in that condition. Breathing seemed painful for him."

"How audacious of you, taking it upon yourself to make decisions for my son. My employee. Without consulting me." His tone turned cold. "I must have missed the memo where you were promoted to management."

"Are you done yet?" you asked. "Or do you have a few more lines rehearsed for how I'm apparently ruining your perfect little world?"

Henry straightened, his eyes darting between you and William. "Now, let's not escalate this—"

"No, Henry, let him talk," you interrupted, your eyes never leaving William's. "Let him finish painting me as the villain in whatever drama he's conjured up in his head. I'd haaate to miss the grand finale."

Henry rose, placing himself between you and William, his hands outstretched in a gesture of calm. "Alright, alright, that's enough, please." he said. "I'm sure Y/N was only trying to help, William. You and I both know Michael isn't the easiest boy to handle. If he's hurt, he needs rest, not to be thrown into a shift he can't manage. We don't want him collapsing in the middle of the day, do we?"

William's gaze locked onto yours for the briefest of moments. You felt the accusation in his eyes. He knew why Michael wasn't here. You knew what he'd done to Michael. But neither of you dared to crack the illusion in Henry's presence. It was a silent standoff, words unsaid but understood. You forced yourself to be calm, offering Henry a polite nod. 

"Michael will be fine, Henry. He's a resilient lad," William said, his tone carrying just the right amount of fatherly concern. 

Henry, ever trusting, nodded, his own worries seemingly eased. "Good to hear... Let him rest up, though, please. No need to push him too hard."

"Of course," William replied, a faint smile curving his lips, though it didn't touch his eyes. 

The conversation ended quickly after that, with Henry heading out of the office with a promise to sort the shift schedule. The moment you left Henry's office, William's hand closed around your wrist, guiding you into his office.

When you finally reached his side, he didn't acknowledge you at first. It wasn't until the door was shut that he finally spoke, "So this is how it's going to be now. You undermine me in front of my oldest friend, speaking to Henry on his behalf. You take liberties with my son's life, and then you expect a thank you? Do not insult my intelligence by pretending you did this out of the goodness of your heart. You wanted to make a point. To me."

"You beat Michael." you said. "I told you not to do it ever again. I begged you—do you hear me? After trusting you to at least listen to me about that one goddamn thing, you still fucking hit him." The words burned as they left your throat. William didn't deny it. Denial wasn't his style; silence, however, was a weapon he used. "You're pathetic, taking out whatever sick things you've got in your head on your own son. Every single day, he begs to a God he's not even sure exists, hoping today won't be the day you take it too far. Do you know what it's like to see the fear in his eyes every time you so much as raise your voice? To hear him cry about things he hadn't even done because he's so scared you'll lose your shit again?"

You stood there, seething as William rolled his eyes. It was like he was the one inconvenienced, as if your accusations were just the babblings of a naive fool who couldn't see the bigger picture.

"You're projecting all that onto me, onto Michael. Feeding your own guilt. You look at him, and you see yourself. Did your parents fail you so miserably that you've made it your life's mission to step into roles that don't belong to you? Maybe if you save Michael, you think you'll finally save yourself." You flinched, his words hitting too close to home, but he wasn't finished. "You've been so goddamned desperate for someone to need you." he said. "And the way you talk about Michael… you'd think he was yours."

He might as well is. 

You cared for Michael like he was your own, like his bruises were yours to mend and his fears yours to bear. But William had twisted it into something ugly, something that made your chest ache with an unbearable mix of anger and sadness.

"He might as well be mine!" you finally snapped, your voice cracking. "At least I care about him! I would never hurt him the way you do! Every goddamn tear he sheds, I feel it too. I spend more time fixing what you break than you ever will trying to love him. You don't even try. All you do is teach him how much it hurts to love you." Your voice cracked on the last word, and you bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood, desperate to keep the tears at bay. You didn't realize you were shaking until your fists curled at your sides. You hated that you were so close to breaking in front of him. 

William was smiling. Not with warmth, not with anything even remotely kind. It was cruel. That smile was for you, for the tears now streaking down your face. "You're starting to sound like her." he said, bitterly. 

Her. The woman he killed to keep her quiet. He killed her because she had dared to defy him, to see him for what he truly was. And now he was comparing you to her.

"You bastard," you muttered "Don't you dare compare me to her."

The smile faded, replaced by his usual emotionless expression. "Why not? You've taken to imitating her so well. The nagging. The dramatics. Maybe even the crying." he said, his tone deceptively calm. "You both had the same delusions... Thinking you could change me. Thinking your bleeding hearts could somehow fix the man you see as 'broken'."

You took a step back, the instinct to retaliate fighting with the need to escape. "I'm done here," you said finally, "Unlike you, I actually have work to do."

"I expected more spine from you."

"If I stay, I'll do something I'll regret," you told him. "And I doubt you'd enjoy explaining to Henry why your office furniture got broken."

His gaze hardened. "Go ahead," he said, gesturing to the door. "Run along. Pretend this conversation didn't happen. You're good at that."

You turned on your heel and stormed out of his office.

(...) 

You were coming with him again, just as you sometimes did after these late shifts, to help with some work. You sat in the passenger seat, your gaze fixed on the darkened streets. When the house came into view, William finally spoke. "Inside," he ordered, "You've got paperwork waiting in the workshop." 

You nodded, obedient, slipping out of the car and heading up. In the house, William lingered in the kitchen. He rummaged through the cabinets until he found what he was looking for—a bottle of whiskey hidden behind a stack of plates. He had bottles hidden everywhere. Without hesitation, he twisted off the cap and took a long swig, enjoying the burning sensation as it seared down his throat.

The conversation with Michael faded into the background as he focused on you. 

William leaned heavily against the kitchen counter. Frustration roiled in his chest. You, with your defiant stare, challenging him in front of Henry. As if you had any right. And yet beneath all the anger, there was that mix of contempt and hunger.

He still remembered the day you walked into Freddy's for the first time. At first, you had been nothing more than another name on an application, a potential hire, a young man desperate for a job that didn't ask too many questions. But the interview had revealed more, more about your desperation to escape whatever life you have been living. William had recognized that desperation immediately. You needed that job, and William? He liked knowing that. 

There had been an openness to you that practically invited him to test your boundaries.

Something inside him... stirred. He remembered the way you looked up at him with that pretty face of yours, completely unaware of what type of man he was. It was a face he couldn't resist breaking, couldn't resist corrupting. He'd made a study of you in those early days, but it wasn't long before he realized you weren't like the others. You had a spine, albeit one you didn't show often. It made it all the more satisfying. 

Just over two weeks later, you found yourself on your knees in his office, and the plan had worked perfectly. After that, he brought you into his home, and everything seemed to be falling into place. He knew he had to have you. And he did just that; he had you, then he broke you. Your face had crumpled under his fists, your cries music to his ears. It had been so easy to break you. And in that moment, William had felt powerful, invincible, untouchable.

You were such a contradiction: strong but desperate, kind but undeniably flawed. It was those flaws that drew him in.

His thoughts turned dirty. 

William imagined biting you or cutting you with a knife. He imagined the taste of your blood getting on his tongue, rich and heady, like the finest wine, filling his mouth as he drank deeply from the wound he had inflicted. His mind conjured images of your skin parting under the sharp edge of a blade, the way your body would jerk and shudder in pain, the way your blood would gush and spill, coating his hands, his clothes, mingling with his sweat. He imagined the way your eyes would widen in terror, the way you would be so terrified of him. He wanted to mark you, to leave scars that would forever remind you of him. 

The thoughts of you made his mouth water, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

He considered storming into the workshop, dragging you out, and making sure you understood just how thin the ice was beneath your feet. But punishment could wait. If he had learned anything, it was that the anticipation of pain, of retribution, often stung worse than the act itself. 

You woke up in William's bed to the sound of nothing. A groan escaped your lips as you sat up, the ache in your neck a reminder of how little rest you have actually gotten. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you sat up. The other side next to you was empty, the space where William should have been noticeably cold. A faint noise drifted up from downstairs, signaling someone's movement. Sliding out from under the covers, you threw on a shirt and padded out of the room and down the hall, careful not to make any noise that might wake Michael. William was sitting there on the couch, looking like he was lost in thought.

You wondered if he had even noticed you were up. "You're up early," you said.

"I woke up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep." he told you. He finally glanced over his shoulder. There was something in the way he looked at you, as if he had been waiting for this moment, expecting it. "I need your help with something. We're going hunting," he simply said.

"Hunting?" you echoed, incredulous. "It's four in the damn morning, William. And since when is that my job?"

Without a word, William stood up from the couch and strode purposefully to the closet, crossing the room. He yanked the door open and pulled out a rifle, catching your eye. You felt a cold sweat breaking out on your forehead. "Bigger game. I need you to come with me, and I don't want to hear any complaints. Get your ass moving."

You didn't want to do this, not now, not when you were still shaking off the fog of sleep. But you knew better than to defy William. He wouldn't tolerate disobedience, anyway. So, you turned and headed back upstairs to throw on something warmer. The night air was always cold enough to make you tremble if you weren't prepared. After picking what you wanted to wear, you forced your feet back downstairs. William was already at the door, the rifle slung over his shoulder like it was a natural extension of him. Seeing him with it made your stomach clench. The weapon felt like a warning, a reminder of what he could do when he wasn't in control of himself, or even... when he was.

The drive into the nearby forest was making you anxious. Despite it being morning, the sky was still a deep shade of blue, the sun barely beginning to rise on the horizon. You rested your head against the glass of the window, eyelids growing heavy.

A shameful part of you wished the glass was William's shoulder instead, the warmth of another body more comforting than the hard of the window.

The rumble of the car's engine and the dark lighting worked together. The car then eventually came to a stop, jerking you from the edge of sleep. William had pulled the car to a stop on a narrow dirt path deep within the forest. The silence was loud as you stepped out, the ground crunching under your boots. The air was filled with the scent of damp earth and pine. William gave you a flashlight and kept the rifle close to him as you two began walking with him leading the way. Trees stretched up towards the sky like fingers grasping for something just out of reach. It also felt like the forest itself was alive, watching you with unseen eyes. The only light came from the weak beam of your flashlight, yet it wasn't enough. You couldn't see more than a few feet ahead.

Suddenly, William froze, his head cocking to the side as if listening for something. Then, he spoke, "Point the flashlight over there."

Your pulse quickened, your grip tightening on the flashlight as you swung the light to the left. You could hear nothing but the sound of your own breathing, loud in your ears. The shape that emerged was a deer, standing frozen in the beam, its eyes wide with fear. Its ears twitched nervously as it saw your presence. William wasted no time, raising the rifle to his shoulder with ease. Suddenly, a deafening shot ringed out, shattering the silence.

You flinched at the sound, your ears ringing. The deer collapsed with a cry, but it was brief, choked off by death's quick hand. For a moment, you just stared at the fallen animal. The flashing light cast unsteady shadows as your trembling hand shook. You couldn't tear your eyes away from it, the light already fading from its eyes. It was just a carcass now.

"Good shot," he muttered to himself, his voice dripping with pride. You felt a surge of nausea rise in your throat as William approached the fallen animal. He knelt beside it, his hands steady as he examined his kill. "We need to get this back to the car. Grab its legs."

Stepping closer, your hands reached out. The fur was warm under your fingers, the residual heat from its body still there. You did what William asked. Together, you hoisted the animal onto William's shoulders. He took most of the weight, but the strain was still there as you held onto the legs. "My father used to take me hunting when I was a boy. Said it would make a man out of me." He didn't look at you as he spoke, his gaze fixated on the path ahead. "Taught me to shoot, to track, to kill. You take a life, and it makes you feel alive. You'll see."

You said nothing, just kept walking. You didn't want to understand what he was talking about nor did you want to feel what he felt.

When you reached the car, William dropped the deer first. You followed, your hands immediately feeling relieved as the weight finally left them. William let out a breath, the strain from the load evident on his face though he refused to admit it. Without a word, he retrieved a large black trash bag from the car. You stood silently, watching as he worked, putting the deer inside the bag with the same care a man might take with wrapping a gift.

The ride back to the Afton residence was quiet.

You and William hauled the black trash bag through the front door. "What was the point of all this? Dragging me out into the middle of nowhere, killing that deer... What's this all about, William? What are you trying to prove?"

"Would you like to find out?" he asked, a smirk creeping onto his lips. He watched you carefully, the question like a challenge.

Your instincts screamed that whatever answer he had wasn't something you wanted to know. The deer's legs, warm just a moment ago, were beginning to feel cold in your hands. Yet, despite the warnings in your head, you nodded. Curiosity, or perhaps something more masochistic, pushed you forward. You wanted to know where this was leading.

He guided you to follow him. William led you to his house office at the end of the hallway, unlocking the door with a key. You stepped inside, your eyes immediately drawn to the organized order of the room. It was almost clinical in its neatness. The walls were lined with certificates,achievements in robotics, engineering, things the man William was before everything else. There was a bookshelf a few feet behind his desk, filled with many things and what looked like children's toys. Beside the certificates hung another family photo of the Afton family, though it sat slightly apart, almost as if William preferred it out of view. As you looked closer, you noticed the frame was slightly askew, as if someone had moved it recently. What happened next, however, left you stunned. William moved to stand in front of the picture, reaching behind it.

"What are you—" you began, but your words faltered when you heard the sound of a hidden mechanism.

The bookshelf behind his desk shifted, sliding to the side and revealing an entrance to what looked like another room... no, another world.

"What the fuck is this?!" you exclaimed, your voice trembling with a mixture of fear and awe. "Did you create this?"

William's lips curled into a smirk, but he didn't answer. His silence only made everything worse. Without warning, his hand shot out, gripping your arm and pulling you forward. The strength of his hold left no room for argument. He pushed you into the elevator, the steel doors sliding shut behind you. The small chamber shook slightly as it began to descend. Your grip tightened on the handles of the trash bag, the weight of the deer suddenly feeling heavier. You didn't dare say anything, though. The ceiling fan whirred quietly above, its spinning blades casting fleeting shadows on the floor. A poster featuring an animatronic hung on the wall; you thought of it as Circus Baby, the main attraction Michael had mentioned, the one which took his sister. As the elevator finally came to a stop, the doors slid open. William's grip on your arm kept you silent as he yanked you down the left hallway. Your gaze darted around, taking in your surroundings quickly. Posters of different animatronics lined the walls, their bright designs contrasting the facility's scary atmosphere. Two caught your attention, reminding of Freddy and Foxy from Freddy Fazbear's Pizza.

Soon, you and William arrived at a door. He unlocked it, and you followed him inside. As you stepped into the room, your eyes widened at the sight. The room was filled with machinery and some other weird things, most of which you couldn't even begin to understand. There were cages containing animals, some seemingly alive, some not so fortunate...

William moved to a nearby metal table, hoisted the heavy bag onto it, and pulled out the deer. "I've... I've never seen anything like this before." you stammered. Your hands fidgeted at your sides, not sure where to place them.

William didn't respond, at least not directly. His back was turned, rummaging through a nearby drawer as if your words didn't matter at all. He was focused, until finally, he straightened up, pulling something from the drawer. He turned to you, his eyes burning with excitement, which was dangerous. In his hand, he held a syringe. Its contents glowed faintly, the liquid inside behaving like molten metal. "This," he said, holding the syringe up to the light, "is something I've been working on for quite some time." His voice was filled with pride, almost reverence. "A substance I call Remnant. Just a few drops can bring the dead back to life."

You stared at him with a weirded out expression. Was he crazy? He sounded delusional, like a man who had long lost touch with reality. "But... that's impossible?" you said, confused. "That's not even natural."

William grinned. "Who needs 'natural' when you have science?" he replied, his tone mocking. "With this I can achieve what others only dream of. I can conquer death itself. Imagine the possibilities! No longer will death be the end." You couldn't believe what you were hearing from him. "Watch closely,"

William injected the substance into the deer, and you felt your heart sink. You watched in morbid fascination as the deer's body twitched and convulsed, life seeping back into its body. It emitted noises, a mixture of pain and confusion, caught between life and death. The sight and sound of the suffering animal made you so upset. You took a step back, your heart slamming against your ribs.

But before the creature could fully rise to life again, William suddenly raised a hammer you didn't even notice he was holding, and brought it down with brutal force, smashing its skull in a swift motion. The sickening crunch of bone and the sight of blood spattering across the table made bile rise in your throat. You flinched at the sudden movement and took a step back, your eyes wide and your mouth gaping in shock. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you didn't even notice they were falling until the salty taste touched your lips. Your chest tightened, and though you wanted to scream, to demand why he had done it, the words were stuck.

William proceeded to grab the deer and put its body into a nearby cage. "There, that should do," he said, his tone eerily calm despite the horrifying scene that had just happened before your eyes. "It won't be long now before it comes back to life again." Then, William reached into the same drawer and pulled out another prepared syringe. "Now, it's your turn. You need to be injected with this."

He grabbed your arm, his intentions clear. He would not allow you to evade this procedure, believing that it was the key to what he sought. You recoiled, trying to get as far away from the man as possible. "Fuck no! Get off me, you psycho!" you shouted, desperation lacing your voice as you made a move towards the door. "I won't let you inject me with that... that... damn thing!"

But William's grip only tightened, his expression now darkening with anger. "You don't have a choice in this. You will do as I say." he told you. You kicked out, aiming for his shin, but it was like kicking a brick wall, and it only seemed to infuriate him further. Before you could finally break free, William plunged the syringe into your arm with force.

The moment the substance entered your bloodstream, it felt like something shooting was through your veins, like a bolt of lightning. Your muscles seized up in unbearable torment and you screamed in agony, but William's hand quickly slapped over your mouth, muffling your screams. You were a man, dammit, yet you allowed yourself to be reduced to nothing more than a mere toy. You were like a rabbit, cornered by a snake.

Slowly, the pain began to ebb away, though it was still enough to make you cry, hiccups racking your body as you struggled to catch your breath. Tears continued streaming down your face, and your throat felt raw, like you had screamed for hours.

William's demeanor suddenly shifted. His hand gently cupped your face in his palm, his touch strangely affectionate. The look in his eyes, so different from the cold look you've been used to, caught you off guard. You flinched as his thumb stroked your cheek, your body instinctively bracing for more pain, but none came. He whispered, barely audible, but the weight of his words pressed against your chest. "Shh, it's okay," His words were soothing, like honey, sweet and reassuring. "I didn't mean to hurt you like this. I'm sorry," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I didn't realize how much I was hurting you, baby. I don't know what came over me... Let me hold you as you cry."

Was this just another form of manipulation or did he genuinely feel remorse? Was this love to him? Was this how he showed he cared? You searched his face, trying to find some truth in his eyes, but all you saw was the dark version of love he had crafted in his own way. He believed this. He genuinely believed that the hurt he caused was part of the bond between you.

William pulled you into his arms before you could say anything. The embrace felt unusual, a gesture of intimacy you had never expected or felt from him. His chin brushed the top of your head. His hold wasn't possessive or forceful; it was the kind of hold meant to soothe. The tears came harder then, and you couldn't stop them, your face pressed into his chest as the sobs wracked your frame. It was humiliating, crying into the chest of the man who had just inflicted so much suffering on you, but you were too exhausted, too confused, to stop.

You wanted to hate him, God, you wanted to hate him so fucking much. But the moment his hands touched you, the anger dissolved. You didn't know what it was, only that it made you feel sick inside. You had learned to associate love with pain, and now it seemed that cruelty was the only way you understood affection. You always craved comfort even when it came from hands that had hurt you.

You couldn't help but wonder why you craved his love so much. Was it because you were desperate for any form of affection? Or was it because deep down you yearned for the love and acceptance you never really received growing up?

William's warmth vanished the moment he pulled away, leaving your body tense in the sudden absence. You didn't want to let go. The hug had been unexpected, yet it was the closest thing to comfort you had felt in a long time. You lingered for just a moment longer, a small part of you resisting the end of the hug, but then you released him. 

The look William now gave you was far more difficult to decipher. It was like he was studying you, every inch of you, reading your soul in a way that no one else ever could.

William then reached into his pocket and retrieved a small vial, holding it out to you. He always seemed so perfectly prepared, and a part of you knew, even before he pulled it out, that this had been his intention all along, a piece of his design. "Here," he said. "Drink this. It'll help you calm down."

You hesitated, your hand trembling slightly as you reached for the vial. Your body felt drained, your mind even more so. You knew better than to resist; the fight had been beaten out of you long ago. You swallowed the contents in one go. As the last drop slipped down your throat, the world around you began to blur.

Before you could fall, William was there, his hands catching you with surprising care. Your surroundings faded, and you clung to consciousness with fading strength, struggling to remain upright in William's hold. The last thing you saw before surrendering to sleep was William's gentle touch as he guided you into a nearby chair, steadying you before you could lose your balance.

"Rest now," he whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead. "Everything will be better when you wake, up. I'll explain everything... I promise."

Then, there was nothing.

The next morning, you struggled to wake up, your mind foggy and your body heavy with the remnants of the drug William had given you. As consciousness slowly seeped in, you became aware of your surroundings and realized you were in William's bedroom, in his bed. You had spent many nights here, but something felt wrong... William probably laid you down here while you were still unconscious.

You then felt a dull ache in your arm, and when you moved it, you noticed it was bandaged. You hoped, prayed, that whatever he had injected you with hadn't caused permanent damage. You wanted to know, but at the same time, the idea of pulling the wrapping away and seeing what lay beneath filled you with an unnamed terror.

Groaning softly, you attempted to sit up, but your leg wouldn't budge. Looking down, you saw the glint of metal, and horror washed over you as you realized you were chained to the bed like you were an animal. You tugged at the chains desperately, but they held, leaving you trapped and helpless. Tears welled up in your eyes and you began sobbing uncontrollably. Each tear that fell from your eyes felt like a testament to your own weakness.

How did everything change so fast since May?

In a moment of desperation, you tried to call out, your voice trembling with the little strength you had left. "Michael... please..." But the sound that came out was barely a whisper.

Besides, Michael wasn't here. He would be at school by now, completely unaware of what his father was doing to his "innocent employee," as Michael had referred to you. Even if he was home, what could he do? You couldn't drag him into this. You didn't even want him to know about whatever happened between you and William.

Minutes ticked by in silence. You had no idea how long you laid there, the tears eventually drying on your cheeks. But then, the door creaked open. William entered the room, approaching the bed. He placed a tray on your lap. "Breakfast," he stated.

You didn't even look at the tray. "I'm not hungry." you muttered, your voice hoarse, barely recognizable after the night you had.

"I don't care if you're hungry or not," he snapped. "You will eat what I give you. Now stop being so difficult and eat. You won't be useful to me if you're weak."

You turned your head away, squeezing your eyes shut, hoping if you refused to acknowledge him, he might leave you alone.

William's patience snapped the moment you refused to obey him. He leaned over the bed, grabbing your chin with an iron grip, forcing your head to turn toward him.

"You'll eat what I give you. Open your mouth."

You kept your lips pressed tightly together, giving him a glare. There was nothing left in you that wanted to obey, but you were also too exhausted to fight him... 

Before you could say anything, William scooped up a spoonful of food, moving it toward your mouth. Unwillingly, you parted your lips. He slipped the spoon inside, and the taste of whatever it was barely registered. You chewed. You felt detached from the act of eating, as if you were merely going through the motions without any real purpose. It was as if something inside you had died. His hand still held your chin, not allowing you to look away, forcing you to maintain eye contact with him the entire time.

Each time he lifted the spoon, you felt your chest constricting, like there was a noose tightening around your neck. It was like you were some pet he needed to train. Worse than that, though, was the way he seemed to enjoy it.

Finally, the bowl was empty, but William didn't let go. He wiped your lips with his thumb, cleaning away any stray food. You wanted to yell and to push him away, but the fear was too great.

"Why did you wrap my arm?" you then asked abruptly. "If it was just an injection, it can't be that serious..."

"It's a precaution," he replied evenly, his tone devoid of emotion. "The injection can cause irritation and inflammation at the injection site. Remnant is pretty strong, after all, and can cause more complications. I can't have you getting sick on me, now can I...? After all, I need you."

"Need me? For what?"

"To test my theories. To understand how Remnant works on someone still alive." His hand reached out, brushing your bandaged arm. "You're special. You'll help me achieve what I've been working toward for years."

You scoffed bitterly. "So... now I can't die, no matter what happens." you stated, your eyes boring into William's. "That's what this injection does? Makes me immortal?"

"Not quite," he replied. "This particular syringe has its limits. Although it can keep you alive through multiple deaths, it lacks the ability to last forever. Can last long enough for us to accomplish what we need to, though. I'm working on something stronger for myself, something more potent. Something that will grant me true immortality."

Chapter Text

The recovery went smoothly, despite the circumstances. By some twist, you felt alive, more so than you had in years. The ache in your arm was manageable, but you wrapped it tighter each day than necessary, making excuses if anyone at work asked. A minor injury, you'd say. Maybe a clumsy accident. No one pressed you for details anyway. William didn't seem particularly concerned either, though his eyes lingered on your bandage with pride. He'd comment now and then, but you ignored him, focusing on the reflection of your own tired eyes. Bruised shadows painted your skin beneath your clothes. When you were not working, you were with him. Not by choice, not entirely, but you stopped fighting it. You didn't know if that made you weak or just "realistic." 

When you stripped off your shirt to shower the first time after the injection, you'd stare at the bandage, the faint discoloration around the injection site, and wonder how long it would be before the changes began to show on the outside.

Or if they ever would. 

Your trips to your own house became rarer, the space feeling foreign after spending so much time under his roof. When you did go, it was like stepping into your old life, even though it had been... what, only a little over 5 months since you moved in? The furniture, the photographs, even the smell, it all felt like it belonged to someone else. And maybe it did, because the person you had been before William was fading, replaced by something unrecognizable, even to you. 

But the world outside didn't stop for you. The only friends you had left and family still existed, still called, still invited you to dinners or gatherings you couldn't bring yourself to attend. It was easier to lie, to say you were busy, that work demanded your time.

You sat on the closed toilet lid, legs trembling, avoiding William's gaze. He gestured toward your arm.

"Let me see it." he said, his voice firm.

You hesitated, your body instinctively drawing back a fraction, but his hand was already there, wrapping around your forearm with surprising gentleness for someone so abusive, as if cruelty itself had learned how to lull its prey. Slowly, he began unwrapping the tight bandages you applied earlier that morning.

"You've been wrapping this too tightly..." he remarked. "Are you trying to suffocate your own arm, or are you just this careless?" 

"I thought it would keep it from getting worse, given the fact this isn't an ordinary injection." 

"And what could you possibly know about what's worse, hm? Leave the thinking to me." he told you. 

The last layer of bandage came away. Lines of darkened veins snaked out from the epicenter, veins that shimmered faintly under the light. The molten metal seemed to pulse faintly beneath your skin, and your flesh felt uncomfortably warm. William's eyes lit up with something akin to fascination as he leaned in to inspect it closer.

His fingers brushed your veins, cold against your hot skin. You hissed, pulling away instinctively, but his grip tightened.

"Hold still."

"Jesus, it hurts, William!" 

"And it will keep hurting a hell of a lot more unless I know exactly what's happening. Stop squirming like a little brat and let me fucking do this, or I'll make it worse." he snapped. His fingers explored the area, pressing and prodding forcibly. Each movement made you flinch. "The Remnant is integrating faster than I anticipated. This... promising development could be the answer to everything." he thought out loud. "Your body's resisting it now, but that's only because it's unaccustomed to such power. Once it adapts, it will no longer hurt. This is your rebirth... You're becoming something more than just flesh and bone."

"... Promising?" Your voice was filled with a mixture of anger and fear. "You stuck molten metal into my veins, and you think this is promising?" 

"You're alive. Are you not?" 

"Barely."

"You're too blinded by your own suffering to see the importance." He said with a sigh, "That's enough for now..." He straightened, moving to the sink to rinse his hands. The sound of running water filled the silence. 

You felt like his pet project. Whatever purpose you now served, it was the center of his world, and that realization filled you with a sick mix of fear and a strange masochistic pride. 

William's fingers worked nicely as he rewrapped your arm. The new bandages were firm, snug enough to provide support without suffocating the skin. His knuckles occasionally brushed over your heated flesh. "That should hold tight enough to support it. Loose enough that you won't lose circulation."

You stood awkwardly, shifting on your feet as you watched him, the tremor in your legs more obvious now. His height made it impossible not to feel boxed in, scrutinized. He stepped closer, and you found yourself caught between him and the mirror.

"Now, take off your shirt," he instructed. "I need to see what else has possibly changed."

You complied, pulling the fabric over your head. Your skin prickled with the sudden exposure to the cold bathroom air.

His eyes darted over every detail. He seemed to notice things you didn't even know about yourself. "A stress response, or perhaps it's metabolic..." he mused, his tone more thoughtful than concerned. The ambiguity left you grasping for meaning, unsure what, exactly, he was analyzing. "Tell me if you feel pain here." He pressed down just below your sternum, making you flinch. 

"Yes!" you hissed, recoiling slightly. His grip tightened on your shoulder, keeping you in place. 

A tightness settled in your ribs. It felt almost like you had lost control of it, like something was off inside you.

"Your diaphragm is reacting," William observed. "Tension, improper breathing… perhaps even neurological interference. Remnant is taking effect."

You gritted your teeth, but you stayed silent. Arguing wouldn't do anything. William's fascination with your body, and what he had done to it, outweighed any consideration for your discomfort.

"Are you feverish?" he asked.

"I'm fine," you lied, though the heat rolling off your skin betrayed you.

"Hm," he hummed, inspecting you closely. "I'm asking because it is not uncommon for the body to respond with a fever as it adjusts." he paused, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Based on your current condition, I'd say your core temperature has risen by at least three degrees since I administered the injection." he told you.

You shivered as his thumbs dug into the sensitive hollows just above your pelvis. "You've also developed increased sensitivity here," he noted. His voice dropped an octave, quieter. "The changes are amplifying your responses." His large hands suddenly gripped your waist. "I wonder... do you know what you are to me?" he murmured. The question was rhetorical, and the way he leaned in, told you the answer was one you weren't ready to hear. "My little doll, a captive in more ways than one, made for me, for my hands. Your body, mind…" He leaned closer to you, "…everything that you are. Every cell in your body answers to me now, entirely dependent on me."

Your breath caught, and you instinctively leaned back against him. His chest was firm against your back, the reminder that escape was neither possible nor desired. 

"I'll need to assess the full extent of your sensitivity." His gaze dropped lower, his intentions blatant. "Thoroughly."

You scoffed, "We both know you're just looking for an excuse to touch me." 

"And if I am?" His accent wrapped around each word. "You seem awfully eager to notice, too. Perhaps you're not as unwilling as you pretend to be."  

"Maybe you've made me think that you're the only one who gets to decide how I react." you told him. A sudden change had shown across his face, his breath coming in shallow bursts as though he had forgotten how to inhale. You didn't see it coming.

A beat passed in silence. But it wasn't right. Something felt off. You froze, too, sensing the shift before it fully registered. "What’s happening to you?" you murmured, voice low, but it was more to yourself than to him. 

William's body went rigid as a corpse. His expression was... unfocused.

"William?" You tried again, but he didn't blink. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face

He muttered something under his breath, but the words didn't make sense... They sounded distant, like he was speaking to someone who wasn't there. Then, it happened. He snapped. A violent motion as his hands shot out to seize your arms, crushing your wrists in a grip that stole your breath.

"Hey—!"

He yanked you. Your feet stumbled against the carpet. The world tilted. The next thing you knew, the cold porcelain of the bathtub was biting into your thighs as you were forced down, your palms smacking wet against the inside of the tub. The faucet dripped. His hand shot forward, fingers curling around the back of your neck. He shoved your face down, down, down, the water rushing up to meet you. It hit your skin like a shock. Your skull pressed hard against the bottom of the tub as the coldness engulfed you. Your instincts kick in; you thrash, arms jerking, legs kicking. But his grip doesn't falter. One of his hands pressed against the back of your skull, the other bracing against your shoulder to hold you firm. Bubbles rushed past your face. 

William's voice broke through his haze, angry and harsh. "Stop fucking fighting me."

Your limbs weakened.

It wasn't the first time he hurt you... it wasn't even the worst pain he inflicted, but this was mindless. A blind rage, absent of any recognition of you.

Through the muffled distortion of water, you heard a sound. A voice, but not his. It was high-pitched. A child's voice.

Then another.

More of them.

Then came nothing... a void, weightless drift.

Air hit like a drug. Like fire. Your body heaved, choking, gagging as your senses returned in a flood. You laid sprawled on the bathroom floor, your pants soaked, every inch of you trembling. Your nose ran like a faucet and your hair was plastered to your forehead, dripping into your eyes, stinging. You forced yourself to sit up, ignoring the way your body screamed at you to just lay there and breathe.

You heard him. "You passed." His voice was even, like he hadn't just tried to drown you like an unwanted puppy. 

Beside you, William sat, legs stretched out, back against the bathtub. A cigar smoldered between his fingers. 

"Passed what? Some fucking test to see how long I could hold my breath before I drowned?" Your fingers dug into your scalp, yanking at wet strands of hair as your pulse roared in your ears. "I could have fucking died!" 

William exhaled a long, slow stream of smoke. "You did die."

"... What?" The word barely left your lips. 

"You drowned," he continued, "Your lungs filled with water. Your heart stopped. The body functions on a delay, of course, but I monitored your responses. You were clinically dead for approximately fifty-seven seconds before the Remnant slowly reversed the process." he told you. "The autonomic nervous system shut down. Then, stimulation of neural pathways restarted in rapid succession, faster than standard resuscitation would allow. Your body forced the water from your lungs. Oxygen flow resumed. Brain activity normalized. Not only that, but... Your cells are regenerating at an abnormal rate. The bruising on your wrist—" his fingers darted out, brushing over the spot where his grip had left angry marks, now significantly faded— "is already healing. Tissue response is accelerating."

Your eyes widened. 

"You were dead," he reiterated, as if it should be some grand revelation, some miracle. "And now you're not."

You could have hit him. If you had the strength, if your body wasn't still trying to figure out how to be alive again, you would have launched yourself at him and bashed his head against the fucking tub. Instead, your hands clenched into fists against the wet fabric of your pants. 

His voice was calm, "Give or take."

Suddenly, your hand shot out, knocking the cigar from his fingers. It hit the tile with a soft hiss, the ember snuffed out against a puddle of water. His head snapped toward you, too fast, too stiff, like a marionette being yanked upright. That made him move. But before he could do anything, you lurched, seizing the front of his shirt with both hands, shoving him back against the side of the bathtub.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Your voice broke as you shook him. "What the hell happened to you?" 

"... Oh? So now you're concerned for me, aren't you?"

"Don't start." You let go, hands trembling as you pushed yourself back. "You weren't here. You were saying shit under your breath."

William adjusted his posture, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off some unseen weight. "And?"

"And you looked terrified," you spat. "I don't care how much of a sick bastard you are. I've seen you angry. I've seen you smug. I've seen you play games with me, with everyone, but I have never, never seen you look like that."

For the first time since you met him, William looked unsettled.

You inhaled deeply, forcing yourself to steady your breath. The adrenaline kept your body upright, despite the tremor in your muscles. "Explain, why did you kill me?" 

William's fingers flexed at his sides, his knuckles briefly turning white. "They knew what was inside you."

You already knew who they were. The kids. The ones left to rot.

"They recognized it," William continued. "Familiar to them, you see, like recognizing a long-lost friend. They laughed and laughed, all at once, their voices overlapping, like a chorus out of sync. They don't usually laugh... They cry, beg and scream." His hand curled into a fist. "But when they finally realized what your body held, they laughed. You exist beyond the boundaries set for ordinary men. That's why I had to be sure... I suppose they just wanted me to see it for myself. That you would come back." 

You sighed. "That's why you drowned me." 

"Yes."

The worst part was that he didn't even hesitate. He was calm about everything, too. William Afton never fixed anything. He just made sure no one could find the evidence.

Finally, you swallowed. "What now?" 

He stood calmly, brushing the water from his sleeves before reaching down to grab the damp clothes you had discarded earlier. He wrung them out over the sink, as if drowning you had been somethings as normal as making breakfast. "We have work." 

What had just happened was anything more than an experiment completed.

He has gone from invasive to professional in seconds. 

You stared at him for a moment, trying to decipher the abrupt change in his demeanor. "Get dressed for work. Your uniform should suffice. I'll take care of your clothes; they need washing." Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode out of the bathroom. 

Every glance at William brought guilt. You weren't blind to what you were doing, staying, enduring, even enabling his abuse to Michael. You swore you'd protect him, but every action you made tied your hands further. 

The mirror caught your reflection. You expected to see something far worse than how you usually looked, but... you looked the same. You pressed your fingers against your wrist, feeling for your pulse. It was there. Beating. 

You weren't going to think about it.

You pulled on the uniform, the familiar fabric now feeling oddly loose against your frame. When you first started at Freddy's, it clung tightly to your body, but now, it shown just how much weight you had lost. Whether it was stress, the injection, or the way your life had spiraled, you weren't sure.

William's voice lingered in your head: "Leave the thinking to me."

His words were starting to sound like gospel. 

You grabbed your bag before descending the creaking stairs, heading out the door with him.

William shifted into gear, pulling out of the driveway. 

The car humming forced you into a half-conscious haze as you stared out the window. William's fingers brushed over the radio dial, and soon the faint static gave way to the unmistakable opening chords of a song you knew all too well. The music at first barely registered in your mind because it was just background noise, something that played while you were lost in your own thoughts.

But then the lyrics came, and you couldn't ignore them anymore. Your attention has hardened.

"Every breath you take... every move you make... every bond you break, every step you take... I'll be watching you." 

You glanced at William out of the corner of your eye, but his focus remained on the road. Did he pick this on purpose, or was it just a coincidence? With him, you could never be sure. Plus, he didn't even have to look at you to convey that he knew exactly what was going through your head. 

You didn't realize you were holding your breath until it escaped in a uneasy exhale. As if sensing the shift in your mood, William reached over and placed a hand on your thigh. The touch was almost soothing if you ignored the danger behind it.

The words painted a picture you didn't want to see, yet it was impossible to turn away from. 

William hummed along softly, "Oh, can't you see, you belong to me..." His hand squeezed your thigh just enough to make you twitch. The moment was effortless for him, natural as breathing. But for you, it felt like something much heavier and unbearable. 

You glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 8:12 a.m. Another forty-eight minutes until work started. Another day pretending that everything was normal. You tried to focus on anything else, on the trees whipping past the window, the rising sun, but you were literally taped to the man beside you.

William really didn't strike you as a fan of The Police. But you knew it was not the music he cared about, it was the message. The whole obsessive, stalker angle he had made up. The devotion. The idea of always watching, ensuring nothing happens to what's his. 

He eased his hand off your thigh, only to rest it on the gearshift instead.

You missed the contact immediately and hated yourself for it.

Before long, William pulled into the parking lot at Freddy's. Another day, another round of misery and torture, more hell to deal with.

Hours passed as you did your rounds at Freddy's. The main dining room was worse than ever; it reeked of pizza and desperation. There were no birthday parties anymore, no balloons, no joyous energy. Without a crowd of children to perform for, the animatronics felt more like rotting corpses propped up for display than entertainers.

It crossed your mind that the company would not last much longer if things didn't improve. Businesses couldn't run on nostalgia alone. Sooner or later, without the money, Freddy's would be forced to shut its doors for good.

Even though customers barely showed up, the ones who did venture in were still complaining.

"ROT AT FREDDY'S? ANIMATRONICS UNDER SCRUTINY AS REPORTS OF FOUL SMELLS ESCALATE'

'Smells Like Death,' Say Parents.

Descriptions include 'rotting meat' and 'mucus,' though representatives for Freddy Fazbear's Pizza deny any connection to improper maintenance or hygiene issues.

Families remain wary of returning to the restaurant, connecting unsolved disappearances of five local children few months ago to the recent rumors. Freddy Fazbear's Pizza has made no official statement addressing these rumors beyond an assurance that their animatronics are regularly cleaned and inspected."

It was unsettling, the way the company brushed off concerns. Secrets- they were good at keeping them, and you were no exception.

You let out a heavy sigh.

It hit you then — you hadn't seen Michael in days... He was always buried in schoolwork or holed up in his room, while you were lost in work or... "other things." It seemed like he was doing everything he could to avoid the mess that came with being William's son. You hoped, despite everything, that he was holding up okay.

A few days passed, and November's chill same into the air. The mornings were slower now, and the experiments continued. Adaptation wasn't the right word to describe what your body was going through; you were losing something... you were just not aware what it was yet. 

The morning air was always biting, different to the warmth of William's house. The cold made you regret not layering up more, but there was no time for that. William was already waiting in the car. You opened the passenger door and slid inside. He barely acknowledged you as he shifted into drive, but he did then say, "We're stopping by the Afton Robotics factory first." 

Your mind clung to the mention of Afton Robotics. You had never seen it in person before, so the idea gnawed at you. That'd be interesting... Maybe even exciting if not for the man sitting beside you. "What about my shift?" you then asked, glancing at William. His profile was as inscrutable as ever. 

"Your shift is covered. I made the arrangements last night." 

You turned your head toward him, "You didn't mention that." 

"I didn't see the need. It was already decided. You want that assistant manager position, don't you?" 

So, he had been working on it after all. For weeks, William had dangled that promotion like a lure... If this worked out, you might finally be able to let go of your other jobs William ha made you take. The exhaustion might finally ease.

"Of course I do," you muttered, looking out the window again.

"Then you’ll need to be involved in more than just day-to-day operations." William continued smoothly. "If you're serious about advancing, you have to understand what we're doing."

The drive took longer than expected. He hadn't said much since you'd left the house, his focus seemingly on the road. You could feel the heaviness of his presence even when he wasn't speaking, a pressure that made you very aware of every shift, every sigh. 

When you stepped out of the car, the sheer size of the building hit you. It was massive. The title "Afton Robotics" stretched across the front in bold purple lettering, a deep violet that seemed to glow even in the morning light. Inside, the lobby wasn't something extra special. A battered set of chairs sat near a small reception desk cluttered with yellowing papers and a rotary phone. 

The receptionist didn't acknowledge either of you. No greeting, no question about your presence.

You glanced at William. "... Is she always this welcoming? She doesn’t need to check us in?" 

"I own the damn place." His tone was annoyed like he was already tired of explaining something he assumed should be obvious. "Why would I need permission to enter?" 

That shut you up.

She wasn't ignoring you out of rudeness, she probably knew better than to speak unless spoken to.

No one even glanced your way. If they noticed you at all, it was with the disinterest given for someone unimportant. It wasn't surprising. You might as well have been a ghost. Or worse, a stain.

You and William reached his office. You couldn't help but wonder just how many offices the man had. Three? Four? Did he ever actually sit still in all of them? This room was much bigger than the one at Freddy's, and it had a much more organized feel to it. The desk was large and filled with all sorts of professional items: a lamp, pens and pencils, stacks of papers, files, and notebooks, far more than you'd expect. There were no personal touches like family photos or keepsakes, just work-related things. Blueprints and schematics, some old and curling at the edges, hung on the wall. The walls themselves were a dull gray, matching the industrial carpet underfoot. In one corner stood a cabinet, and next to it, a small table with a coffee machine.

William left your side as he crossed the room and settled into the chair behind the desk, leaning back with an ease that spoke to ownership. The chair creaked under his weight. William's fingers drummed against his thigh, the subtle pat-pat done on purpose. He didn't need to say anything, the meaning clear in the way his gray eyes found yours. You hesitated, your eyes flitting toward his lap before you finally gave in, moving stiffly to perch yourself there. He hummed in acknowledgment, leaning back slightly to give you more room.

William pulled open the drawer. The contents were organized nicely but overwhelmingly. Inside were neatly labeled folders, their titles written in William's skilled hand. William grabbed the one marked "Personnel Development" and pulled it out. The weight of the file was reassuring. William's long fingers flipped it open, his expression unreadable as he skimmed the contents. You didn't really look at the paperwork. Your attention was on him. The way his veined hands moved across the pages, the way his fingers tensed slightly as he turned each sheet. They were used to work, to handling things, people, with intent. 

You shifted, the friction of his grip making it hard to focus as he was preventing you from shifting too far from him. The weight of his fingers kneading your thigh was impossible to ignore, their presence searing through the fabric of your pants.  

On the desk was revealed a neatly typed document. Your eyes widened at the sight. The questions didn't feel like they were designed for you but rather full of expectations about leadership, decision-making, and managing the team dynamics at Freddy's. 

William cleared his throat. His eyes focused on file spread open in front of you. "I need to understand your grasp of management. We are not in the business of babysitting. If you are to fill this role, you must demonstrate an ability to handle challenges. Let's begin with a scenario. Imagine that two employees are caught in an argument during a shift; their behavior disrupts operations. How do you de-escalate the situation without undermining your authority?"

You hesitated but caught yourself, meeting his eyes as calmly as you could manage. "I would first separate the employees to diffuse immediate tension," you began. "Once they're apart, I'd privately address each of them to understand their perspectives without making them feel accused. After that, I'd schedule a meeting between the two, making sure that the focus stays on solving the issue instead of assigning blame. And if the behavior persists, I'd issue formal warnings."

"Next question." He straightened in his seat. "Revenue has dropped by ten percent this quarter. You suspect poor employee performance is partially to blame. How do you identify the weak links, and what measures do you implement to rectify this?"

"I'd start by reviewing individual performance, like attendance, task completion rates, and feedback. From there, I'd focus on employees who fall below acceptable standards, providing them with training... or setting specific improvement goals." 

"A manager must be present enough to see where the breakdown occurs and why. Paper trails can only reveal so much." he told you. 

The interrogation continued. Though you lacked direct management experience, you leaned into logic and problem-solving, hoping it would suffice.

"Your responsibilities will extend far beyond what you've been accustomed to. You'll handle employee schedules, monitor their performance, ensure compliance with company policies, and, when necessary, discipline those who fail to meet expectations." he explained. "In addition to these duties, you'll assist me directly. I'm entrusting you with a lot of responsibilities. As I see it, you are capable of growing into this role, though it will take time. I expect growth and quick adaptation."

He opened a drawer again, pulling out a single sheet of paper, putting it onto the desk. "This is the formal agreement," he said. "Sign it, and the position is yours. Along with the pay increase you've been hoping for."

You stared at the document William placed before you. Your gaze flicked over the text. 

"Employment Agreement," with the Afton Robotics logo etched into the corner.

"EMPLOYMENT AGREEMENT

AFTON ROBOTICS, INC. 

Freddy Fazbear's Pizza

---

Position Title: Assistant Manager

Hours: Flexible (up to 45 hours per week, including weekends and evenings as required)

Hourly Pay: $10.50 

This Employment Agreement (the "Agreement") is entered into as of October 25, 1985, between William Afton, Owner and CEO of Afton Robotics, Inc. ("Employer"), and [YOUR NAME] ("Employee").

---

- The Employee shall be entitled to one unpaid meal break of 30 minutes per 8-hour shift.

- Sick leave and vacation days must be requested in writing and approved by the Employer.

- No additional benefits, such as health insurance or retirement plans, shall be provided under this Agreement.

TERMS AND CONDITIONS:

Position and Responsibilities

The Employee agrees to serve as Assistant Manager for Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, a division of Afton Robotics, Inc. Responsibilities include but are not limited to:

1. Overseeing daily operations to ensure smooth procedures.

2. Monitoring and improving employee performance.

3. Creating and managing employee schedules.

4. Enforcing workplace policies and addressing noncompliance.

5. Assisting in inventory management, customer service resolution, and maintaining operational efficiency. 

6. Providing direct assistance to the Employer in projects requiring help.

---

Compensation and Benefits:

— The Employee will be paid at a rate of $10.50 per hour, with payments issued biweekly. Any additional hours worked beyond the regular schedule will be paid accordingly.

— The Employee agrees to maintain the confidentiality of all sensitive information pertaining to Afton Robotics, Inc. This includes trade secrets, employee records, and ongoing projects.

— Employment under this Agreement is at-will, meaning either party may terminate the relationship at any time with or without cause or notice. 

- This Agreement may be amended only in writing and with the mutual consent of both parties. - 

The Employee confirms that they have read and understood the terms of this Employment Agreement and agree to comply fully with its conditions.

Employee Signature:

_____________________

Date: _____________________

 

Employer Signature:

William Afton"

You reached for the pen on the desk. It felt heavier than it should have as you placed it to paper. Your hand trembled slightly, the lines of your name coming out uneven as you signed. You handed the document back to William after you signed it. Today would mark your last shift as a day-shift security guard. 

Now, your work would orbit entirely around him, splitting time between the factory and Freddy's. Two days at the factory, three at the pizzeria, and weekends at his house in the workshop.

•••

The drive to the factory was quiet. You tried not to let the nervousness that built up inside you show, but his occasional sideways glances told you he noticed.

"You'll start here today. Get familiar with the staff. Remember, you're not just an employee now... you're their superior. Act like it."

William had already left for the pizzeria by the time you entered the main lobby, leaving you to navigate this new world alone.

You adjusted the nametag on your chest, "Y/N L/N - Manager." It was weird how much power that small piece of metal seemed to hold. Stepping into the breakroom, you scanned the employees gathered there. Conversations stopped, the room falling into an awkward quiet. There was a mix of faces, some fresh out of college, others in their thirties. You recognized the annoyance immediately, some even openly glaring at you. None of them seemed particularly thrilled about the newest addition, and they certainly didn't want to acknowledge you as their superior.

Straightening your back, you cleared your throat, "Good morning, everyone. My name is Y/N L/N, and as of today, I'll be serving as your assistant manager." You paused, checking their reactions. "I understand change can be difficult... but I want to assure you that I'm here to support you, not micromanage you. My goal is to create a nice environment. I value open communication. If there's ever an issue, I want to hear about it. If you have suggestions or ideas, bring them to me. That said, I also expect respect from everyone. We're a team, and that means holding ourselves to a high standard." Encouraged by their attention, you continued. "I know it'll take time for me to earn your trust, and I'm prepared to do that!" 

You stood awkwardly in the silence that followed your introduction. You were like a stranger at their family dinner table. You cleared your throat, trying to find some footing. "Anyway, could someone show me to the manager's office? Mr. Afton didn't leave me with much direction." 

A woman said, "I'll show you where the office is," she said, her tone neutral. 

You nodded, careful to mask any reaction beyond polite acknowledgment. Following her lead, you kept a distance. You had been nervous earlier, sure, but that was behind you now. If you couldn't handle this, how could you ever prove yourself worthy of the role? 

"You seem nice," she said suddenly, "Different from what we're used to." 

"Different how?" you asked. 

"You're… approachable, I'd say. Most of the higher-ups around here don't bother with us unless they're barking at us." 

You weren't sure how to respond to that. "I'll try not to bark." 

She stopped in front of a door, "Guess we'll see how long that lasts," she muttered, half under her breath, before pushing it open.

You lingered for a moment in the doorway, watching as the woman sauntered off. You stepped into the office, closing the door behind you.

The room was small, designed for functionality at work rather than someone's comfort. The keys laid neatly on the desk, a simple ring holding three in total. Beside them sat a typewriter. You ran a hand along the desk's edge, feeling the old wood beneath your fingers. As you checked the drawer, it revealed emptiness save for stacks of blank paper and a forgotten pencil nub rolling in the corner. A personal computer also sat, waiting to be powered on. 

The telephone hung to your left, bolted to the wall with a cord that had seen better days. A corkboard was next to it, speckled with push pins. Several pieces of paper had been tacked up, contacts. 

"— Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, Henry Emily (Office) 

— Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, William Afton (Office)

— William Afton (Home) 

— Coffee Delivery

— Michael Afton (Personal)" 

You stared at the last entry for a moment, your mind wandering. Why would William include Michael's number here? Was it for emergencies, or had there been another reason? You shook your head, deciding not to linger on thoughts that weren't yours to entertain.

You sighed, brushing your hand over your hair before sitting down at the desk. The chair let out a faint creak under your weight. 

You placed your bag on the desk, sliding open the zipper to retrieve a few stuff you had packed in haste. For now, you pulled out a notebook and a neatly wrapped sandwich for lunch. Before you could even think about taking a bite, the ring of the telephone startled you. Frowning, you reached over to answer it. 

"Manager's office." you said.

"Y/N." It was William's voice. "Settling in, I presume?"

You dropped your professionalism, "Yeah. The office is a little bare, but it'll do." 

"That's not your concern. You're here to manage, not redecorate."

You let out a short huff. "Anyway, there's nothing here but blank papers here," you muttered with a sigh. "Do I have anything to work with yet, or am I just wasting my time?"

"Did you check properly? Look beneath the stack. There's a file tucked there, though I suppose that might've been too much effort for you."

"I did check," you said, already reaching to rifle through the stack again, thorough this time. When your fingers hit the corner of a folder tucked far back, you paused, then pulled it out. Damn it. "Nevermind. I found it." you admitted hesitantly.

"I thought so. Blind as a bat." he said, his tone carrying that maddening self-assuredness. You rolled your eyes, grateful he couldn't see it. 

You heard William's voice continue, as if he already moved on to the next task in his mind. "I'll be at the factory later. Ensure everything is in order when I arrive." 

The line went dead before you could respond. Your hung it up with a sigh, your focus shifting back to the file. First impressions were already off to a stellar start, you thought.

(...)

Hours later, the last page was finished with a tired sigh. The once-mountainous stack of paperwork was now neatly aligned on the edge of the desk. You closed your eyes, feeling the annoying headache. You let the throb in your temples pulse through the silence. But the quiet didn't bring peace, your thoughts were anything but still, like always. Your mind was filled guilt and memories that constantly touched at your sanity.

The missing children incident, in june. It is the month that had ripped your world apart, that devoured your soul. Not even a second of guilt had softened his emotionless gray eyes. He didn't even try to mask his arrogance, walking free after the court's blind verdict. No one dared to act, no matter how weird he acted. And you, stood by his side, the accomplice.

Then Michael's mother, murdered by William. But even her blood wasn't the stain in this nightmare. The worst was hidden in the files you destroyed. Names, dates, erased. You burned the evidence that would damn him, but the ashes only smeared your conscience further.

Hush money had followed. The parents who cried for justice were bought off and silenced. 

But that wasn't the end for you. The remnant injected into you without mercy. His experiment had turned you into his creation; he was now a mad scientist enjoying his work. Then a few days ago, the way he had fucking killed you just to bring you back together again. 

You remembered Michael's face pale, his hands trembling as he spilled out his suspicions, eyes searching yours for answers, for reassurance you couldn't yet give. If William wasn't willing to admit to anything — he never did, the bastard, maybe... you could find answers on your own.

You had the keys. Three of them. One had to fit, perhaps. 

Your fingers tightened around the keyring in your pocket as Michael's sobs echoed in your ears. 

Leaving your office was easy enough. You followed the layout in your mind, going through the halls until you reached his door. Ensuring the corridor was empty, you tested the key. 

It felt risky, given William's usual behavior, but you reminded yourself that whatever secrets William was harboring were worth the chance. 

The key turned smoothly in the lock. For a moment, you stood frozen, eyes wide. "Fuck-" you hissed under your breath, your voice barely audible. You half expected alarms or some other trap because William wasn't careless, but there was only silence. Shaking off the momentary paralysis, you pushed the door open, inhaled sharply and slipped inside, taking extra care to make your entrance as discreet as possible. The last thing you wanted was to draw attention to yourself. You were alone, yes, but that didn't mean William's presence wasn't still there somewhere, maybe in the traces of him that clung to this office. You then shut the door softly behind you, your fingers lingering on the knob for a moment, half expecting it to turn in your grasp as if William was already there, ready to catch you.

You had no clue why the hell would William give you a key to his office. Perhaps it was out of possible emergencies... or maybe on purpose. You never knew. 

He wasn't. You had maybe an hour before William returned. Maybe.

You would have to unearth the truth on your own. 

Your gaze roamed over the space. Like usual, everything looked neat. You moved toward the desk, adrenaline pulsing hot beneath your skin. The leather chair beckoned, and with a quiet exhale, you lowered yourself into it. It felt strange to sit in his seat, almost like you were assuming his authority, yet it only made you more resolute. A man like him wouldn't leave his secrets within easy reach, but still, you had to try. You began rifling through the drawers, the first one revealing only standard business documents. The workload he shouldered was immense, you realized; contracts, purchase orders, notes on employee performance, all details logged. It felt endless. Nothing of interest.

In the next drawer, you found something strange, a small camera monitor. Your hand hovered over it as you tried to make sense of it. William had the security staff, like you were once, monitoring all cameras throughout the building. Why would he keep one for himself here, hidden like this? It was as if he wanted to observe everything, even when no one was around to notice him doing it. You glanced around, suddenly wary of hidden eyes. No cameras here.

Trying not to focus on the anxiety that formed in stomach, you turned your attention back to the drawers. One left to go. But it resisted, the lock stubborn.

A challenge like this felt dangerous.

You glanced around, feeling like William himself might appear any moment once again. But the place outside was silent.

Your gaze fell on a pen, lying innocuously on the desk's surface. It wasn't any ordinary pen, though, it had a weighty metal tip. You gripped it, pulling the casing apart to reveal a slender piece of metal that looked thin enough to work in the lock. An improvised tool, crude but promising. Inserting the metal into the lock, you began to wiggle it gently, feeling each small click in your fingertips. "This feels really invasive," you thought, shivering slightly at the idea of invading William's privacy. The lock then suddenly gave way, and for a moment, you simply stared, surprised with yourself. That pen had actually worked.

A quiet victory, once again?

The drawer creaked as you pulled it out, wood scraping softly as though reluctant to yield its secrets. Inside lay a journal. It was older than you expected, but well kept, like it held pieces of him too private to share, maybe even to acknowledge. This journal felt more intimate than anything else you have found so far. It was his, this unnerving man's personal writing, his thoughts. But you had come too far to let hesitation stop you now. You remembered your important plan: If William wouldn't answer your questions, perhaps his own words would. 

You opened to the first page.

"Name: William Afton 

Date of birth: [blurred through ink]/1938. 

Occupation: Owner, Afton Robotics and Partner, Fredbear's Family Diner

Address: [blurred through ink]" 

It was basic information at first- facts. They revealed a man whose past spanned wars, cultural revolutions, an entire era that felt like history to you, and yet he was here, somehow timeless.

You also observed that a significant number of pages, quite a lot, in fact, have been torn out from this journal.

You flipped to the next page, where the ink had been pressed heavier. The year at the top of the page read 1972.

"Some nights, I can barely close my eyes. A voice inside tells me that I am too weak, too small, that I will be swallowed by others' expectations. Every inch of this business needs my name, my face. Yet, here I am, barely able to face the man in the mirror. People demand smiles and laughter, but they do not see the toll it takes. They think joy comes easy, but people do not know what it takes to build something on your own bones.

There is a unique irony in creating a place meant to evoke childhood happiness. They will never know that behind it all is a man who barely remembers his own childhood, nor one who feels at peace within his own skin. I have buried the very thing I build on. There is only the mask now I use to hide my true self." 

"April 20, 1972.

There is no one worth handing your vulnerability over to, for they will only use it against you. This place demands too much of me. And I will give it what it asks, even if it means losing whatever was left of me in the process. Perhaps that was gone long ago. The only way forward is to forget what cannot be fixed."

"June 5, 1972.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone will ever see me as anything more than the man I pretend to be. If anyone would recognize what it took to become this. But then, they would have to truly know me, and I would never allow that. The plans are in place now, but there's this itch that I can't quite reach. It's hard to shake. Everyone expects stability from me, a man like me can't afford to appear weak, or god forbid, unsure. It's funny, because I was always told as a boy that I had the mind for numbers, the hands for perfection, but never the heart to build anything lasting. And yet, here I am, standing on the edge of opening something grand, something that'll make people remember me. People will see the perfect picture of my life that, try as I might, never quite matches the mess in front of me. My marriage, too. The way she looks at me sometimes feels as if she's looking at a stranger, someone she loves but can't quite grasp, like I'm something strange she can't understand but still continues to love.

Will anyone ever see the real me, or am I destined to remain a stranger to myself and everyone around me?"

You frowned. There was no true self in what he projected. Perhaps, at some level, he was terrified that without these defenses, he'd crumble. You always thought of William as unbreakable and confident, but in fact he was someone deeply insecure with a loneliness he wouldn't ever share willingly. As these thoughts coalesced, you were so immersed in them, you barely registered the faint sound of footsteps just outside the office. 

They grew louder. You froze, fingers still clutching the journal in your hand as if it could somehow protect you from what was coming. You didn't have time to process what was happening. You didn't have time to get a single thought in before the door swung open. The light seemed to hesitate before touching his silhouette, his tall frame filling the doorway. His eyes landed on you, and something different in his eyes had shown. It's not anger, not yet at least, but he looked almost offended that you had crossed a line so personal, a line he had never once invited you to cross. 

"William, I... I didn't mean-"  

Before you could even finish, he crossed the distance between you with unsettling speed, yanking the journal from your hands so hard you felt a sting in your fingers. The next second, his hand was at your chest, yanking, pushing, shoving you backward until your shoulders met the wall. "What were you thinking?" he demanded. "You can't just go into my office without my permission and dig through my private life like some kind of rat. Christ, are you really that fucking stupid?"

Your mind scrambled to find an excuse, some way to justify what you had done, to soften that anger in his gaze. "No, it's not like that," you protested, "I thought maybe if I could understand, I mean... you wouldn't talk to me about personal things, and I—"

"Quiet. That's my life you're poking through, not some cheap novel. I don't know what you thought you'd find in here, but I assure you, whatever sick curiosity led you here will get you nowhere you want to go. You wouldn't understand why I do any of it, even if I sat here and told you. Because it's not for you to understand. It's for me to handle. It's my life, and you don't belong in it." he told you. "I trusted you. A little, anyway... Trusted you enough to let you be close to me. And what do you do with that?"

"Don't twist this on me now." you snapped, "You act like no one deserves to know anything about you. You play the part, but you're actually terrified that someone might actually see the real you. I went through your things because I needed answers— After Clara, I had questions. You've been so vague, and then there's everything about those missing kids, it all pointed to you! I had to find out for myself." you told him. "I can't keep pretending like your aggressive behavior doesn't exist. You've been abusing me, which shows me that you're not the person you pretend to be around others." 

This time, William didn't react with words. He pushed you away roughly, the force of his hand against your chest sending you stumbling back against the desk. You steadied yourself, breathing heavily, feeling a rush of adrenaline flood your system. "Get out." he ordered. "And don't come near me until I say you can. We'll finish this conversation at my house."

You wonder if you've made the biggest mistake of your life.

The look in his eyes already told you the answer. With a last glance at the disheveled journal, you stepped out, leaving his office.

The drive to William's house was silent, as expected. You stared out the window, trying to process everything. William's expression was hard, unmoving, fixed on the road ahead. It was cleart that he was still upset at you. Once inside his house, the silence persisted. You followed him to his bedroom, and inside, he shut the door quietly behind you, his hand lingering on the handle for a second longer than necessary. "So," he began, glancing at you but avoiding your eyes. "I'd like to hear what you have to say for yourself."

You stayed quiet, considering how to start. There was no denying the wrongness in what you had done, coming into his office and prying into his journal, but there were reasons, justifications that felt valid to you.

When you didn't respond immediately, his brow arched, impatience evident. "You think you can just invade my privacy without consequence, yes?" 

"No. I know it was wrong," you replied, "I shouldn't have—" 

"Then apologize."

The simplicity of his demand struck you, and yet it felt heavy, as if he was testing you, waiting for you to offer something more than just a passing admission of guilt. You began, speaking carefully. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have touched your things, and especially not something so private as your journal. It was wrong of me to invade your privacy like that, and I know I shouldn't have let my curiosity get the better of me. I should have asked you first about the key you've given me." you said, brief but sincere, though it wasn't easy to look directly at William as you said it.

"No. You're going to show me just how sorry you are." he said. He moved slowly, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed.

"I want to hear you beg for forgiveness, to pour out every ounce of regret you have. I want you to grovel for it, to feel the weight of your remorse in every word you utter." At that, you opened your mouth to speak again, but William shut you up by gesturing to the space directly in front of him, his expression merciless. "On your knees."

Feeling your skin flush, you swallowed. The request was degrading, but there was no room for disobedient behavior here if you really wanted him to forgive you. You let yourself sink to the floor, feeling the humiliation settle on your tongue as you knelt before him.

"Prostrate yourself before me. I want to hear the desperation in your voice, the sincerity of your regret. Prove to me that you are truly sorry. Make me believe that you understand the depth of your failure." he instructed.

"William," you began again, "Please… forgive me."

He didn't respond, only continued to stare, his expression demanding more.

"I overstepped, and it was selfish. You trusted me, and I've abused that trust. I-I'm ashamed of myself, and I'm so, so sorry. Please, don't hold this against me." But he only narrowed his eyes, still unimpressed. Your hands fell to the floor, propping yourself up as you shifted closer, instinctively reaching for his leg, your fingers clutching his knee in a futile, silent plea. "I'll do anything. Just let me prove to you that I'm sorry." You couldn’t stop yourself now, the apologies tumbling out, repeated pleas for forgiveness leaving your lips. "I need you to forgive me. I… I deserve whatever you think is fair."

You were desperate now, terrified of what he'd do if he didn’t forgive you. Would he ignore you at first and pretend you didn't exist, leaving you to wither in the silence of his lack of interest? Would he be amused by your panic, drawing out your suffering just because he fucking could? Then, maybe, he would indeed start getting cruel, really cruel, knowing damn well it would not be enough. And if he still wasn't satisfied... Would he make you suffer in ways you hadn't even imagined yet? Maybe he'd chain you to his bed again, wrists raw and aching, just to keep you where he wanted... helpless, his.

Maybe he'd make sure you never forgot your place. Maybe he'd kill you again, over and over, just to hear you scream, just to remind you that no matter what you did, no matter how hard you fucking begged, he owned you.

"You'll prove you're sorry?" William's voice was soft now, but laced with something testing.

"Yes," You breathed, nodding.

William sighed, "I'll admit, I'm not a charitable person, sweetheart... But I'll forgive you, only if you prove to me your devotion. It's action I'm looking for, not promises. Let's peel back those layers of shame and guilt, if only for tonight. What's the harm in indulging? After all, you are an animal, one I've tamed, one I've cultivated for my needs." 

You existed to serve him. 

You hadn't yet grasped what he meant by "prove," but the answer was closer than you hoped. His attention fell pointedly toward his legs, drawing your gaze to his leather boots. He stretched out one leg, and you caught yourself staring. Your gaze then went up to his face, seeking any sign that this was just a cruel joke. But his expression remained the same.

He knew the effect his demand had on you. 

"Let's not drag this out. You have a lot to prove to me. I want you to start by lowering yourself until you're at my feet, right where you're meant to be when you've betrayed my trust like this." 

You sighed, lowering yourself. You wanted to recoil, to stand up and leave, not to embarrass and humiliate yourself like this. 

He continued, "You disrespected me. You crossed a line that I never gave you permission to cross. If you want me to forgive that, you'll start by lowering yourself to my standards." He nudged his boot forward slightly, emphasizing his expectation. "Do you see these? They're filthy. A man in your position should know when it's time to clean up the mess he's made. And I don't mean with a cloth, no, I expect you to use that mouth of yours. Since you were so eager to know every part of me, you can start right here."

He wanted you to humiliate yourself on the floor, to press your mouth to his boots like some kind of silent penance.

"I expect you to run that tongue slowly, thoroughly. Every inch. Then the heel, clean the back of it too. Taste the dirt, the grime. Let it remind you of where you stand. If I see anything less than absolute devotion, we'll start again. And don't look away from me," he added. "I want to see everything in those eyes of yours. I want to feel every ounce of your repentance in how you move, every bit of shame you felt when you were caught in my office."

This was punishment of an intensity you hadn't even expected from him, ever. You hated him so much in that moment, but you craved the approval that lingered in his tone. "Begin."

You followed his command, lowering your face toward his boot. Your lips parted. Your body screamed at the shame, but the pull of his expectation made it impossible to stop. Your tongue touched the leather, curious and careful at first. It tasted of dirt and faint traces of old polish, an earthy taste that made you want to puke, yet you pressed on, dragging your tongue slowly along his shoe. Every second you kept your eyes locked on him, your gaze wet with unshed tears of desperation and longing. William's disdain, only fanned that ache, that awful, undeniable want.

Switching to his other boot, you tried to drown out the growing pressure between your legs. The leather tasted no different. 

"Don't you look pretty down there, on your knees, just for me... I didn't know you'd have it in you to be this obedient, but here you are. What a sight." he commented, and that only intensified your arousal. "Look at you, almost shaking. Don't be a sissy about it now, finish the job," he murmured, urging you back down to continue.

When you finally finished, breathless and flushed, you pulled back as he started inspecting the work. His silence was horrifying, leaving you suspended in that uncertain pause. 

William's hand then found your chin, fingers pulling you forward until your face was inches from his. Your eyes sought him, as if silently asking if this was enough, if he would let you go now. "Open." 

Your mouth parted automatically, and William leaned in. You watched, wide-eyed, as he spat directly onto your tongue. The act was startling, the taste of it spreading across your taste buds. It felt like a violation, something foreign and unwelcome. You wanted to spit it out, and yet, inexplicably, a thrill shot through you. "Keep it there." he ordered. You blinked up at him, breathless, feeling the weight of his saliva resting against your tongue. Time seemed to stretch. After what felt like minutes, he gave a simple command. "Swallow." 

You did, forcing yourself to gulp it down, feeling the taste longer, leaving a strange warmth in its wake. He guided you forward again until his lips met yours, his tongue prying its way inside. You matched him, your tongue sliding against his, desperate, trying to convey apologies you couldn't speak aloud. Your hands gripped at his legs, trying to steady yourself, a moan escaping your lips as he angled his head. Then, just as abruptly as it began, he pulled away. His lips were slightly wet. "Consider yourself forgiven. But remember that trust is a privilege. You are not entitled to every part of me just because you want it." His fingers tightened against your chin before he released you. This was a lesson. "The emergency key to my office that I entrusted to you is now revoked. You will not get it back until you earn my trust again."

With that, he stood up from the edge of the bed, smoothing his shirt, his eyes flicking down to you one last time before he strode out, leaving you kneeling in the silence.

You suddenly felt so embarrassed. You had been so desperate for his approval, so willing to debase yourself just to hear him say that you were forgiven. Now that he was gone, the reality of it sank in fully.

What had you let him do to you?

Chapter Text

Every morning from now on, you woke with your body aching. Each mark felt like lifetimes stacked on top of each other. William tested you in ways you didn't think a human body could endure. The drowning was just the start — That was the moment he saw what you could survive, and after that, he wanted proof. He tested your body in ways that made you sob, beg, tremble. The first time he burned you, you bit down on your tongue so hard you tasted blood. He pressed the heated metal against your forearm, and you swore you could feel your flesh splitting, melting under it. You thought your teeth might crack from how hard you clenched your jaw. The scent of scorched skin filled the air, and your breath came in short gasps. The pain didn't stop just because he took the source away.

You wanted to press yourself against the farthest corner of the room, but he had held you down, shushing you like you were a child throwing a fit.

The burn faded within the hour... 

It was getting harder to function outside of this because you were tired constantly, struggling to keep up with your responsibilities as assistant manager. William kept you occupied even when you weren't on the clock too. Your schedule had dissolved into a mess of late nights, early mornings, barely any time to yourself.

That moment in the bathroom still played in your head, looping over and over like a tape. William's fingers tightening around your skull, the rush of water, the feeling of weightlessness as you died. Then the moment it all came back... lungs burning, body convulsing. And now, somehow, you were supposed to act like life went on as normal. You could never quite understand what triggered William's sudden violent shift, what it was that drove him to assault you and kill you. Something in him had snapped, but the why and the how remained a mystery. 

Today, you were at Freddy's, lingering around at the dining area before your shift. Something was very off. They were watching you; you noted. Freddy, Bonnie, Chica. Even Foxy from his cove, his figure barely visible. They weren't just empty suits to you. If you hadn't been looking, you might not have noticed at all. The noise around you started to dull. Conversations became muffled, like you were underwater. You turned toward the counter where the other employees were stationed, expecting and hoping for some kind of reassurance. But nobody else saw the way their eyes reflected you too perfectly... You tried to look away from the animatronics, but the room was warping. The posters on the walls bled together, the cartoony versions of Freddy and his friends twisting weirdly. Something dripped.

A wet, sound, plop… plop… plop… 

You tried to brush it off, to tell yourself you were imagining shit, but the moment you moved to walk away, so did they. Their gazes dragged after you like they were tethered to your body.

They weren't programmed to move like that.

You forced your legs to move toward the men's restroom. You had to get rid of the panic, somehow. It was leaving you out of self control. You shoved the door open with a shaky breath, stepping inside. The door slammed behind you with a loud creak.

You pressed your palms against the sink, gripping it with all your strength. Your nails scraped against the surface, but the pain didn't register to you. Your eyes were fixed on your reflection, but the image of yourself seemed very distorted. You blinked hard, but it only worsened. Your face twitched unnaturally, like a glitch in reality.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

You tried, but it wasn't working...

The more you tried to calm yourself, the worse it got.

The lights flickered once, then twice, and then went completely out. You froze. Total darkness. Then a loud rattle snapped you out of your trance. You whipped around and saw the stall doors. They were shaking, rattling violently like someone was trying to break out. 

You stumbled backward, tripping over your own feet, and crashed into the cold wall. You gasped for air, your hand pressed against your chest, but the tightness was unbearable. It felt like something was sitting on your chest, pushing the air out of your lungs. Then you saw a handprint, small and fresh. The bloody smear was on the mirror, directly in front of you, right where your reflection should have been, leaving trails as it spread across the glass. The temperature dropped rapidly, and you saw your breath fogging in front of you. The fog took shape into something resembling ghosts. 

Your knees buckled.

The last thing you saw before passing out was the ceiling spinning above you.

You woke to pressure- something harsh and insistent prodding at your ribs. The sting of bleach burned in your nostrils.

Another jab, more forceful this time.

You groaned. 

"He's awake," a soothing voice said.

"Christ, William, stop poking him. Give him space." came another, softer, more worried.

Your head lolled to the side, your temples pulsing in pain. Your head throbbed as you forced your eyes open. The ceiling lights were too bright, but soon enough, as your vision adjusted, the figures standing over you came into focus. William was looking down at you with a stern expression, his lips set in an unimpressed line. The polished tip of his dress shoe nudged your ribs once more, just enough to irritate and aggravate. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, his entire posture radiating disapproval. Henry, meanwhile, knelt beside you, his brow furrowed with concern.

His hand hovered like he wanted to touch your shoulder but hesitated. "Easy there, Y/N," he murmured. "You had a nasty fall."

You swallowed, your throat dry. "What...?"

"You slipped," Henry said gently. "Didn't see the wet floor sign. Hit your head pretty hard. I'm not going to lie to you, this could've been a lot worse... You need to be careful."

You didn't see the wet floor sign? That wasn't what happened.

"You might be concussed. Just take a moment—" 

William scoffed, "Oh, for God's sake, we don't have a moment to waste. He can sit around later on his own time."

Henry shot him a hard look. "He's bleeding."

You tried to focus, and saw the smear of red on the floor beside you. When you lifted your hand to touch your head, your fingers came away wet.

Henry cursed under his breath. "Let me help you up."

Your head swam as Henry's hands carefully eased you up, slipping an arm under yours, his grip calm but mindful of your injury. You forced yourself to focus on anything other than the dizzying sensations. They guided you throughout the hallway. The walls, painted a shade of gray, seemed to stretch endlessly as you walked forward. William's grip was tight on your arm. Henry, walking beside you on the other side, was gentler, his hand at the small of your back offering more comfort than force. 

"You work too much," Henry said as you all entered his office, "I have seen you dragging yourself through shifts on barely any sleep." His hands were balancing you as you sat down in the chair in front of his desk. His touch was light, nothing like William's grip that had forced you underwater not long ago. "Head injuries are tricky things, son. You might feel fine one second and collapse the next. You need to sit, breathe. Let me look at you."

"I feel like I got run over." It was easier to say that than admit the truth.

Henry nodded, reaching for a drawer behind him, rummaging through its contents. "We need to clean that up before it gets worse," he muttered.

William exhaled sharply through his nose, but said nothing. Your eyes flicked up from the smudged blood on your fingers, drawn to the empty way William was looking at you. Then, just as quickly, he looked away. His focus shifted to Henry, who was still rummaging through his desk drawer. You exhaled slowly, pressing your palm against your temple. The pounding in your skull was getting worse each second. Henry then finally retrieved what he was looking for- a first aid kit, worn from years of use.

Henry moved behind you, while William slipped around the chair you were sitting on, standing in front of you. His fingers wrapped around the back of your neck, and with pressure, he pulled you forward, forcing your head down just enough for Henry to get a clear view of the wound. You stiffened instinctively, but your body had already learned not to fight against him, not unless you were ready for the consequences. The desk was behind him, a barrier ensuring you would not pull away. If Henry noticed the way William was holding you in place, he said nothing.

Henry's hands were gentle, but even the lightest touch sent a sting, like salt rubbed into an open cut. Henry sighed as you groaned in pain, "I know, I know," he murmured. "But it'll be over before you know it. Just sit still for me."

Easy for him to say... He wasn't the one with a fresh gash on his head. You forced yourself not to dare jerk away. The last thing you needed was for him to start over.

Henry wasn't here to hurt you. That, somehow, made the pain worse.

William's fingers, still resting against the back of your neck, moved. You felt the drag of his fingertips along the ridge of your spine. You focused on what you could see— the lower half of William's frame. His slacks, neat and pressed. His dress shirt barely untucked from his belt, a sign that the day had worn on him, if only slightly. He stood with his weight shifted to one side, showing the tension in his stance which betrayed impatience.

The two men talked as though you weren't sitting between them.

"I knew this would happen eventually." William muttered. "He is careless, absolutely has no awareness of his surroundings. No sense. Cannot even walk across a room without landing flat on his back." He was irritated, not because you had fallen, but because this had wasted his time. You could have cracked your skull open, and William would still find a way to pin the blame on you.

"William . . ." He said his name like an invitation, his tone still filled with the patience that had always set him apart from the other man. "You're being a little harsh, don't you think?"

William stiffened at that. You wanted to scream. Henry wasn't calling William out for his passive-aggressive digs or the way he was irritated at you for simply existing. Instead, he was speaking to William like he was someone to be understood. Like he just needed to be reasoned with.

"I know I am harsh," he admitted. "But standards must be maintained." His voice carried reason, like he was lecturing a student rather than discussing the assistant he had drowned days before.

Henry hummed, dabbing the antiseptic over your wound. "I do not disagree, Will. But you do realize not everyone operates under the same set of principles as you. There is such a thing as leniency..." 

William scoffed. "Leniency breeds carelessness." 

"And yet compassion builds loyalty." Henry said. 

"Perhaps." William conceded, though his tone made it clear he was simply allowing the conversation to conclude, rather than agreeing.

Henry exhaled, seemingly giving up on whatever point he had been trying to make. "Well, the wound is clean now... It should heal without issue." 

William's fingers finally left the back of your neck, and you barely resisted the urge to shake him off the second before he let go on his own. The relief of distance was immediate.

•••

His left hand rested casually on the steering wheel, while his right brought the cigar to his lips, dragging slow and deep before exhaling through his nose. The windows were opened just enough to let some of the smoke drift out, but the scent still clung to you. He hadn't spoken much since leaving Freddy's.

Then, finally, he asked you an question. "I wonder... Do you believe in ghosts?"

You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow in confusion at the sudden interest. His eyes stayed on the road. "Why do you ask?"

He hummed, taking another drag of his cigar before tapping the excess ash away. "Curious." A simple answer, but something in his tone suggested otherwise.

You hesitated before answering — Did you believe in ghosts?

Yes. Well, maybe not in the traditional sense, not in the way stories were told around campfires or whispered. But you believed in the trails of people that never truly left.

"I think there are things that don't fade, like moments that get stuck. People that leave something behind, maybe not in the way movies show it, but… in ways you can feel. And sometimes, I think ghosts aren't even in places. They're in people. You carry it. You live with it. And maybe in some ways, that's worse than a haunted house." You sighed. "Yeah. I believe in ghosts. You?"  

"People like to think ghosts are about the dead. But most of the time, they belong to the living. Most people only see what's in front of them, but the past doesn't disappear just because you want it to. It sticks and festers." he said. "So... what you said, about ghosts being in people, you're right."

He laid these things and waited to see what you'd do with it. "Does a ghost live in you?" you questioned. 

"Perhaps... My youngest. Sometimes, I think… maybe there are traces." 

You knew about his son. You had never met him, never seen so much other than a family photo, but William had mentioned him before. A boy who died young. That was all you had ever been given— other than Michael's side of the story. It wasn't grief that William felt- it was just something that had settled in him like a second spine. The strangest part was how normal this conversation felt. How easy it was to sit here and talk about ghosts with the man who had put killed you just nights nights ago, the man who had abused you just to see how long it took for the pain to set in.

"I think... I think someone's soul might live in me too." You said in response. 

William's fingers had stilled where they rested against the steering wheel. You didn't say her name. You barely knew Henry's daughter, but something about what she told you stayed with you. It was a lot of responsibility to hold. The grief rooted itself in your body.

"Who?" he asked simply.

You should have known that question was coming. The lie came out anyway. "My grandmother," you said. "She died when I was little. I don't remember much about her, just pieces. My mom used to tell me how she always knew when someone was lying. She used to say you couldn't get away with anything around her."

A perfect lie... You hoped so, at least. 

He hummed. "Smart woman."

You almost laughed. The way he said it like he had actually known her.

"You take after her, then?" he asked. 

The question caught you off guard. "Guess so," you said.

"Shame she is not around anymore." he mused. "Sounds like someone I'd have liked to meet."

You didn't know if you felt guilty from lying or from the fact that some part of you wished you had told him the truth.

When you arrived to William's house, you went to the bathroom. You turned your head slightly, trying to get a better look at the cut. It wasn't deep, but blood had crusted into the edges of your hair, dried against your scalp. Henry had done his best to clean you up. You hesitated, then reached up and pressed the tips of your fingers against the wound. Your breath hissed through your teeth. You dabbed a bit of ointment onto your fingers before carefully reaching back. It helped soothe you, even if it was only a little. 

Henry had fed you the story, and now you were meant to carry it. You slipped, you hit your head. End of discussion.

A yawn dragged itself out of your chest. For once, William hasn't demanded any more tasks to be done from you tonight. Maybe it was a rare act of mercy, or maybe he had simply grown bored for the time being. 

Sleep overtook you, but the moment your eyes closed, you were pulled into a nightmare again.

You stood in the middle of a decayed dining room, its walls cracked and peeling. The chairs, once filled with laughter, now sat abandoned and empty. A rotting birthday cake sat on the table. The candles flickered, although there was no breeze to cause the movement, yet they were still shaky as if they knew something you did not. A echo of the usual pizzeria's music played, though the speakers were nowhere to be found, just a sound far too quiet. Your chest tightened a figure began to materialize from the murk of your nightmare. Charlotte. Her face was pale, framed by limp, dark hair that clung to her damp cheeks. Her tear-streaked eyes locked with yours, holding a story you couldn't comprehend but knew you were part of. 

"You know what he's done to you," her voice came soft at first. But then it hardened, "What he's put inside you. Do you feel it?" 

You tried to respond, but your throat felt closed, like the words themselves were afraid to leave your mouth.

Her hand reached out, pointing at the dark veins spreading beneath your skin. "That's Remnant," she said. "You know that much, but you don't understand it. The specifics are elusive, hazy, like a half-remembered dream." 

"It's all tied to agony." Her small frame, that of an innocent child, contrasted with the weight of her words. "What you cleaned off the floor… it wasn't just blood. It was Cassidy's suffering. Warm water loosened it, didn't it? But you didn't know what you were handling. Her agony was tied to Fredbear, locking pieces of her spirit inside the endoskeleton. Her torment was then distilled into Remnant, and now it flows in your veins." You stumbled back, nausea rising as you looked at your hands. The veins there still pulsed faintly, as though mocking your existence. "Evan's agony, too," Charlotte added, stepping closer now. "William's son. Your veins carry the torment of his own child."

Slowly, your arms wrapped around yourself, nails biting into your skin. It surged through your veins like liquid fire. A shudder ran through you, your body rejecting the weight of this revelation.

"You're his experiment. The first of this kind. He got the first sample of Remnant, their pain, and forced it into you because he wanted to see what would happen. But it won't stop there." she told you. "He would extract more agony, more pain, as long as it took. Not Remnant, not yet... but agony would continue to fuel his experiments. He could only harvest more pure Remnant by melting down the animatronics, for they were vessels, their endoskeletons possessed by our souls. William knows he can't do that yet, couldn't destroy them while they still performed on stage. But he would find a way soon enough."

You steadied your breath and forced yourself to speak. "Charlie, I need to understand. Why are you telling me this now? Why not sooner?"

"You think you have time," she said, her voice rising in anger. "You think you can delay, question, avoid the truth! But you're wrong! You chose to turn a blind eye. You're just as bad as he is."

"I'm not like him, Charlie," you managed to say, your words barely audible. "I'm just trying to survive. I'm doing what I have to do."

"Don't!" she snapped, "You think that you're innocent because you hesitated instead of plunging the knife yourself? You're a coward. And a coward is just as guilty as the executioner. You're lying to yourself if you think that makes you any less monstrous than he is."

"I'm not like him!" you shouted. "You don't understand. Please, Charlie. Tell me how to make this right. Tell me how to help. I—I'll do anything. Just tell me how to free you. Free all of you. I'm trying to fix it."

"Fix it? FIX IT?! YOU THINK YOU CAN FIX THIS—" Her voice pitched higher, splintering into static. "You let us rot. You let him win. There's no fixing this, Y/N. We're already gone... because of you."

A gaping vortex opened where the floor had been, and you fell into it. It was slick with blood, the coppery tang invading your nostrils with every shaky breath.

"No!" you cried, staggering back as her form began to fracture. 

Blood-stained hands shot out from the darkness, clawing at you.

"Save them! !..SAVE US!!!!... .!... #@!!!!...SAVE them!" Her voice fragmented into nonsensical bursts of static. 

The children's screams grew louder, more pained. You tried to cover your ears, to block out the horrifying sounds, but they seemed to vibrate through your very being. You were surrounded by shadows, faces twisted in agony.

Your body was no longer your own. Your skin was crawling as if alive with something foreign. You looked down to see veins of silver streaking under your skin, pulsating visibly with a glow. You clawed at your arms, desperate to rip them from your flesh, but the harder you scratched, the more your body seemed to disintegrate.

The moment a hand clamped around your neck, you gasped, struggling, but the strength was overwhelming, and it lifted you effortlessly out of the blood-slick vortex. Your feet dangled, the bloodied floor below shrinking as the figure holding you seemed even larger. Your gaze locked onto the figure that held you aloft. It was SpringBonnie, and something about it was wrong. Its movements were too fluid. The large paw-like hand gripped your throat, and behind the lifeless green eyes, you could feel something watching you. 

The yellow rabbit's head tilted to one side, "Well, look who fell into my little trap!" the voice said. "Aren't you just the most pitiful little thing? Poor, poor bunny boy. Did you think you could run from me?"

Before you could respond, SpringBonnie hurled you across the void like you weighed nothing. Pain ran along your spine as you slammed into an invisible wall. A helpless moan escaped your lips.

You looked up and froze with fear. SpringBonnie held a knife. 

"All curled up and pathetic." the voice from the suit said, saccharine and mocking. SpringBonnie took a step closer, the joints of its suit groaning faintly. The knife twirled in its paw, impossibly dexterous for such a bulky hand. "This is not just a game for me. It's a performance. And you're the star of the show." 

Suddenly, the knife plunged into your stomach. 

The cold steel slid through muscle. Your mouth fell open, a scream crawling its way up your throat, but only a choked gurgle escaped as blood filled your mouth. The knife then withdrew with a sucking sound, blood surging from the wound in a flood that painted your torso and the floor below. "Oh, what a mess..." the voice inside the suit said, sounding almost delighted. "Look at that, your insides trying to find their way out! How exciting."

Another stab. And another. The blade scraped against bone at one point, sending a shockwave of pain that forced your spine to arch involuntarily.

"I don't do this for the thrill. I'm not some deranged lunatic out for kicks. No, I kill for results. I know very well what I am. But with you," The knife sank into your side, twisting as it met resistance. "I didn't expect this feeling. This... euphoria. Watching you fall apart is truly exhilarating."

SpringBonnie's paw suddenly thrust deep into your stomach. When the animatronic's fingers finally found purchase, it yanked— hard. You didn't have time to even react before a looping cord of red intestines followed. They pulsed faintly, as if still alive, as if they still believed they belonged inside you. The wet slap of your organs hitting the floor mixed with your strangled cries.

You wanted to scream, to vomit, to die. You couldn't stop your dry heaving.

The pain was unbearable, and just as you were about to be consumed entirely, you woke up screaming. 

Your body was shaking uncontrollably as you struggled to make sense of the horrifying images that still lingered in your mind. As you cried, you felt William stir beside you, his sleep interrupted by the sound of your distress. You flinched away from him as if he was a monster about to attack. You couldn't bring yourself to look him in the eye either, too overwhelmed by your own emotions to even speak.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he whispered, "Another bad dream, is it?" he grumbled, his voice laced with irritation and rough with sleep. "Calm down. You're making a scene."

You tried to speak, to explain, but the words caught in your throat, choked by your tears. William was angry, frustrated by your crying. He reached out, grabbing your arm firmly, his intention clear– he wanted you to stay put, to calm down.

You struggled to compose yourself, but with great effort, you managed to choke out a single word. "Charlie..."

"Charlie?" William repeated, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"Charlie... Henry's daughter," you whispered, barely able to hold back another sob.

"... What about her?"

"It wasn't just a dream," you managed to add, your voice shaky but determined. "I... I saw them, William. The missing children."

William was surprised. It was not that he was surprised by your dreams of the children, but rather by the fact that you were opening up to him about it, finally. He was used to your silence. "What do you mean you saw them?"

"I saw them. More than once." you said. "The ones who disappeared. They were... they were screaming, reaching out to me."

"You're torturing yourself over something that happened months ago." he told you. 

"You don't understand." You looked at him, your eyes burning with desperation. "I feel them, William. Their pain. Their anger. It's like they're still there, trapped, crying out for help."

He sighed again, this time heavier, as if weighed down by guilt.

"You know... I feel it too," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Every time I step into the restaurant, it's as if their little eyes are on me, watching, accusing..." He trailed off, shaking his head as though trying to dispel the thought. "I've tried to make peace with it, but it's not enough. You're certain, then? Not just your imagination playing its little tricks?"

This confirmed what you had suspected all along— that the spirits of the missing children still lingered in the pizzeria, seeking revenge and justice. But he was pretending to be concerned for them. You knew he was lying, just like he always did. But why? It was all too clear now. There was no point in denying it, so why did he keep up with this mask?

"Why are you lying, William?" you asked. "Why do you keep pretending like you're not responsible for what happened to those children?" 

"I don't know what ridiculous fantasy you've conjured up in that head of yours," he said. "but I am telling you, and you will listen- you're wrong. Completely, entirely wrong. I had nothing to do with those children's deaths. I'm not a murderer."

"Not a murderer?" you asked, your voice laced with disbelief. "You killed Clara. I saw the man you really are that day." Your hands trembled as you grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer, your breath hot and uneven against his face. "You showed me the monster inside you, and now you're still standing there, feeding me your lies. Why do you keep lying to me?"

"Fine. You want the truth?" William's voice cut through you. You remained silent, letting him continue with talking. "I did it. I killed them all.  Every last one of them. I watched the light drain from their eyes. I heard their final breaths. This is who I am and what I've done. So... What are you going to do about it? Are you going to turn me in? Call the police?"

You felt the blood drain from your face as the reality of his words set in. He was not denying it anymore. He was not pretending to be something he was not. He was owning up to his sins, unapologetically.

William's gaze remained fixed on you, waiting for a response, a reaction. But you couldn't find the words. But finally, you managed to choke out a single word. "Why?" It was a simple question, but it carried the weight of your disbelief, your confusion. "How could you... how could you do something like that? Those were children, William. Innocent, defenseless children. They didn't deserve any of that."

"It's who I am." he said simply, as if that was explanation enough. "And what are you going to do about it?" he repeated his question.

...

"I need some fresh air." you said, throwing back the blankets and moving to slide off the bed. Before your feet could touch the floor, William's hand shot out, his fingers circling your wrist with deceptive calmness. You stopped, turning your head slightly to look at him. You hated how easily he could reduce you to this breathless, paralyzed thing. 

"You're not going anywhere until you answer me." 

You looked down at where his fingers curled around your skin. It burned, not from pain, but from the knowledge that you let him hold you in ways far worse than this.

"I can't do this right now."

"Yes, you can," he snapped. "Stop pretending this is the first time you've looked me in the eye and heard the truth. You've always known what I am. I saw it in the way you looked at me after."

After... soaked with implications.

"I just... need a second to think." 

"Think about what, exactly? You already know the truth. So, what's left to think about?" 

You yanked your wrist harder this time, and he let go, but only because he chose to, not because you forced him to. You rubbed your wrist absentmindedly as you put some much-needed space between you.

"This is not a conversation, it's an interrogation. And I don't owe you answers right now." you told him. 

"You're utterly mistaken if you think I care what you believe you 'owe' me. This conversation is not over until I decide it is." he corrected you. "You're not some equal to me I owe patience or indulgence. You're an underling. Do you think anyone else would put up with your weaknesses, your foolish little contradictions? No. And yet you presume to act like you have the upper hand, as if you have the right to question me." He paused only to breathe, "You will answer me. Now."

You exhaled shakily, your shoulders sagging as the fight drained out of you.

"I don't know what you want me to say." you whispered. "You already know what I think. The truth is..." you struggled to get the words out, but you forged yourself to speak. "It wasn't just the sex I wanted from you. It was more than that. It wasn't even the danger. It was the way you looked at me, like you saw everything I hated about myself. You didn't try to fix me, didn't tell me to be better. You made me feel seen, and it made me feel like shit because the only person who ever accepted me for who I am is a man so much sicker than I'll ever be."

His eyes never left yours. You hated how you still searched them for some hint of humanity, some sign that he might feel even an ounce of the pain you carried. But all you found was that empty look.

"I've met men who were kind, men who would've treated me like I was worth something, but I pushed them all away because I couldn't stand the idea of someone good loving me. It was unbearable. It burned like acid in my chest. So instead, I wanted you. The man who's rewritten my very biology, carved your sickness into my bones, rewired every neuron in my brain to crave you, even when it destroys me. You built the bars, and every time you touch me, you lock the door. You've branded me, over and over, with the blood on your hands."

And now I just know that I don't want to be free anymore.

There was nothing left to say, nothing that wouldn't feed his narrative.

"You still haven't answered my question." he said, "What are you going to do now that you know the truth?"

You licked your lips, trying to calm yourself. "Nothing."

His brow arched slightly, waiting for you to elaborate.

"Because I can't do anything." you continued, "You'll keep doing what you're doing, and I'll stay here, right where I've always been."

In my place.

I'm the dirt under your shoes. 

You had always a thing, a pet to him. Not a partner. Not a lover. Just something to be used and ruined. 

He replied, "The prison I've made for you is far more comfortable than the freedom you're too afraid to take."

"I trapped myself willingly. Locked the door and threw away the key." you admitted, the words feeling both freeing and final. 

You had never been anything but a fool.

Choosing freedom meant the unknown. It meant standing on your own. Even if your familiarity was pain, even if it destroyed you... it was yours.

"Because you know you'll never find anyone who understands you like I do." 

He released you without another word, his body shifting back into the comfort of the mattress, his back turned toward you.

His calmness, his apathy, was maddening. He could say something so damning and then slip so easily into sleep. 

You settled back into bed, your body heavy.

Sleep came again soon enough, pulling you into its grip, sparing you from the mess of emotions which settled in your insides.

You'll never touch freedom ever again.

Michael hadn't moved in hours, except to breathe. 

He thought about his mother. He could still hear her voice sometimes, soft and kind, asking him about his day or reminding him to eat before school. But she was gone, taken from him by the man who shared his blood. The only person who cared for him was fucking gone. 

Michael was a stray, a leftover. Someone who wasn't even worth saving. 

The teachers either pitied him or ignored him entirely. The other kids avoided him like a bad smell, or worse, they mocked him until he could barely hold back the tears. He thought about all the times he looked in the mirror and wished he could smash it, destroy the reflection of the face staring back at him. The face staring back at him wasn't his... it was his father's. His hand shook as he lifted the blade to his wrist. He stared at the skin there, at the veins beneath it. Just one cut, and it would all be over. The knife trembled in his hand, and tears began to fall down his cheeks. 

If he was gone, you would blame yourself. He knew you would. You would think you had not done enough, that you hadn't seen the signs. But you had done more for him than anyone ever had.

He set the knife down on the nightstand, a sob escaping his throat. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to block out the overwhelming emotions crashing over him.

He couldn't do it. 

Not when you were still here and still willing to see something in him. 

The next morning, you felt different, but not in the way you'd expected. There was no fear, no panic, none of the terror rot that should've swallowed you whole. Instead, there was... nothing. Just an emptiness where your emotions should've been. William's confession had crushed something inside you, leaving you numb as hell. So, you did the only thing that made sense: you went through the motions. Going back into routine, talking to William like the night before hadn't broken your entire reality. It was easier to pretend everything was fine, that nothing had changed. Almost laughable, really, how normal it all seemed. Shouldn't you be afraid? Furious? Something? But no, just that suffocating emptiness, settling in your flesh like it had always been there.

The abuse at William's hands only seemed to intensify with time, though was one small mercy- at least the injection site on your arm no longer hurt as much. It was strange how easily your body adapted, given how excruciating the process was when it happened.

These past few days you've been making a conscious effort to connect with Michael more frequently. Between the demands of work and the much-needed breaks, you were seeking to establish a balanced routine that allowed you to carve out time for meaningful conversations with him. It had become important to you to find those moments throughout your day where you can truly engage with him, ensuring that amidst your busy schedule, you were still able to continue the connection you shared. 

You found solace in your interactions with Michael. Even if you were his father's employee, your friendship with Michael deepened. Living at the Afton house meant you saw his struggles firsthand, and you couldn't stand by and do nothing. You listened as he confided his fears, his insecurities, and his pain. You held him close when his nightmares came and whispered words of comfort when he was too scared to fall asleep. When his voice cracked, you held him. When his tears came, you wiped them away. In your arms, you hoped he felt even a fraction of the safety and care he so clearly lacked. You didn't know if it was enough to heal him, but you hoped it did.

Michael hated school assignments. He knew he wasn't dumb, but lately, it felt like the effort to do anything was too much. And now here you were, patient and willing, even as you carefully pushed aside a half-empty bag of chips so it wouldn't stain the papers. 

"Mike, we need to clean up in here," you said suddenly, snapping him out of his thoughts. He blinked at you, startled, then followed your gaze around the room, his stomach sinking as he took in the mess through your eyes. Clothes were strewn everywhere, dirty dishes littering the floor. "This isn't a healthy environment to live in." 

He lowered his head. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I just don't have the energy to do anything anymore." 

You sighed, and he braced himself for judgment, but it never came. "It's okay, we'll do it together. One step at a time." Standing, up, you added, "But first, let's get you some clean clothes." 

Michael barely had time to protest before you were tugging your own shirt over your head and holding it out to him. For a moment, all he could do was stare, his eyes darting between your bare chest and the shirt in your hand. His eyes widened and he felt his face heat up.

"Here, wear this for now," you said, your voice calm, no sign of embarrassment.

His mouth was dry. He swallowed hard and nodded, reaching out to take the shirt, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. He quickly looked away, trying to compose himself as he pulled the shirt over his head. Your shirt pressed against him, warm and close, like the comforting weight of your arms around him.

"I'll put your dirty clothes in the washing machine real quick-" you added, already gathering up his discarded hoodie, shirt and sweatpants from the floor. "You just relax for a bit, Michael."

He watched you leave the room, your presence slipping away. He wanted to call out to you, ask you to stay, but he didn't speak up.

His thoughts wandered back to the time you weren't around, how much easier things felt with you with him. You were always supportive, always there when he needed someone. He was grateful his father had you, sometimes... because it meant Michael didn't have to face him alone as often.

Now, sitting on his bed, he absently adjusted the shirt he was wearing- your shirt. Without thinking, he lifted the fabric to his face, pressing it against his nose. It still smelled like you, a mixture of your cologne and just... yeah, you. It was a big reminder of all the times you hugged him, comforted him, been there for him when no one else was.

And in that moment, Michael realized something he had been trying to ignore for far too long.

He was in love with you.

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, knocking the breath out of his lungs as he struggled to come to terms with his newfound emotions. But as quickly as the nice feelings came, it was overshadowed by a wave of fear. He knew that you could never love him back, not in the way he wanted. After all, you were an adult and he was still a kid in high school. You probably saw him as nothing more than a friend, a younger brother, or even perhaps a son. And what would you even think of him if you found out? You'd probably be disgusted, horrified by the feelings he had harbored in secret. You would never look at him the same way again.

He also dreaded the thought of his father discovering his true feelings. What if his father found out about his feelings for you? What if his dad discovered that Michael was... gay? The thought made his blood run cold. His father's hatred for anyone who didn't fit his idea of "normal" was no secret. He heard the way his father spat the word fag, the way his lip curled in contempt at the mere mention of anything outside his father's view of the world. If his father found out that his own son was queer... Michael couldn't even begin to imagine what his father would do.

Lost in thought, Michael barely noticed when you returned from the laundry room. "Hey, I'm back," you said. "Let's get this room cleaned up, shall we?"

Michael nodded silently, his heart still pounding in his chest as he tried to push aside his feelings.

It had taken some effort, but it looked much better now. The room was finally clean. You leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly as you took in the sight- clothes put away, dishes gone, floor visible again. You turned toward Michael, expecting him to be relieved or at least a little satisfied, but he was just staring at you.

"You good?" you asked, tilting your head. 

Michael blinked quickly, as if snapping out of a trance. "Yeah. Thanks for helping." His voice was quiet, his fingers fiddling with the hem of the shirt you had given him. His shoulders were tense and his ears were flushed red. 

You studied him for a second. He was acting nervous, shy almost, and Michael wasn't usually like this around you. He was comfortable enough to insult you on a daily basis, yet right now, he couldn't even look you in the eye.

"You should keep it this way," you told him. "A clean space helps. Trust me."

He nodded, but his grip on the fabric tightened. You didn't think much of it, too distracted by the exhaustion settling into your muscles. It had been a long day... work, dealing with William, now cleaning up after Michael. You rubbed the back of your neck. "Are you hungry? I could heat something up."

Michael hesitated. "No, I'm fine. You should go rest or something."

His reaction was a little strange, but you shrugged it off. "Alright. If you change your mind, let me know."

You left him sitting on the bed, the place feeling strangely quiet as you stepped out. Something about the way Michael had looked at you lingered in your mind, but you brushed it aside. You had other things to deal with. Downstairs, the sink was already filled with dirty dishes, remnants of whatever Michael had eaten earlier. You turned the faucet on, letting the water run warm before plunging your hands under the stream. Your body seized up. The memory came back. 

Your vision had gone dark. And then, nothing. A silence so deep it felt like peace.

Until you woke up.

It wasn't the first time he experimented with death, but it was the first time he did it to you. 

You shut the faucet off.

A quiet throat-clearing made your shoulders tense.

"Something on your mind, sweetheart?" 

You forced yourself to turn, meeting William's gaze. He stood near the doorway, leaning against the frame, his eyes taking you in.

You exhaled, shaking off the last remains of your panic. "Just washing the dishes."

William hummed, his gaze dipping lower. "Without a shirt?"

You blinked. Right. You had given it to his son. "I gave it to Michael," you said simply, drying your hands with a dish towel. "His were all dirty, so I lent him mine while I did the laundry."

William's expression darkened, his eyes narrowing as his forehead creased. It wasn't anger, at least not yet. It was something more insidious. "I see. How generous of you." he sighed. "Tell me, when you're holding him... when you're whispering all those sweet little reassurances, do you ever wish it was me instead?"

Your eyes widened slightly. William had a way of twisting things, of getting inside your head. He liked knowing where your boundaries were just so he could push them, test them.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your fingers against your temples before lowering your hand with a frustrated shake of your head. "You're acting like a jealous boyfriend." 

"And you are acting like a brat. You get so riled up when I bring him up. I wonder why. You can be honest, I won't be mad."

A lie. A clear unmistakable lie.

"Because you always make it weird. You get this look on your face like you want to dissect me just because I care about him. You act like I have some kind of hidden motive." you told him. 

"Hm. Is it weird that my own son parades around in your clothes? That you sit on his bed, hold him like you're his mother?" he shot back. 

You threw the dish towel onto the counter with a wet slap, your breath coming short as your fingers twitched with the urge to slam something, break something, just to drown out the rising frustration. "Are you fucking serious?"

"Serious as a heart attack." he said. "You have got a mouth on you tonight. Maybe you should put it to better use."

"You really think I that I exist to warm your cock?" you asked.

"Now, did I say that?" 

"You didn’t have to." You folded your arms, spine straight, eyes locked onto his. "I work my ass off for you, I handle shit nobody else would dare, and the second I draw a line, you act like I'm some whore that only exists to suck you off."

"Oh, but you love it." He took a step forward, forcing you back against the counter, his body close but not touching. "The way your pretty little throat works for me. The way you take it all the way down, choking so sweetly. Maybe you're feeling needy. Is that it? Been too long since I had myself down your throat?" 

Your face burned hot with fear and arousal. Both clashing inside you in a way you hated. 

The heat in his voice then suddenly dropped. "Go to the workshop. Finish your tasks for tonight." he said, his tone all business suddenly, like this moment hadn't just happened. Like he hadn't just cornered you against the counter. 

William never liked when you were idle. If you weren't working, you were thinking, and if you were thinking, you were kinda dangerous. He liked keeping you occupied, keeping you tired, keeping you compliant. He liked making you feel like your time wasn't yours.

You could feel his words like a hand around your throat, forcing you into silence. 

You grit your teeth, biting back something you'd regret. It wouldn't matter, anyway. Arguing with him was like screaming into the wind- useless, exhausting. So you didn't say another word. You just turned, your heart still hammering.

This will only continue.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this chapter. I truly appreciate your support and interest, it means the world to me. 

Now, I know it seems weird for me to make a note here, but I wanted to take a moment to share my art. Art has always been a deeply personal and important part of my life, and while it brings me so joy sometimes, I've also struggled with the fear of putting it out. There's always been this lingering worry- what if someone from this website somehow finds my personal art accounts? But after a lot of thought, I realized that fear shouldn't keep me from expressing myself... So, I made the decision to push past my worries and take this step. It's a little scary, but at the same time, it's kinda freeing.

— That being said, I kindly ask that you respect my work. Please do not share my art anywhere without my permission :)

Here y'all go!

1. All my designs of the Afton family (kinda outdated since these drawings are months old, but they're still the same in my mind):

2. Drawing inspired by one of William's lines in my old version of this story:

3. Inspired by William Afton's and Henry Emily's canon designs in ITP:

4. A cute Michael drawing:

5. Clara because she's beautiful:

6. First take on a security guard outfit design

I hope you enjoy my art! ^^ Oh, and just a little side note, I really hope you guys don't think my version of William is an ugly rat (even though that’s exactly what I call him, lol). He's meant to look like any other average man... just, you know, extremely unhealthy. The poor guy desperately needs some blood to bring color back to that gray skin of his.

+ A fun fact: William's appearance was inspired by Hugh Jackman, especially how he looked in Bad Education. So if you ever think he seems familiar in my design, now you know why!

Chapter Text

Soft background music played, barely audible over the clinking of glasses and random spurts of laughing coming from all throughout the bar.

William, around thirty at the time and carrying a slight paunch, sat at a small table with his friend Henry. They shared stories of their childhood, laughing between sips of their drinks, and excitedly discussed plans for the diner they dreamed of opening. Leaning back in his chair, William savored the slow burn of alcohol in his throat — until his gaze caught on a woman going through the crowd. Her whole appearance screamed confidence. She was stunning, jaw-droppingly beautiful, with blowout curls of blonde hair that framed her face perfectly. Her green eyes sparkled in the lighting, her lips painted a seductive red lipstick. Her dress clung to her curves in a way that suggested she was very aware of her effect on men.

When she spotted William and Henry, her lips curled into a little smile, and her gaze was drawn to William. She sauntered towards their table. William was aggravated. "Excuse me, gentlemen," the woman said, her voice melodious and smooth. "Mind if I join you?" 

William could only assume she was a singer or perhaps a dancer, given the graceful way she moved. Ballet, he thought absently, probably ballet.

Henry smiled and gestured to the empty chair next to William. "Of course, miss. Please, sit down."

Clara did so with a fluid motion, giving William a smile that was both inviting and mysterious. Her perfume was intoxicating, and she leaned in just enough to invade his personal space without being overt.

The last thing William wanted was to entertain a woman. But... maybe this was exactly what he needed. An opportunity to prove something, to keep up appearances, to reinforce the image of the man he was supposed to be. A man who wanted women. 

Henry raised his glass in greeting, but it was William who held her attention. It didn't take Henry long to notice that, and he grinned when he did. "Looks like you've got an admirer, Bill." Observing the "chemistry," he chose to distance himself. "I'll leave you two to get acquainted." 

William forced a smile, trying to mask his annoyance.

He didn't like being interrupted, least of all by some woman who thought batting her eyelashes earned her a place in the conversation. Women always inserted themselves where they weren't needed.

She crossed one leg over the other, the slit in her dress parting just enough. She rested an elbow on the table, propping her chin on her palm as she smiled at William. "I was out with some friends," she said, "but when I saw you, I just couldn't resist coming over. You carry yourself differently than the other men here. You look like you actually think before you speak. You have an... interesting presence." 

"Why, thank you," William replied, his voice smooth. "And what might your name be, beautiful?"

"Clara," she said, extending her hand. "Clara Schmidt. And you are?"

"William Afton," he answered, taking her hand and placing a light kiss on it. "A pleasure to meet you."

Clara drew in closer as her cheeks began to flush. "So, what brings you here tonight, handsome?"

"Just a night out with a good friend." he said. "We were just discussing our plans. Tell me, what do you do?"

"Oh, I'm a dancer," she said, confirming his guess. "Ballet."

"That explains the elegance," William complimented. "You move like you own the floor."

The conversation went on. William tried to concentrate on Clara's comments, but his thoughts went in all places. He felt the pressure of societal norms weighing down on him, forcing him to smile and interact.

"I believe in love at first sight," Clara suddenly said, her voice tinged with something hopeful. "Do you, William?"

"I suppose it can happen." he replied, his tone noncommittal. "It often takes time to truly understand."

"Ah, but sometimes, the heart truly knows..." Clara replied, her voice a tone of seduction.

Eventually, William excused himself to Henry, claiming Clara needed a ride home, and Henry gave him an encouraging wink. As if it was his decision, as if she wasn't the one who had wrapped herself around his evening. He wasn't interested in this woman, but it was easier to go along with it. If he turned her down outright, Henry might ask questions, and William wasn't in the business of giving answers. 

The drive was quiet. Clara talked about stories of her performances, the ache in her feet after long hours on stage, her dreams of opening her own studio. William nodded in the right places, murmured acknowledgments when required, but his mind was elsewhere.

The car rumbled to a stop close to Clara's apartment. 

"Wait," she said softly, placing a hand on his arm before he could make an excuse to get her out of the car. She turned in her seat, eyes searching his face, her lips curving into something both teasing and expectant. "I just... I have this feeling about you, William."

"And what feeling is that?" he asked, now genuinely curious. 

Clara smiled, her red lips parting just slightly. "That you'd be a good kisser."

She didn't wait for permission. Her fingers curled around his tie, pulling him in as her lips pressed against his. William stilled, his mind flashing hot with irritation. He wanted to shove her away, but he didn't. He forced himself to respond, let his lips part just enough to return the motion. Her fingers traced along his jaw.

She moved first, shifting toward the back seat. "Come here." 

William hesitated, but only for a second. Then, he followed.

The cramped space forced them close, their bodies awkwardly entwined. She straddled him, pressing closer, her lips dragging over his throat as she whispered some nonsense about how good he smelled. He ignored it, hands settling on her hips, guiding her with the ease of someone well-versed in this routine. Soft but insistent lips met William's again. Bile rise to William's throat, but he kissed her back, trying to detach his mind from his actions. 

Clara then leaned back against the car door, adjusting herself, her breath still uneven from the hurried exchange. The motion shifted her dress higher along her thighs. She didn't bother fixing it. Instead, her hands buried in his hair, guiding him lower, urging him to worship her like she was something divine, encouraging him to please her. He felt sick at the thought of it, but he knew he had to focus in order to play the role successfully and convincingly. And so he did. He had been with a few other women in the past, so he was somewhat of an expert, but he hated this. She seemed to enjoy it, which at least made it easier to get through.

"Gosh, Will..." Clara whimpered. 

He was so focused on getting this over with as soon as possible that he hardly heard her. Eventually, Clara grabbed his hair and pulled his head away, her breath heavy. She turned over, positioning herself in a way that spared him from making eye contact. For that, William was grateful and relieved— this way, he didn't have to look at her. He didn't want to see her face, didn't want to be reminded of what he was doing.  

How much he wanted this to be over was all he could think about. It took him longer than he expected to finish, but before he reached the end, he realized he was already too far inside to pull out. A moment of panic gripped him. Clara, unaware of William's mix of anger and shock, turned to kiss him, her lips soft against his. He then felt the moment she noticed something was off, the hesitation in the way she brushed her fingers over his cheek, the slight furrow of her brows. 

"...William?" Her voice was soft, uncertain.

He forced his expression into something softer, something apologetic. "Clara… I—" He feigned hesitation, lowering his gaze like a man struck by a moment of guilt. "I wasn't thinking," he murmured, voice dipping into a contrite tone. "I'm sorry."

"I mean… I guess I shouldn't be surprised," she whispered, voice going into something playful. "The way you were touching me, I could just tell—" 

"Clara." He cupped her face, keeping her focused. "You're not upset?" 

Her expression softened. "Upset?" She blinked, and then, almost shyly, she bit her lip. "Well, I… I guess I was worried for a second. I mean, it's not like…" She hesitated, searching his face. "I can't just get rid of it." She must have felt him tense because she rushed to reassure him. Her hands curled around his, squeezing. "Oh, but that's not what I want, anyway!" Her voice pitched higher, excitement lacing her voice. "William… maybe this is a sign." 

"A sign?" he replied evenly, his face unreadable.

Clara beamed. "Yes! Can you imagine it? A little one running around, our little one." She let out a breathless laugh. "Oh, Will, I can see it now. You'd be such a wonderful father." 

Clara was a woman of her time, raised on ideas of romance, of good husbands and stable homes. If she was already dreaming of a wedding, of a future with a wife role, it meant one thing: she would expect him to play along.

William's lips twitched upward in what he knew had to look like the warmest, most sincere smile. Excitement. Eagerness. The kind of elation a man was supposed to feel when his woman told him she was carrying his child. "Clara… you really think so?" He let out a breath, shaking his head as though overwhelmed by the thought. "A little one, ours." His hand found hers, squeezing gently. "I never really thought about it before, but now that you say it… maybe you're right."

Maybe it's meant to be.

"Just imagine it. A perfect little boy or girl, someone who looks just like us." She let out a dreamy sigh. "If it's a boy... he would have my curls, maybe. Oh, and my eyelashes. Thick, long ones. But he'd have your face, the one I adore." 

William hummed, running his thumb along the ridge of her knuckles. "Mm. And if it's a girl?"

"Oh, she'd be perfect. She'd have my hair, of course. And my eyes. But your personality. She'd be a daddy's girl, through and through."

"If we had a third, I wonder…" He let the thought trail off, allowing Clara to grasp it, to take it into her own hands and breathe life into it. 

"Oh, I just know it'd be a boy. And he'd look just like you," she said. "But he'd have my heart, my kindness. He'd be sensitive, gentle. He’d be different from the first... Our first would be bold, strong-willed. This one… he'd be softer. He'd need protecting."

"You're beautiful when you talk about the future you dream of," he whispered. "It makes me want to give you everything."

Clara's cheeks colored. "You already have," she murmured, pressing her forehead to his. "You've given me a family already. A life I adore."

William kissed her. Slow, sweet, just like a man who had fallen head over heels.

A family.

That would keep up appearances.

And when the time came, when she became more of a liability than an asset— well.

He had always been good at taking care of problems.

•••

Time passed, agonizingly slow. Clara's relatives and friends reacted with the expected happiness upon learning of her pregnancy. William's hate for Clara rose as her belly did. He watched her joy, knowing he could never reciprocate her feelings. He distanced himself emotionally, burying himself deeper in his work. He resented Clara for inadvertently trapping him, forcing him into a life that suffocated his true desires. Clara wept when she held their son for the first time, pressing kisses to his tiny hands, whispering how much she loved him, how perfect he was.

William played his part, too. He leaned in, brushed a hand over the child's soft skin, whispered something about how beautiful he was. He let Clara believe what she wanted, that he was a devoted father, a man overwhelmed with love for his child.

After a long while of living a lie, their son was two years old. As Michael grew older, more responsibility began to take hold. The boy's laughter was bright and full of life. Sometimes, William caught himself listening. The laugh was unsettling. It was foreign. 

He had never been that kind of child. 

He had never had that innocence.

It didn't belong to him. 

William was also aware that he needed to make things official, so he was able to save enough money for a ring. Although this wasn't a happy occasion for William, it was a need. One day, under the shade of a tree, William knelt before Clara. The talking from nearby families faded into the background as he took her hand, the ring gleaming. 

"Clara," he began, his voice strained but composed, "we've been through a lot together."

Her eyes widened in surprise and anticipation.

"And through it all," he continued, forcing the words out, "I've come to realize how much you mean to me. Our son... he deserves the world, and I want to give him that alongside you. More than that, Clara, I want to be the man you deserve." 

She gasped softly, tears welling up in her eyes.

"I want to spend the rest of my life with you," he finished, sliding the ring onto her finger. "I love you. Will you marry me?"

I hate you. 

A cheer rose from the onlookers as Clara threw her arms around him, laughing through her tears. "Yes, William! Yes!" 

Several years flew by after William proposed to Clara. By 1973, despite his internal struggles, Henry and William finally opened their first diner which swiftly gained popularity. The success brought financial stability, but William's personal life remained strained. Over time, he had shed his excess weight, and scars from a springlock failure during a test with the SpringBonnie animatronic marred his body. It had been a while since that accident, which landed him in the hospital for several months. Though he had healed physically, the scars from the accident marked his body permanently. He felt a mix of confidence and insecurity. On one hand, surviving such an event gave him a certain look—people looked at him differently now, with awe. Yet, when he was alone and faced his reflection, he couldn't help but feel insecure about them. 

Clara's demeanor had shifted since the incident. She became even more attentive, showering him with affection that he often found suffocating and annoying. She fussed over him like he couldn't do anything for himself, treating him like a fragile being, which grated on William's nerves. William despised it all, the attention, the pity, just her. 

His watch read past two in the morning. Not that it mattered. He hardly slept these days.

He was thinking, deeply, darkly, about Henry. Even now, after all these years, that name made something form in his chest, a mix of contempt and envy. He gripped his pen so tight it nearly snapped between his fingers.

Henry Emily, his business partner, his friend. The good man. That perfect holier-than-thou son of a bitch. The one who went home at the end of every night and used to kiss his children's foreheads, tucked them into bed, and told them how much he adored them. Henry, who could love, who was capable of it, who had built something real. A wife who had adored him. A daughter and son he cherished.

William understood love, in theory. He understood devotion. He understood control. That was what separated them. Henry loved things he could not own. His children had their own thoughts, their own minds, and yet Henry still called it love.

William could not. 

Charlie, little Charlotte Emily, Henry's precious girl. She would never understand what it meant to be a father's disappointment, to be tolerated rather than loved. Henry looked at her with pride, and in return, she looked at him with nothing but trust.

Charlotte had been the first step, but not the last. Henry deserved to feel loss. He deserved to understand what it meant to be powerless.

The children he took were his true family. His true children obeyed him.

They followed his voice, even in death.

Unlike Michael, Elizabeth, Evan. Unlike everyone else who had ever dared to think they could leave him.

And Charlie had been his proof. The proof that Henry was weak. That love meant nothing. That all it took was one moment, one hand reaching through, for love to die just as easily as the girl herself.

Henry thought he could grieve. That he could mourn and that he could ever understand what true loss was.

William had known loss— He had been born into it, shaped by it. He had lost his childhood, lost any chance at softness, at warmth, at being something good. Henry would never understand that. And yet, Henry still walked around with that damn pitying look... like he felt sorry for William.

Work at Afton Robotics felt like a constant balancing act. Assistant manager in title, yet little more than a glorified errand boy in their eyes, automatically painted you as his favorite in their eyes. They resented the fact that you seemed to have skipped the usual grind, bypassing the years it took them to climb the ranks, and even if they didn't voice it, their eyes said enough. But you were proving yourself, taking on responsibilities. The resentment didn't bother you as much as you thought it would too. You were too busy dealing with your own shitty life. 

At Freddy's, your second workplace, things had started to go downhill. The decline continued. Fewer families showed up each day, the usual long crowds replaced by small groups who barely stayed longer than an hour, and the place was almost always empty during certain periods of the day. The company had earned a bad reputation, one that seemed impossible to shake off since the incident. Negative reviews piled up. The shine of Freddy's golden years began to fade. As the situation worsened, some employees had already made the decision to leave. The constant uncertainty was too much for them to handle and they couldn't see a future at Freddy's anymore. Despite the higher-ups efforts, nothing was improving. The establishment might be shut down soon, some had said. 

The paperwork was a headache.

The technicians had been busy cataloging for shipment to Freddy's. Not that it mattered much anymore; the restaurant's decline made it clear that these improvements might never see the inside of a dining hall. Your role kept you somewhat distanced from the nitty-gritty of the animatronics' assembly luckily. You reached for the next file, flipping it open to find a list of requisitions. You scanned the details, noting missing components flagged by the technicians. A quick call to the supplier would fix that, but it was one more task added to a never-ending list.

The absence of your key to William's personal office sat in your mind. Since that night when you dared to cross the line, William had taken it away in an almost mocking gesture, reminding you of the boundaries he had laid down. It felt like a leash. He had originally intended it to be just for emergencies as he explained to you. 

You stretched your fingers, letting the tension dissipate briefly before placing them firmly on the typewriter keys, working on the supply order. 

"Requisition Order – Supply Restock

To: Afton Robotics factory 

From: Y/N L/N, Assistant Manager

Date: October 29th, 1985

Subject: Request for Supplies to Fulfill Current Project Needs

Overview:

The following items are requested to maintain the ongoing development and maintenance of animatronics. Given the ongoing issues with supply delivery delays, please fulfill this quickly to prevent disruption.

Requested Items:

1. Synthetic Fur – 12 Rolls

2. Acrylic Paints (Blue, Red, Brown, Yellow) – 8 Units Each

3. Latex Foam Sheets – 10 Units (For exterior molding)

4. Mechanical Lubricant – 5 Gallons

Action Required:

Please process this request as a priority and confirm once the order is placed. If any items are unavailable, notify the undersigned immediately for substitutions.

Signed,

Y/N L/N"

It was your last task for now. You stood, grabbing the order and making your way to the main lobby. The walk was quiet save for the sound of voices from the few employees still lingering at this hour. Employees barely looked up as you slid the document into the outgoing mail tray. 

Your break was coming up... You needed coffee. Something to jolt you awake again. 

A few hours later, the clock ticked past the time you were supposed to meet William. You've done your best to stay busy. You stood and grabbed your jacket, heading for the exit. Your footsteps echoed through the empty hallway as you made your way outside to the parking lot.

It was an unusually quiet night. You approached William's car slowly, a stray breeze brushing against your cheek. As you opened the door, the rush of heat hit you. You slid into the seat, and the warmth felt comforting. William eased the car out of the parking lot. His body language was tense, even more so than usual. You stared at him from the passenger seat, trying to gauge where his mind was. 

"How's everything been going at work?" you asked casually.

"Protests," he muttered, almost to himself at first. "Parents have gotten too comfortable with the idea of throwing their opinions around. They don't believe the right person got arrested. They keep harping on the fact that the guy doesn't have a criminal record."

His voice dropped slightly deeper as he continued. "Henry spoke to me before he left Freddy's. He and I are still deciding on whether to close the place down for good. He suggested opening another location, something to take the heat off, maybe years down the line when all of this dies down, but I'm not so sure. There's a part of me that thinks it's better to shut it all down and avoid any more headaches, avoid another lawsuit. If it were up to me, we'd shut it down tomorrow, but Henry's still hung up. You know how he is."

You had learned that his lack of remorse was something you'd have to live with. You'd been living with the knowledge for a bit now, the admission that William had killed the kids. You were numb to it now, or maybe it was more that you had accepted it. There was no going back from that conversation, no unhearing his words. 

"So, what happens to everyone's jobs if Freddy's does shut down?” You ask. 

"Most of the employees will be offered severance, but that's about all we can do. Henry and I will ensure they get their payouts. Some of them may even transition into roles at Afton Robotics if they're qualified. As for the others, they'll need to find new jobs. Me and Henry will figure it out. We might move our operations into private contracts, development work for tech companies. The shutdown won't stop Afton Robotics from turning a profit— I don't rely on Freddy's for income."

"You'll be fine," William then said, more directly this time. "You've got a position at Afton Robotics. Henry and I will work to make sure it doesn't affect the high-ups."

You wanted to ask more, but William's tone has shifted, becoming more authoritative, more distant. He has closed off again, retreating into that place where he compartmentalized everything. It was not surprising, though. Afton was nothing if not pragmatic.

The car slowed slightly as he turned onto a side street, and you knew that you were almost at his home. The trees rushed past the window, blurred in your vision. William's house, with its isolation at the beginning of a forest, has always struck you as strange, even unsettling. No one else in the neighborhood dared place their home so far out. Soon enough, the car pulled into garden with a quiet crunch. You unbuckled your seatbelt and swung the door open, stepping out, the cold air immediately hitting you like a slap. You followed William up the path. The trees that surrounded the place whispered in the breeze, and even though you've been here countless times, the isolation still made you feel very uneasy and uncomfortable. It was as if the house itself didn't want anyone to know it existed.  

Michael's feelings for you grew stronger with each passing week. He found himself constantly thinking about you, yearning for your presence whenever you were absent. Michael had never said it out loud before. Never let the words form, never given them power. He had spent his whole life being told what a man should be, what a man should want. And yet, you were the only thing he wanted. This wasn't just some fleeting crush, wasn't the same as those awkward moments in high school when he caught himself staring too long at a classmate.

One late night, as he laid in bed, unable to sleep, Michael made a decision. 

He couldn't keep his feelings bottled up any longer; he had to tell you the truth. He believed that you would understand, that you would accept him for who he was. After all, you had shown him nothing but kindness, and he couldn't imagine you reacting any differently to his confession, even if this was him telling you that he was gay. He believed in your understanding and the strength of this friendship.

He quietly slipped out of bed and made his way downstairs. He was scared and nervous, yes, but he was also filled with determination. He assumed his father was asleep, and he hoped you were still awake, perhaps indulging in one of your late-night snacks, which would definitely make this more comfortable. But as he reached the bottom of the stairs, his footsteps faltered, and he froze in place, his breath catching in his throat.

He heard voices coming from the living room, something... hushed, and his curiosity got the better of him. He shouldn't have been able to hear anything- his father never left the television on, and you weren't the type to sit in the dark talking to yourself. Maybe you had fallen asleep with the TV on? He could joke about it, something easy, something light, a way to ease into the real reason he had come downstairs in the first place.

Peeking around the corner... he couldn't believe what he saw. There you were, with William, his abusive father. But it wasn't just the fact that you were together that caused Michael's heart to plummet; it was what you were doing.

Michael had never known true nausea until now. 

You were pressed up against his father, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. William had one hand buried in your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss. The other rested against the small of your back, keeping you pressed against him as his mouth moved over yours.

Michael had spent his whole life learning to read his father. Every microexpression, every pause between words, every shift of tone that meant the difference between getting ignored and getting hit. And what he was seeing now was something he couldn't process.

Michael's heart shattered into a million pieces as he watched the scene. He felt like he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight. It felt like a knife was plunged into his chest. You, the person he had trusted more than anyone else, the person he had confided in, the person he had fallen in love with... were in the arms of his father. The same father who had killed his mother, who had beaten him within an inch of his life, who had ruined his whole life. Who had definitely killed all those children too.

How could you do this to him?

A part of him wanted to storm into the room and tear you away from his father, to scream and shout and unleash his anger. But another part of him, a quieter voice buried beneath the anger, knew that violence was not the answer.

He couldn't bear to see you hurt anymore, no matter how much you had hurt him.

He must have made a noise, something strangled, because you suddenly jerked away from William, your eyes snapping toward the hallway. But Michael had already moved, disappearing before either of you could catch a glimpse.

Tears welled up in Michael's eyes as he stumbled back to his bedroom, his heart heavy as he collapsed onto his bed. He wanted to beat you into pieces until you were nothing but bloody, to make you feel the same pain and betrayal that he was feeling in that moment. He wanted to yell, to cry, to punch something until his knuckles bled.

Michael began to hit his pillow, his fists pounding against the soft fabric again and again. But for now, all he could do was cry. Cry for the betrayal of his trust, cry for the shattered remains of his heart, and cry for the loss of the one person he had thought he could always rely on.

He couldn't stop the tears from streaming down his face.

His father was a goddamn monster. And monsters didn't go around roaring and snarling all the time. No, they were sneaky. They wore smiles, whispered all the pretty lies you wanted to hear, and made you feel like maybe weren't that bad. And somehow in the most fucked up way possible William had played you just like he had everyone else.

Nobody truly loved him. Nobody cared about him. He was alone in the world, a broken and worthless soul destined to suffer for all eternity. 

He cried until his throat was raw, until his eyes were swollen shut, until he had no more tears left to shed. He curled up into a ball on his bed, his body trembling with exhaustion. He didn't know how much longer he could go on like this, didn't know if he even wanted to. He wondered if he would ever be able to trust anyone again, if he would ever be able to open his heart to another person, only to have it broken all over again.

All this time, he thought you were just some loyal employee, blindly following his father's orders to keep Michael safe, somehow. But instead, the truth was that you were sleeping with his father while he was crying in your arms. While he was pouring his heart out to you, you were busy screwing the man who you knew was a killer, an abuser, and even treated you badly too. 

He saw the way you looked at William, the way you acted around him. Every time you talked about him, your face was covered in shame. Now, it was clear why. 

You should have had the strength to stand up to him. To protect yourself when he abused you. You were a grown man. But instead, you decided to keep being with him. 

There was something something seriously  broken inside of you, he thought. 

November came quickly, the days shortened into early darkness. The damp air clung to everything. Everything seemed automatic and repetitive now.

The arrangement between you and William no longer involved money. That part had faded into irrelevance weeks ago. He paid you for your work, but never for spreading your legs. That part of you, he had simply taken. Had he stopped seeing you as something to buy, or had he started seeing you as something he already owned? Well, he didn't have to pay for something you were already giving him.

You bately saw Michael now. You noticed the way he lingered at school later and later, the way he barely spent time at home anymore, found excuses not to come home until long after William had gone to bed. You understood, yet you had put in so much effort to get him to open up to you again. Whether it was his own decision or simply the natural drift of things, you couldn't quite tell, but the distance between you remained. Every time you tried to approach him, he ignored you, responding with rude remarks or simply walking away. No longer did he seek out your company or confide in you as he once did. You tried to understand what had caused this sudden change in his behavior. Had you done something wrong? Had you hurt him in some way? You racked your brain, searching for answers, but came up empty-handed.

The veins on your left arm had faded over time, the once-prominent blackened silver now dulling to something more natural, something that almost blended into your skin. The grey tint was permanent though. William didn't check up on it as often anymore because you knew how to manage it now, knew what to look for, how to notice the subtle changes, but that didn't mean he had stopped entirely. Every so often, he would pull you aside and check you in the bathroom under those harsh overhead lights.

Managing both Afton Robotics and Freddy's continously felt like running a marathon while carrying bricks. It didn't matter that you had a title; it meant nothing when people still saw you as William's maid.

The protests at Freddy's hadn't died down still. You had to walk past the protesters every day, feeling the anger of their stares, directed at anyone even remotely associated with the place. You were close enough to William that they looked at you like you were complicit.

Before, with your co-workers, there had been annoyance over your rapid promotion. But now, it was suspicion. At first, you ignored it. Let them whisper, let them look. It wasn't like you had time to care considering you were going through much worse in your private life. But then you started catching bits and pieces of conversation when they thought you weren't listening. And no matter how much work you put in, no matter how many hours you stayed late making sure everything ran smoothly, it would never change the fact that you had a shortcut they didn't. 

The rumors then started. Of course, people talked, especially in places like this, where there wasn't much to do but gossip and speculate. It was the kind of shit people latched onto when their own lives were so unbearably dull that they had to stick their noses into someone else's. You could feel the uncomfortable silence sink into your very being when conversations cut off just as you stepped into the break room, how laughter would die in throats. It wasn't until a few of the braver ones, cocky little bastards who had been waiting for something like this, started dropping hints. The new favorite topic? You and William. Someone must have put the pieces together, why you always left with him, why he gave you orders directly instead of filtering them through anyone else. And from there, they ran wild with it.

William as he guided the wheel with a single hand, his knuckles pale against the leather. He spoke. "I fired him." just a simple statement of fact. "Michael had weeks to return to his duties, yet he chose to morose instead, to waste time wallowing in his own self-pity. A man who refuses to pull his own weight does not deserve a place under my employment, nor does he deserve my money. If he wants to be a failure, he will do so without a paycheck to coddle him. That's the end of it."

"Michael wasn't 'morose,'" you snapped. "He was recovering from the fact that you almost broke his ribs. The kid needed a break, not a boot to the ass because he didn't meet your standards."

"He had enough time to step back into his role, and he chose not to. This is the consequence of that choice."

You scoffed, "Oh, fuck you." 

Michael had been your friend. Still was, even if he wouldn't talk to you anymore. And now, because of William, he was jobless. Alone. Probably out there somewhere, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do next while his bastard of a father slept soundly at night, completely unbothered. Your hands shook as you fought to keep yourself from doing something stupid, like grabbing the wheel and crashing this fucking car just to wipe that look off his face.

You sighed, sinking further into the passenger seat, staring at the road stretching ahead.

He shifted the topic on purpose. "You'll write the official statement today at Afton Robotics, outlining the closure. Something palatable enough that the board won't breathe down my neck. Aside from that, a private notice will be issued to the employees, like details on severance, final paychecks, and reassignments to any other locations still running. Of course, most of them won't be lucky enough for that. Too many of those positions are already filled." His hand left the gear shift, reaching toward the glove compartment. He pulled out a thick folder and dropped it into your lap. "Everything you need is in there. I expect a draft by the end of the day."

William soon enough pulled into the parking lot at Afton Robotics. "Don't take too long." 

You stared straight ahead, gripping the folder in your lap a little tighter. It wasn't like you had planned to sit around twiddling your thumbs. You just nodded, pushed open the door, and stepped out. The lot was empty, most employees not scheduled to arrive for another hour or so. You took a breath and headed inside.

At your office, you set your things down and sank into the chair, flipping open the folder William had given you. It was incomplete, missing the final touch that would make it perfect enough for the company to distance itself from the ongoing controversy. That part fell to you. You pulled out a blank sheet, fed it into the typewriter and lined it up properly, then began to type.

"Official Closure Statement

────────────────────────

Date: November 10, 1985

To the Valued Customers and Families of Fazbear Entertainment,

Fazbear Entertainment Inc. will be permanently closing the doors of our Freddy Fazbear's Pizza location. It had been a staple of family entertainment since its inception. Our establishment has provided countless cherished memories for families over the years and it is with great regret that we announce the permanent closure of this location.

Recent events have led to difficulties in maintaining the standard of quality and safety that the company holds. We recognize the concerns raised by the public and value the trust that our customers place in us. In response to ongoing rumors and operational challenges, we believe that closing this location is in the best interest of both our patrons and our employees. 

We thank you for allowing Freddy Fazbear's Pizza to be a part of your lives. While this chapter comes to an end, the spirit of fun and imagination will always be at the heart of Fazbear Entertainment.

Sincerely,

Fazbear Entertainment Inc.

© 1985 Fazbear Entertainment. All Rights Reserved."

────────────────────────

You leaned back in the chair, rolling your stiff shoulders as you read the document over and over again. That was about as "palatable" and emotionless as you could make it. There was no mention of the disappearances and no acknowledgment of the public backlash. Just a neatly packaged response designed to smooth things over without actually addressing anything. William would skim it later, maybe tweak a word or two, but it was good enough.

You slid another blank sheet into the typewriter. You began to draft the second document, one that would be sent directly to Freddy Fazbear's Pizza employees.

"To: All Employees of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza

Subject: Permanent Closure and Employee Transition Plan

The last official working day for all employees will be November 20. Final paychecks will be distributed November 25 at the Freddy Fazbear's Pizza main office. Employees who do not pick up their checks in person will have them mailed to the address on file. 

Employee Reassignments

Some employees will be offered reassignment opportunities at an alternative location within Afton Robotics Inc., which will continue operations. The following positions are available for reassignment: 

— Corporate Management & Administrative Roles: Positions available.

— Technicians & Engineers: Positions available.

— Custodial Staff: Limited vacancies.

— Security Personnel: Daytime and Night Guards may apply for transfer to Afton Robotics pending a background check and security clearance review.

— Kitchen Staff: These roles will be terminated upon closure, with no reassignment opportunities.

Employees who do not receive an internal transfer offer are encouraged to seek alternative employment. Letters of recommendation may be requested from the corporate office.

All company property, including uniforms, keys, security badges and equipment, must be returned to the management office by November 21 between 9:00 AM–5:00 PM on weekdays. Failure to return company property may result in deductions from your final paycheck to cover the cost of the unreturned items. 

We acknowledge that this transition will be difficult, and we appreciate the dedication of every staff member.

Thank you for your service."

... 

You had spent the entire day buried in work. At the end of your shift, you left the building. There were only a handful of cars left at the lot, and among them, the familiar sight of William's, of course. You pulled open the door and slipped into the passenger seat. William barely glanced at you as he shifted into drive. 

A soft tsk broke the silence then, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw William extend a hand toward you, fingers curling in a beckoning motion.

"Let me see it." he said.

You hesitated for a moment before reaching into your bag, pulling out the documents. You passed them over, watching as he took them. You expected some kind of criticism, maybe a backhanded remark about how you had forgotten some small but crucial detail. But instead, he let out a pleased hum. "This is good... Cold in all the right places, yet sympathetic enough to be digestible. You really do know how to satisfy me."

Your breath hitched as you suddenly realized the double meaning behind that last sentence.

He spoke again after a moment. "Now this is important. I'll be in and out of town for meetings. Some visits. Henry wants to go over finances one last time before we close Freddy's.  I'll need you at Afton Robotics for some of it. Cover for me when I'm gone." 

"Yeah?" you said. "How long?" 

"Two, maybe three days. You'll have access to any paperwork that comes in for me. It'll be forwarded to your office instead of mine. You'll go through it and handle anything that doesn't require my direct approval. If I'm needed in person, tell them I'm unavailable." He paused, then added, "Don't make me regret trusting you with this."

You knew what that meant. If you fucked this up, he wouldn't yell and wouldn't threaten you. He'd just take something away, like your access or your position— control, what little you had left.

He had never outright given you full control before.

"You'll be staying at my house while I'm gone because Michael needs supervision. If necessary, you'll keep him from running off again. You will have access to anything you need while you're there," he continued, unbothered by your lack of response. "Groceries and household expenses. There's cash in the drawer if you need it. I do expect you to make sure he doesn't do anything careless. Some of his classmates have been expelled recently for drug possession... and I have every reason to believe he's following their example. You'll report to me if anything happens."

You hadn't even known Michael was doing drugs, but it made sense. He was an angsty teenager stuck with a father who barely looked at him unless it was to issue commands.

"Henry's already drowning in enough legal trouble, so I don't need my son adding more to it by getting caught. The last thing I need is for some school counselor or cop sniffing around because Michael's too goddamn stupid to keep his head down. So, you'll make sure he's home when he should be. Clara let him get away with murder, and now he thinks he can do whatever the hell he wants."

You blinked at him, wondering if he just finished a speech or accidentally performed an audiobook in real-time, half expecting end credits to start rolling. 

"You're asking me to babysit a sixteen-year-old."

William arched a brow. "Yes. Is that going to be a problem? He respects you more than he respects me."

"That's a pretty low bar." You forced yourself to nod. "Fine. I'll watch him."

"Good."

That was the end of the conversation as far as William was concerned.

The morning light came through the gaps in the curtains, hitting you square in the face. You groaned, rolling onto your side, pressing your face into the pillow. The sheets smelled like him. You forced yourself upright, the blanket slipping from your shoulders as you sat up. William stood near the dresser, buttoning his shirt, then he reached for his cufflinks. He caught your motion in the mirror but didn't turn around.

"Why are you up so early?" you mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

"I have a flight to catch in two hours. I need to be at the airport before then." 

He spoke like it didn't matter, like you weren't sitting there already missing him. You had spent too much time in his space, gotten too used to him being here, being near.

"You packed?" you asked, mostly to fill the silence.

"I don't need much. A briefcase and a change of clothes will suffice." He finally turned to look at you, eyes sweeping over your still-languid form. "Don't get lazy while I'm gone." 

You snorted, pushing back the covers. "Yeah, yeah."

You walked over to him, hands reaching without thought. You grasped his tie, fingers moving as you fastened it, pulling the knot into place against the collar of his shirt. He let you take it without a comment. When you pulled back, he grabbed a notepad from the dresser, scribbling down a phone number in his handwriting. Tearing off the sheet, he handed it to you. "This is the hotel's number," he said. "If you need anything, ask for me. They'll redirect the call." 

You pressed your thumb against the corner of the paper, smoothing the fold he had unintentionally made when tearing it.

William tucked a few more items into his briefcase, then he grabbed it, moving past the bed without another word. "You know the rules," he said simply.

"Mhm."

He left the bedroom. The sound of his quiet footsteps followed him made his way down the stairs. There was no need to look back, and you didn't follow. You turned toward the window instead, fingers grabbing the edge of the curtain as you pulled it back just enough to catch a look of the world outside. The early morning light barely showed through the clouds. You watched as he shifted the gear and as he backed out, the car moving down the driveway, and then he was gone. The street was empty again, his car disappearing into the distance.

The sound of the ticking clock in the distance filled the space around you. It was a repetitive reminder of the passing moments. You couldn't escape the feeling that everything had just... stopped? 

Here are some more of my drawings—enjoy!

1. This one's inspired by Chapter Sanguine:

2. A female version of William (just for fun):

3. An older drawing that was inspired by my fic (I'm not really proud of this but I'll still share):

4. Tried to replicate pinkypills' art style, but somehow ended up with an unfortunate version of my William. Lol, he is definitely not looking his best here:

Chapter Text

You dragged yourself downstairs, rubbing the exhaustion from your face as you moved toward the kitchen to prepare some breakfast.

The fridge was half-empty, just the bare essentials and a few neglected leftovers shoved toward the back. You sighed... That meant another grocery run soon. Pushing the thought aside, you pulled out what little was available— Eggs that were a day or two past their sell-by date but smelled fine, a couple of slices of toast... a bit too stiff for your liking, but nothing a little butter wouldn't fix. The coffee was bitter, no sugar left in the cabinets, and the milk had gone sour days ago... so black it was. 

When you were done, the eggs came out perfectly golden and the toast was still warm. You had even managed to scrounge up some jam from the fridge, something sweet to smoothen the bitterness of the coffee.

You set a plate aside for Michael, making sure everything was just how he liked it and didn't look utterly pathetic. The thought of him enjoying it made you smile. But he wasn't here — the chair he usually slumped into was empty. Maybe he was still asleep, curled up under his blankets, pretending the world didn't exist. Or maybe he was already out, leaving before you even woke up just to avoid you.

You frowned as you kept wondering if you had said or done something to push him away. But nothing made sense. Every conversation you replayed in your head felt normal enough. You wanted to ask him about it, but how could you when he wouldn't even look at you anymore? You shook your head. Overthinking wouldn't do shit.

You grabbed a notepad from the counter and teared off a sheet. You scribbled out a message, keeping it short, simple, and kind.

"Michael,

I made breakfast. Hope you like it. Don't forget to eat, okay? 

— Y/N  •‿• " 

You set it down, the simple smiley face at the end feeling almost stupid. But you left it anyway, pressing the note under the edge of the plate so it wouldn't drift away. Whether or not he'd even read it, you had no clue.

After finishing your breakfast, you pushed yourself up from the table and left the kitchen, heading upstairs to get ready for work.

Michael would talk when he was ready, if he was ever ready. Until then, all you could do was make sure he ate and hope that he didn't completely disappear into himself.

In William's bedroom, you pulled open the closet, retrieving your uniform and name badge. The fabric was still stiff from last night's wash, its creases neatly pressed. You laid it on the bed before heading to the bathroom. Standing before the mirror, you took in your reflection. Fatigue lingered in your eyes, which was a clear reminder of your restless sleep. William had left early, and you hadn't been able to fall back asleep after that.

You rolled your shoulders before turning on the faucet. Cold water pooled in your palms before you splashed it onto your face, the cold jolting you awake. Grabbing a towel, you wiped away the droplets, then reached for your toothbrush. After brushing your teeth, you ran your fingers through your hair, trying to tame the stubborn strands that stuck up in odd directions.

Back in the bedroom, you slipped into your uniform, adjusting the collar as you fastened the final button.

It was cold when you stepped outside. The air had that early-winter sting which made your breath visible in soft, fleeting clouds. You shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets, fingers curling in the fabric as you walked toward the bus stop. The stop was nearly empty — Just a woman with a scarf pulled up to her nose and a guy with a cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers. You stepped under the shelter, shifting from foot to foot in an attempt to ward off the cold. 

You had spent the entire day handling the flood of documents that had been forwarded to you in William's absence. You signed off on minor expenses that didn't need William’s personal approval. You typed up letters responding to inquiries about the upcoming closure. You met with staff members who had questions and concerns. The typewriter keys had left faint impressions on your fingertips, and your eyes burned from staring at the papers for too long. You leaned forward, resting your forehead on the desk. This was exhausting, but there was no point in complaining. This was the job.

By the time you finished, the building was nearly empty. Most employees had gone home. You gathered your things, shoving the last of the paperwork into a folder before heading out.

Stepping into the Afton house, it was obvious that Michael still wasn't here. Babysitting was hard when the person you were supposed to be watching refused to be found. The plate of food you had left him in the kitchen sat untouched on the counter. You weren't sure if it was anger or disappointment that you felt. Maybe both. Had he even come home? Or had he walked in, taken one look at it, and left again? Either way, the message was clear. He didn't want anything from you.

You snatched up the plate, gripping it so hard your knuckles went white. For a second, you thought about throwing it straight into the trash, after trying so hard to be there for him despite how much he was pushing you away. But you didn't. Because you could still remember the way he had sobbed into your chest when his mother died. How small he had seemed in that moment. How... helpless. And that memory alone was enough to soften your anger, to remind you why you refused to be just another person who gave up on him. You were not going to be harsh with him the way his father had been.

You exhaled, forcing your grip to relax. The anger drained away as quickly as it came. You set the plate back down. 

Fine. If he wanted to starve himself out of spite, that was his choice, but you weren't going to be the one to hurt him.

In the bedroom, you stripped out of your uniform, tossing the stiff fabric onto the chair in the corner, leaving you in just a t-shirt and boxers. The cold air kissed your skin as you sank onto the edge of the bed, rubbing at your face. It wasn't even that late, but you still felt drained. You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes as if that could somehow push away the frustration and the hurt. 

Your gaze landed on the phone on the nightstand, the slip of paper William had left beside it — his hotel's number written across it. Calling him felt like a mistake. Plus, what exactly would you say? That Michael hadn't come home? That you had spent the last twenty-four hours pretending that didn't hurt deeper than it should? In the end, the silence felt like the lesser of two evils. 

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose before reaching for the phone. The rotary dial clicked with each number you spun. It rang a few times before a woman's voice answered. 

"Good evening. You've reached the front desk. How can I help you?"

"Hello. This is Y/N L/N. I need to be connected to Mr. Afton's room."

A brief pause. "May I ask the nature of your call, sir?" 

"Business-related. He asked me to contact him directly if anything came up regarding company matters."

"One moment." You heard some noise in the background before she spoke again. "We do have a William Afton registered under our executive suites. Would you like me to transfer the call to his room?"

"Yes, please. Thank you."

The hotel transferred the call.

A few rings, then the click of the receiver being lifted.

"This better be important." William's voice came. You heard no background noise; that meant he was alone.

"I just wanted to check in. Have you settled in? How was the flight?"

He exhaled, a sound that barely registered through the receiver. "Uneventful. First-class is wasted on me, but Henry insisted. You know how he is."

"Cheap when it matters, frivolous when it doesn't."

"Exactly." His voice held the faintest smirk. "We checked in an hour ago. I've settled in as much as one can in a hotel that looks like it hasn't been renovated since the fifties. Henry is sleeping in a separate room down the hall. I, on the other hand, have been burdened with a drink too expensive for its own good."

"Burdened," you repeated, amusement lacing your voice. "Sounds awful."

"You have no idea."

You sighed, rubbing your forehead as you shifted the receiver against your ear, shifting the topic. "Anyway, I haven't seen Michael in days. I left him some food and a note earlier. He either hasn't been home or refuses to acknowledge me." You swallowed, "I don't know what I did wrong."

A pause. Then William hummed, thoughtful, but not surprised. "Hmph." Just a dismissive sound, like this was expected. Another silence, then a slow exhale. "This is just another one of his phases. More likely, he's drugging himself out of reality. If that's the case, then it's too late. For now, do your job, watch the house, handle the paperwork, and let him run himself into the ground if he's so determined to be a disaster. I'll see what I can do once I'm home."

"You told me to watch him, and now you're telling me to just let him do whatever the hell he wants? That doesn't make sense; it contradicts everything you told me."

"You misunderstand me," William said, "I told you to keep an eye on him. But if he insists on self-destruction, I'm not about to waste my time trying to stop him. Neither should you now. You have a job to do, and I expect you to do it without getting sentimental. If you haven't realized that by now, then I overestimated your intelligence."

You forced yourself to keep your tone calm, because what was the alternative? Lashing out? Begging for him to acknowledge that he had just brushed you off like nothing? That wasn't going to happen.

You pushed past it.

"On to more important matters," you continued. "I've been handling everything. The documents that needed approval came through my office, just like you said. Nothing urgent. Just the usual inquiries about the transition, minor expenses, employee concerns. Everything's running smoothly." You told him. "I'll keep you updated."

There was a faint shift on the other end of the line, like he was adjusting his grip on the receiver. "See that you do." 

The call ended with a click, and you were left gripping the phone, staring at the rotary dial like it might somehow give you answers. You set the receiver back down. The house felt empty in a way that had nothing to do with the fact that you were alone. It wasn't just physical absence.

You collapsed onto the bed, the harsh exhaustion pulling at you the moment your head hit the pillow. You shut your eyes, trying to block out everything.

Tomorrow is another day.

Sleep took hold fast, dragging you under before you could even finish your thoughts.

You woke up feeling like you had been hit by a truck, thrown into reverse, and then run over again for good measure. Your eyes? Forget about them. Peeling them open felt like trying to pry apart rusted metal. You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. Why did sleep do absolutely nothing for you? Wasn't that supposed to be the whole point of it? You felt worse than when you went to bed, and that was saying something.

You forced yourself upright, squinting against the morning light. God, you needed coffee. And maybe an exorcism.

The kitchen was as empty as the night before. No sign of Michael; not that you expected one. Your note was gone, though. Whether that meant he read it or simply tossed it in the trash, you had no idea. Either way, the untouched plate of food from last night told you everything you needed to know. You knew what William would say if you mentioned it again. "If he destroys himself, that's his problem." As if any of this wasn't a direct result of the way William had raised him.

You stared into the depths of your black coffee, steam curling up. Another day, another shift, another stack of documents to sort through, and a kid who had disappeared off the face of the earth.

Before heading to work, you had one more thing to do. The grocery store was nearly empty this early in the morning. You moved through the aisles quickly, grabbing what you needed. You even added a couple of snacks Michael liked to the basket, though you had no clue if he would even be around to eat them. Maybe he'd walk in, see them, and realize you were still trying, even if he was insistent on shutting you out. The cashier barely looked at you as you paid without a word. By the time you got back to William's house, the sun was rising properly. Inside, you set the bags on the counter, unpacking the food, placing everything neatly where it belonged. By the time you finished, your hands were trembling from the lack of sleep and the endless thoughts going through your thick skull. 

You got ready to leave to work, because if you stayed in this house any longer, you'd lose your mind.

••• [Michael's POV] •••

Michael laid against the wall of the school bathroom, the stall door locked. The stall door in front of him had carvings scraped deep into the surface, initials, slurs, drawings of tits and dicks. Someone had taken a lighter to the plastic seat, warping the edges. He thought about doing the same, but the effort felt like too much. He flicked the lighter open, the tiny flame casting an orange colored glow against the paper-wrapped bud pinched between his lips. He inhaled, the burn of it coating his throat before sinking down into his lungs. The first hit was always the hardest, but then the warmth settled in. He didn't give a shit about the math class he was supposed to be in, didn't care about the assignments piling up or the way his teachers gave him that same tired look whenever he bothered to show up. 

He had quit months ago, not because he wanted to, but because he had convinced himself it was a crutch, one more thing that gave people ammunition to whisper behind his back. But then the others started again, and if he didn't join in, it only made the gap between them wider. When the next bell rang, he finally stood. He barely looked at himself in the mirror as he passed by, only long enough to confirm his eyes weren't too bloodshot. 

The school bus rumbled beneath him, the vibrations traveling up his legs. His mind was running over the plan he had been perfecting for weeks. It was perfect, or as close to perfect as he could get with the resources he had.

Money first, which had been the longest step. He had collected lunch money in small, unnoticeable increments, skipping meals when he could, taking extra shifts at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza before he got fired. Some days, he'd also slip a hand into a distracted classmate's backpack, lifting a few dollars. Other days, he'd convince some idiot to trade cash for answers to an assignment he barely completed himself. He had even resorted to selling off old things, pieces of a childhood he didn't care to remember, trading away what little he had left in exchange for something that might actually help him. 

Timing was next. He had to leave before his father came back; that was crucial. If William was around, there would be no escaping his reach. If he waited too long, there'd be questions, interference, consequences. That meant leaving soon... tomorrow night, maybe the night after. He could last that long.

Where to? That was a harder question. Somewhere safe, for sure. His mother's side of the family lived states away, and they hadn't bothered with him when she died. They hadn't spoken to him at all since the funeral, which he ultimately didn't attend. His father's side? If they were even alive, they were in Britain, and he doubted they'd care much about some estranged grandson who barely even carried the family name. They would sooner spit on his grave than offer him a place to stay. Friends? That was laughable. He didn't have any since the day he murdered his brother. Just classmates who tolerated his presence when he had something they wanted.

He needed a steady income, something that didn't require experience or qualifications, something a lot of sixteen-year-old with no diploma and a messy job history didn't exactly have a world of options. Fast food, gas stations, maybe janitorial work, anything that paid enough for rent and food. An apartment would be harder to secure, but not impossible. Some landlords didn't ask too many questions as long as the rent was on time. If he found a small place, maybe even a single-room setup, he could stretch his savings until his first paycheck. Anything was better than staying here. He'd work himself to the bone if it meant never having to see his father's face again.

The hardest part, though, wasn't the leaving. It was the fact that simply walking away wasn't enough. His father needed to be exposed before he disappeared. That was the only way to make sure he never got pulled back in. Breaking into William's office was the only way, and he was desperate for Henry to know the truth. Words alone weren't enough, because no one would believe the accusations of a high school dropout with a record of causing trouble. Whatever proof existed was locked away in that office of his, behind a door that only William had the key to, where something incriminating might be hidden. William wasn't careless — he never left his keys lying around. So, breaking in definitely wasn't going to be as simple as finding a misplaced keyring or slipping in while the old man was distracted. 

Michael had spent nights mapping out the entire house in his head, memorizing every creaky floorboard, every weak point. The lock itself was sturdy. Michael did consider lockpicking, but he didn't know the first thing about it. He thought about brute force, but that would leave evidence. Even if he managed to get in, there was no telling how much time he'd have. That left the hinges — He had read about how some doors, especially old ones, could have their pins removed. If he could get his hands on the right tools, he might be able to slip the door right off its frame.

But you were a problem, too. Michael had been avoiding you, but that didn't mean you weren't still there in the house with him. If Michael tried breaking into the office, you might hear him. You were a light sleeper sometimes, shifting at the smallest noise, but exhaustion had been draining you a lot lately, for sure. That would work in his favor. He could lift the door right off its frame without making a sound. 

Once inside, he would search for anything like documents, notes, files, anything that tied his father to the murders. And after that, he would send a letter to Henry once he was safe, ensuring there was no way for William to intercept it.

He would be free.

It was then that Michael remembered the day everything changed...

"0 days into the party."

The world was loud. A mess of mixing voices, overlapping laughter, and the sound arcade machines playing in the background. Evan was the only one who heard the ringing in his ears. The party had already begun — the decorations were up, the animatronics moved on stage, and the scent of pizza and sugar filled the air. But Evan wasn't having fun... he never had fun here.

Michael stood nearby, his arms crossed over his chest. His little brother was embarrassing, sniveling like a baby over some stupid robots, ruining the fun. The little freak looked like he was about to cry again, and God, it was hilarious. Michael and his friends then circled him, towering over his small, trembling form. They wore masks, cheap plastic things that went over their faces, turning them into hollow-eyed monsters. Freddy, Bonnie, Chica and Foxy. 

Evan's fingers twisted into the hem of his striped shirt. His pulse pounded in his ears as he stared at the floor, willing himself to disappear.

"Wow," one of the guys next to Michael laughed, nudging him in the ribs with an elbow. "Your brother's kind of a baby, isn't he?"

"It's hilarious," Michael said. Evan turned his head, his bottom lip trembling. His big, watery eyes went between them, desperate, pleading. "Why don't we help him get a closer look? He'll love it!"

Evan whimpered, shaking his head violently, curls bouncing. "No, please!" he gasped, but his feet were already stumbling backward too slowly. 

Michael's heart pounded with exhilaration as he and the other boys closed in. "Come on, guys, let's give this little man a lift. He wants to get up close and personal!"

Laughter erupted. Hands grabbed at Evan from all sides, hoisting him up, his limbs flailing in the air, lifting him easily despite his frantic squirming. The ground seemed to sway beneath Evan, the world tilting at sickening angles as he kicked and thrashed. His breath came in panicked gasps.

"No! I don't want to go!" Evan fought harder. He twisted, clawed at their arms, his cries breaking into hiccupping sobs. 

Michael only laughed, twisting his grip just enough to shake him loose. "You heard the little man! He wants to get even closer! Hahaha!"

Michael's gang carried his younger brother across the diner. Through the tables, past the balloon stands and flashing arcade cabinets. Everything became a blur through the hot tears in Evan's eyes. The lights above them came in colorful bursts like reds, yellows, purples, all meant to make the place feel magical, even exciting. 

They carried Evan all the way to the stage, where the two golden animatronics, Fredbear and Spring Bonnie stood above, moving and active. A mischievous idea suddenly popped into Michael's mind, and without much thought, he blurted out, "Hey guys, I think the little man here wants to give Fredbear a big kiss!" He then counted, dragging out the moment. "On THREE! One… Two…"

And then, with an exaggerated flourish, he and his friends hoisted Evan upward, forcing his head deep inside Fredbear's jaws. His torso stuck out awkwardly, his arms trying to support himself, legs kicking uselessly. The restaurant music continued, oblivious as a pre-recorded song began playing, one of Fredbear's signature tracks:

"The secret ingredient is yoooou!"

Michael and his friends cackled, one of them clapping their hands.

Michael was about to pull him back, about to say something, maybe just to make fun of him for taking it so seriously—

"Hey, stop that! Put him down!" a man shouted. "Get back from the stage! Do not touch the bear." 

And then—

Crunch.

Michael barely registered the weight of something hot splattering against his face. The smell was copper and something foul, something that didn't belong outside of a body. The laughter stopped out in an instant, replaced by silence. 

Suddenly, his friends jerked back, stumbling over each other in a desperate scramble to get away, bolting in different directions, their masks discarded on the floor like shed skins. A high-pitched wail filled the air — someone was screaming. Someone else was shouting orders.

He couldn't look away from the blood that dripped down Fredbear's teeth. His hands had been pushing Evan forward just moments ago, delighting in how helpless he was. Now those same hands trembled at his sides. He turned, his legs moving before his brain caught up, seeking someone, an answer, an escape, anything. And then he saw his father who stood among the chaos, separate from it. He wasn't running forward, wasn't shouting Evan's name, wasn't reaching out in desperation like the other adults.

"You've always been such a disappointment."

Michael thought he might throw up.

Williams mouth curled in displeasure. He was pushing past the bystanders, shoving toward the goddamn animatronics, and Michael thought, for one insane second, that his father was going to try and pry Evan out himself. That he was going to drop to his knees and sob for his son, clutch at his body, whisper apologies that would never be enough. 

But Michael saw the exact moment his father's hand twitched, his fingers itching to wipe the blood off Spring Bonnie's fur. The restaurant was packed, though, a sea of eyes on him, making it impossible for William to act this way without being noticed. He pulled away quickly, finally turning to his dying son. "Back up! You, go get a crowbar, now! And someone turn that fucking machine off before it does more damage!"

(...)

The car sped down the darkened streets. The rain had started minutes ago, a light drizzle at first, but now it pelted against the windshield. The wipers struggled to keep up. Michael could still feel the warmth of Evan's blood on his face, even though it was long gone, wiped away by rough paper towels and panicked hands. He wanted to cry, more than anything, to wail, to scream, to tear at his own hair, to rip his skin open and let everything inside of him spill out onto the seat. But he just sat there silently. 

His mother at the front sobbed into her hands. William gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckles, his face eerily blank save for the single tear that traced down his cheek. Elizabeth was next to Michael, sensing enough to know something terrible had happened. The ambulance had already taken Evan, rushed him away. 

"The springlock mechanism inside the animatronics is pressure-sensitive. If liquid gets inside, it can activate." His voice was harsh like was speaking of an instruction manual, like he wasn't talking about his own son. "The sensors..." He sucked in a sharp breath, gritting his teeth. "You should have known, Michael." The streetlights cast harsh shadows across his face, the furrow of his brows deep. "You're around these machines every goddamn day, you know how they work, you know what they can do." His hands curled around the wheel like he wanted to strangle it, "You put him up there."

Michael wanted to die. He longed to rip his own skin off, just to escape the unbearable pain.

Clara's fingers wrapped around William's forearm. "William, please. He didn't know, couldn't have understood the danger. He's just a child—" 

"A child that should have known better!" William yelled. "He watched me build them, he knows how they function—" He inhaled sharply, biting down so hard Michael could hear his teeth click. He let out a slow breath, exhaling through his nose. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, quieter, but no less seething. "You should have known." he repeated himself.

"Listen, Bill," Clara whispered. "You can't blame him for this because he doesn't have the same experience, the same knowledge. He didn't mean for this to happen. We—we don't even know yet if..." Her breath hitched on a sob, and she pressed her fingers against her lips as if trying to hold back the grief threatening to consume her whole being. "You're tearing yourself apart over something we don't even have the answers to yet."

William's face twitched, on the verge of hardening once more, but instead, he reached out and placed his hand gently over hers. His thumb brushed her knuckles "I know," he murmured, voice soothing. "I know, my love. I'm sorry."

At the hospital, the rain had followed them, leaving wet streaks across the floor where their shoes dragged water inside. William's long legs had eaten up the distance as he stalked toward the front desk. Michael's father never panicked and never lost his composure, but the way he slammed his hands onto the counter, demanding answers, was desperate. "My son. Evan Afton. Where is he?"

The nurse flinched at the sudden aggression, glancing up at him from behind her thick glasses. She looked past him at Clara, who was barely holding herself upright, Elizabeth clutching her side. Michael stayed back, standing awkwardly between them and his father, unsure where he fit in this scene.

"I'm sorry, sir, but—"

"I need to see him!" William roared, "Where is he?! I'll break EVERYONE in this goddamn place if I have to!" 

Her throat worked as she swallowed. "Evan Afton is currently in emergency surgery. The injuries sustained from the animatronic's bite caused severe cranial trauma. The medical team is working to prevent further damage, but it's a hard procedure." 

Clara's knees nearly buckled, but William caught her, grounding her before she could dissolve into hysterics. Elizabeth let out a frightened whimper. 

The way he held Clara was reassuring enough that she let herself collapse into William, sobbing against his chest. William whispered something Michael couldn't quite hear, but it worked. Clara's breathing slowed, her fingers grasping at the front of his suit like he was the only thing keeping her upright. Michael felt sick.

The nurse hesitated before speaking again, her tone softer now. "I know this is overwhelming, but for now, I recommend you all take a seat in the waiting area. The doctors will come to speak with you as soon as there's an update."

Clara made a sound, something between a sob and a laugh. "As soon as... as soon as there's an update? Do you even hear yourself?" 

"I understand this is difficult, ma'am... But the best thing you can do right now is wait."

(...) 

It was late now, Michael could tell, but no one dared to leave. The pink bows in Elizabeth's hair were crooked, the curls looser now, falling around her face. She wasn't crying nor speaking, just watching everything. Michael knew she was trying to be strong, the way little kids do when they don't want to be a burden, but she kept glancing at their mother like she expected her to break at any second. Clara sat in one of the chairs, holding Elizabeth. Her makeup had smudged from the crying, streaks of mascara trailing down her cheeks. William stood like a statue next to them, his face expressionless. He had only spoken when trying to force answers out of people who didn't have them. 

Then, finally, the doors swung open. The doctor's face told them everything before he even spoke. Michael had never seen that particular look before, but he knew what it meant. It was the kind of face adults made when something was so bad they had to dull the impact before they let it out. He glanced down at the clipboard in his hands, then up at the family.

"Evan Afton?"

Clara shot up so fast she nearly knocked Elizabeth off her lap. William straightened, but his expression barely changed. Michael's breath caught in his throat.

The doctor adjusted his glasses, instantly grasping the mood of the room. "The surgery was successful in stabilizing him, but due to the severity of the damage, Evan has fallen into a comatose state. At this stage, we cannot predict if or when he will regain consciousness. We will continue to monitor his condition closely, but given the severity of his injuries, the prognosis remains uncertain."

"What are his chances?" William asked calmly. 

The doctor hesitated. "We won't know until more time has passed. There is significant brain damage, and even in the event of recovery, there will likely be lasting effects. Motor function, speech, memory... there's no guarantee what will return, if at all." he sighed. "If you'd like to see him, I can take you. But I want to prepare you... there are a lot of machines. He doesn't look like himself."

"We want to see him," Clara replied, "No matter what."

The doctor gave a small nod. "One at a time. The environment is overwhelming. Too much stimulation could be dangerous." 

Clara sniffed and wiped at her nose. "Elizabeth stays here."

William didn't argue. He turned to the little girl, resting a large hand on her shoulder. "Wait with your mother. Do not move from this spot." His tone allowed no room for disobedience.

Elizabeth barely nodded.

Michael watched William go first. A part of Michael wondered if his father was grieving. If there was any part of his father that was truly afraid of losing Evan. But the memory of how he had stood there in that restaurant, more focused on the blood staining his damn suit than the son dying in front of him... had been very difficult to read. That wasn't the reaction of a father whose son was on the verge of death. And Michael knew then, that his father wasn't like other people.

It was nearly half an hour before William returned, eyes empty. He nodded once to Clara, and she shot to her feet, rushing down the hallway before he could say anything.

His little brother was laying in the hospital bed, his head wrapped so thickly in bandages that Michael could barely see his face. The only sign that he was still alive was the slow rise and fall of his chest, the occasional beep of the monitor tracking his heartbeat. Wires ran from his arms, tubes disappeared into his mouth and nose. Michael felt his knees weaken. He forced himself forward, step by step, until he stood beside the bed. The chair beside his bed was still warm from where Clara had been sitting.

Her fresh tears were still drying on her face when she left, and now Michael was here, sitting down in the heavy silence she left behind. Michael reached out, hesitated, then carefully, carefully, rested his hand over Evan's. 

It was cold. Not the lifeless cold of a corpse, at least not yet, but there was no warmth. No grip nor movement. Michael's fingers curled around Evan's limp hand.

"Can you hear me?" 

The machines did all the breathing for him. 

He had never thought of Evan as fragile before. He had always seen him as a burden, a crybaby who never stopped clinging. But now, looking at him like this... Michael realized how small he really was.

"I don't know if you can hear me," he tried again, his voice cracking.

"... I'm sorry."

The shaking started in his hands, but it spread up his arms, through his shoulders, down to his chest, until his whole body trembled. Michael squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face against the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I'm so, so sorry..."

He wasn't even sure if he was saying it to Evan. To himself. To God, if he was even listening. It didn't matter. It wouldn't change anything.

The guilt was a living thing, sinking its teeth in deep. He had done this.

He told himself he would only close his eyes for a minute, just a minute. But the moment his head sank further and the moment his grip on Evan's hand loosened, he fell asleep. 

The first thing Michael heard when he woke was the sound voices beyond the hospital room door.

"We need to discuss his medical expenses," the doctor said, his voice firm but not unkind.

Then William's voice came. "Money is not an issue. The problem is whether or not he will be of any use after this. If my son wakes up with half a brain, unable to speak or function, then the money I put into this will be wasted. I need to know the likelihood of a full recovery. If he's going to be a vegetable then I need to consider my options."

Michael's eyes burned, but no tears came. He had wasted them all. 

There was the sound of the doctor clearing his throat. "We will monitor his progress like I told you... but I cannot give you a definite answer at this time, Mr. Afton."

A heavy silence followed, and then, without another word, Michael heard William's footsteps moving toward the door.

Michael barely had time to straighten up before the door creaked open.

"Do you know how long you've been in here?" William had asked. "Hours," William continued. "Your mother and sister already went home. I drove them myself." He stepped closer, the sound of his polished shoes muffled against the hospital floor. "I waited all night for you." Then William's grip closed around the back of Michael's collar. Not a violent tug, but it was still like a leash tightening. "Up."

Michael's body responded before his brain did, pushing himself to his feet on instinct. His father let go just as quickly, smoothing his hands down the front of his coat as if he'd never touched him at all. Michael avoided eye contact. 

"Look at me." 

Michael hesitated.

"Look. At. Me."

He did.

His father's gray eyes, silver like molten steel, were unreadable, dark and fathomless. Not angry, not sad, just... cold, like always, like a place where neither mercy nor warmth could be found, only the weight of something far more terrifying. Absolute indifference.

"You lost control. Just like I have."

Michael tried not to tremble. 

"I know what it's like to be angry," William continued, "To let it fester, to let it rot inside you, to let it twist and gnaw at your soul until there's nothing left but the rage. And then, when it finally breaks free, when it slips from your fingers… it's too late. But the difference between us, Michael… is that I learned to control it." 

Michael flinched but said nothing.

"There are two kinds of people in this world," William said. "Those who act and those who suffer the consequences of others' actions." He tilted his head slightly, as if examining something under a microscope. "You think you're one of the latter, don't you?" William leaned in, just enough that Michael could see the the way his pupils stayed impossibly small even under the dark light. "But you're not." 

A long pause. Then... 

"You're just like me, Michael."

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! As a little bonus, I've included some more of my artwork for you. I'm planning to add fresh FNAF art at the end of each chapter. 

1. Clara because I love her:

2. William in his college years:

A little info: In his 20s, he is a man in the early stages of his career. 

He is not what some would call outwardly unattractive, but there's something about him that causes discomfort. His eyes are often fixed on things too intently. William isn't the creepy figure he's often perceived as later in life, but he's already beginning to form habits and interests that isolate him. He doesn't fit in well socially, often finding himself at the edge of groups, a bit too quiet and a bit too distant. Those around him find it odd how he seems so focused on things that others aren't interested in. To those who meet him, William often comes across as quiet, reserved, and a bit awkward, sometimes even shy. His responses are brief, and he has a tendency to avoid eye contact, which makes him seem distant or disconnected.

People might think he's standoffish or unapproachable. It's actually a survival mechanism born from the harsh environment of his home life. Growing up, his father's abusive nature left him feeling worthless. Instead of being encouraged to express himself, he learned to shrink back so he wouldn't provoke his father's anger. As a result, he didn't know how to socialize properly or build genuine connections with others. That is, until he learned the art of professional conversation. Slowly, he began to pick up on how to mimic the behavior of those around him, how to speak in a way that fit the situation, how to act 'normal.' William had mastered the game of socializing because he knew how to manipulate others' perceptions. His ability to mimic emotions and respond appropriately was just another sociopathic tool he used to get what he wanted.

I'm gonna pinch him so hard, he won't even think about hurting any kids. He'll be too busy trying to recover from ball torture. Don't worry, I can fix him, one squeeze at a time! 

Chapter Text

"Father will be gone for one more day. That gives me one last opportunity to get into his office without interference.

Tonight, I will wait until the house is silent. Y/N usually settles in around midnight, but I should wait until at least two in the morning, maybe three. That gives me a window of time before dawn and before the house starts waking up again.

A screwdriver should be enough to remove the hinges from Father's office door. I've already checked, and the screws aren't rusted or stripped. The door is heavy, but I can lower it quietly if I'm careful. I'll bring a flashlight so I don't have to turn on any lights. I need to move quickly once I'm inside. 

What I'm looking for: documents, notes, receipts, anything that ties him to the missing children + other malicious intents. 

If I find a safe, I'll have to try and pry it open, or at least see if he keeps the combination written down somewhere. If I can't open it, I'll take what I can carry.

I have packed everything I need:

— Money: $462. It will get me a bus ticket and keep me off the streets for a little while.

— Clothing: One bag with three changes of clothes, a jacket, and an extra pair of boots.

— My birth certificate, social security card, and school ID. I have no driver's license nor a diploma.

Once I have gathered enough evidence and reached a safe location, I will place the proof in an envelope and a secure container, addressed to Henry, with no return address. Drop it in a mailbox first thing in the morning before Father gets back. If Henry has half a brain, he'll know what to do."

Midnight had come and gone. The only sounds were the ticking of a clock and the faint rustling of leaves outside. You were asleep in his father's bed — he had checked. The door had been left ajar just enough for him to peer inside without disturbing the quiet, for him to glimpse the figure beneath the covers, still, undisturbed. As far as Michael could tell, you were fully asleep. Good. He turned away before his thoughts could take him somewhere he didn't want to go.

He stepped cautiously toward the stairs, mindful of the floorboards that he knew would groan under his weight. His socks muffled the sound slightly as he descended the stairs, gripping the banister tighter than necessary. He had mapped this out in his head over and over again, but knowing the plan didn't make his nerves any easier to suppress. He forced himself to breathe evenly as he stepped into the garage. It smelled of oil and stale cigarette smoke. He reached for the shelf against the wall, fingers brushing over the metal of the tools he had stashed there earlier. A screwdriver, a flashlight, and a crowbar, just in case.

He told himself it was just nerves, that he wasn't scared, but the truth was harder to ignore. 

Michael tightened his grip on the screwdriver as he worked. The flashlight cast a small glow over the door's hinges, the beam trembling slightly as he struggled to keep his other hand steady. The first screw came loose.

His father's office was the last place in the world he wanted to be. Even now, with William miles away on a business trip, Michael felt his presence. The screwdriver slipped slightly in his grip, damp from the sweat gathering on his palms. He wiped his hands against his jeans before trying again, this time more controlled.

The second screw clattered to the floor. He flinched, holding his breath again, staring at the dark hallway behind him. His muscles ached from the tension, his shoulders locked so tight they burned. It really wasn't just about getting in... it was about what he might find. What he already knew, deep down, but hadn't yet seen with his own eyes.

He moved onto the final hinge, the last barrier keeping him from whatever proof William had locked away. A final twist, and the door sagged. He caught it before it could crash, lowering it carefully and slowly, inch by inch, until it rested against the floor with only a whisper of sound.

Michael exhaled shakily, pressing his knuckles against his temples for a brief moment, as if he could shove away the anxiety taking over his entire mind. Then, he lifted the flashlight, stepping inside, the doorless frame yawning before him like an open mouth. It was not his first time seeing this place, but still, the entire atmosphere had grippen him with unease. Every object had its place. The walls were lined with certificates: Achievements in robotics, engineering, mechanical design. Those accolades weren't proof of anything except the lengths William would go to craft his illusions. Beside the certificates hung a family photo, slightly off-center, almost as if William had pushed it aside without taking it down, as if it had been placed there out of obligation rather than sentiment.

There was also a bookshelf, filled with manuals, documents and a few binders. And there, amongst the professional, we're children's toys. Some Michael recognized, the sight of them hitting somewhere deep. But that wasn't why he was here... 

He forced himself to turn away from the shelf and step toward the desk. He wasn't here to drown in memories. He needed evidence, something concrete to prove what he had suspected for years, that his father was not the honorable man he pretended to be.

The adrenaline was making his fingers twitch. 

The top drawer? Locked. The middle one? Yep, locked. The bottom drawer? Michael guessed it - locked. It was like they didn't trust him or something.

His hands were shaking slightly as he grabbed the screwdriver again, shoving the flat end into the thin gap where the drawer met the desk. He pushed, trying to force it open, his other hand pressing down to keep it steady. 

Come on, come on… Don't fucking do this to me now. 

A sharp crack came, and the drawer jerked forward a bit. The sound made Michael's entire body lock up. Panic flooded his system. He then repositioned himself, pressing his knee against the bottom drawer for better balance, and pushed harder. The sound was small but very sharp. Wood splintering, the latch beginning to crack. The lock finally gave, a sharp pop of metal snapping free. Michael nearly lost his grip as the drawer slid open. Dust wafted up as he reached inside. Folders were stacked neatly, their labels written in his father's handwriting. But underneath those was something else...

A secret journal.

He gripped the book as he pulled it free. The cover was stiff, the edges frayed from time and handling. His father had never been the type to keep sentimental records; anything personal had to serve a purpose. He thumbed it open, going over the first page. 

First entry:

"October 6th, 1946

I suppose this is where it begins. I'm ten years old, just turned ten last week, but nobody remembered. I'm not a small child, exactly, but certainly not the sort of man anyone would take seriously. My father tells me all the time that I should stop sniveling over little things like birthdays. I suppose that's what he thinks I need, though he doesn't say it gently. He grabs me hard sometimes, shakes me as if I'm a doll made of nothing but stuffing.

I guess, maybe, I'm supposed to write my thoughts here? Not that anyone cares to listen to my thoughts, and maybe they don't need to.

Today was an ordinary day, mostly. After school, I went to the hill beyond our house. It's my favorite place, especially when I want to be alone, which is most days. I found a small frog by the creek today. It was perched on a rock, just sitting there as if waiting for me. I wondered, for a moment, if it could see me. It didn't hop away when I reached down, so I picked it up. It was perfect, smooth, cold, fitting right into my hand like it belonged there. I could feel its heart, a tiny thrum against my fingers. It kicked its little legs frantically. I could have let it go right then, of course, but I did not. I held it for a while, pressing my fingers a little tighter around it, just enough that it could feel me there. Its heart beat faster. I liked that feeling, that it knew I was there, that it depended on me. Finally, I let it go. I opened my hand, and it leapt away, right into the reeds and vanished. 

I think it must have been grateful.

I think about people sometimes, about what makes them smile or shout, what makes them weak or small. It's interesting to me. I watch them at school, though I don't talk to anyone. They don't talk to me either. But I can see them and see the way they move, the way they laugh in group. It's strange how a person can be so close to others and still so far away. I suppose I feel that way too, though I doubt they know it. Sometimes, I think it's like being the frog, held too tightly, waiting for someone to either crush you or set you free."

Second entry:

"December 2nd, 1954

I suppose I've found this old journal again. I've found it again by chance as I packed for the journey across the sea. Though it's a small miracle it hasn't been thrown out, crushed, or buried with other remnants of childhood. If memory serves me, I last wrote in this when I was ten. I'm not that fragile boy on the hill anymore, watching frogs slip away into the grass. I am eighteen now, and on a plane to the United States. I left England behind this morning. 

I managed to leave home without so much as a goodbye or a glance back. I don't feel loss or regret, only a kind of release. I'm heading to start my engineering career. I studied, alone in my room, nose deep in textbooks and diagrams. My mother had no understanding, but she tried to be encouraging in her own way. As for my father, he'd shout things about wasting my time, as if the only thing worth learning was the language of fists and raised voices. He told me there's no money in "toying with circuits." He might be right about the money part; I've only got a few notes crumpled in my wallet, not nearly enough to get far. I'll need to make ends meet however I can until I've proven myself. I will do so."

Henry's name showed up in this one. And again. Written in frantic, obsessive script. 

Third entry:

"February 15th, 1957

They say college is meant to be transformative. I feel as if I'm beginning to grasp that in a way that eludes others. They go about things as if life was some frenzied pursuit of distraction. I, on the other hand, prefer to see it all unfold from the sidelines. Engineering is more than just metal and mathematics. It's the art of creation. And creation... that's where people like Henry come in. 

Henry Emily. He walked into my life as if he were meant to. He's someone with a mind I hadn't yet met, someone who speaks and thinks in a way that lingers. I don't think he knows how his presence warps the room around him. And I'd die before telling him that.

When Henry talks, he's brimming with ideas that spill from his mouth, like he can't get the words out fast enough. He has this way of being so sure of himself, but without arrogance. 

I study him. I know the exact shape of his laugh lines, the way his eyebrows pull together when he's focused on a blueprint. Sometimes, I swear he catches me staring, but he never says a word. It's like he knows something about me, sees some part of me, and instead of recoiling, he just nods, acknowledging it in that silent, infuriating way of his. It makes me furious. It makes me want to rip him apart. 

He approached me today. Out of the blue as if he planned to speak with me all along but had only now decided it was the right moment. I had almost forgotten how my own name sounded when spoken by someone else. Henry spoke with an easy tone, warm yet without pretense. He told me he had been watching me work. He told me he had seen some of my designs for the class project and said he was impressed. His words didn't carry the condescension I might have expected.

He asked me to join him in working on something new, a project he had been developing. He wanted my help. Me.

The project he proposed is beyond anything I ever expected to be a part of. Something to do with mechanics and animation, the kind of work I've only dreamed of. He said he had been looking for someone with a mind like mine. 

After we finished talking, he invited me over to his house. All I could do was listen and nod as he shared every detail, painting pictures in my mind that I hadn't even dared imagine. There's a part of me that resents him, I think, for his ease with all of this, for the way he makes it all seem possible. But that same part of me, it also wants to know more, to see if I could be a part of whatever it is he's building. That night, we worked until the early hours.

Something felt right."

Fourth entry:

"March 15th, 1962

There's something dangerous about a man who knows what he wants. And today, he wanted me. It was late, almost midnight, when he turned to me and reached across the table, laying his hand over mine. At first, I didn't react, just stared at the sight of his fingers over my knuckles. My heart's in my throat now just writing this. At that moment, everything in me was caught between yanking my hand away and letting his weight settle against my skin. When he he truth is, I wanted it. There was fear in that want, fear in letting someone come that close, but Henry had this way of making me forget. Of making me feel seen, maybe even needed. And that feeling alone was enough to make me let him.

My pulse hammered; I couldn't tell if it was from fear or anticipation that was somehow worse. 

And then, without a word, he leaned in, brushing his lips against mine in this strange, barely-there way, like he was asking a question. 

I answered him. 

I kissed him back, full-on, let him pull me in until I didn't know where I ended and he began. The taste of him was, God, I don't have words. There wasn't a damn moment to think, not with the heat of him pressed against me. I wasn't sure if I wanted to destroy him for it or give in and let him keep that part of me. I don't know how to put it down neatly. My skin still burns, and it is not just the scratch of his nails left on me, it's the way he looked at me, like he was seeing through me, right to the pieces I don't let anyone see. We fell into each other like it was inevitable."

After the first few pages, Michael also noted with concern that a substantial portion of the journal, a considerable number of pages, appeared to have been torn out, leaving behind gaps in the otherwise intact content. Worn edges suggested the pages were torn with a lot of force. 

Fifth Entry:

"Some nights, I can barely close my eyes. A voice inside tells me that I am too weak, too small, that I will be swallowed by others' expectations. Every inch of this business needs my name, my face. Yet, here I am, barely able to face the man in the mirror. People demand smiles and laughter, but they do not see the toll it takes. They think joy comes easy, but people do not know what it takes to build something on your own bones.

There is a unique irony in creating a place meant to evoke childhood happiness. They will never know that behind it all is a man who barely remembers his own childhood, nor one who feels at peace within his own skin. I have buried the very thing I build on. There is only the mask now I use to hide my true self." 

Sixth entry:

"April 20, 1972.

There is no one worth handing your vulnerability over to, for they will only use it against you. This place demands too much of me. And I will give it what it asks, even if it means losing whatever was left of me in the process. Perhaps that was gone long ago. The only way forward is to forget what cannot be fixed."

 Seventh entry:

"June 5, 1972.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone will ever see me as anything more than the man I pretend to be. If anyone would recognize what it took to become this. But then, they would have to truly know me, and I would never allow that. The plans are in place now, but there's this itch that I can't quite reach. It's hard to shake. Everyone expects stability from me, a man like me can't afford to appear weak, or god forbid, unsure. It's funny, because I was always told as a boy that I had the mind for numbers, the hands for perfection, but never the heart to build anything lasting. And yet, here I am, standing on the edge of opening something grand, something that'll make people remember me. People will see the perfect picture of my life that, try as I might, never quite matches the mess in front of me. My marriage, too. The way she looks at me sometimes feels as if she's looking at a stranger, someone she loves but can't quite grasp, like I'm something strange she can't understand but still continues to love.

Will anyone ever see the real me, or am I destined to remain a stranger to myself and everyone around me?"

Eighth entry:

"October 9th, 1972

I had forgotten how heavy a pen could feel in my hand, yet here I am, compelled to write again. They say some things are better left buried, yet here I am digging. Thirty-four years old, and I wonder, if the lines on my face give any indication of what's inside. A few months from now, I'll be standing in front of Fredbear's Family Diner. He'll handle the technical parts; I'll keep the business in line.

We both have wives now. We play the part of respectable men with home lives, community lives, wives with warm smiles. Or, in my case, a wife I neither see nor hear unless necessary. She is part of that life I loathe. I cannot stand her, nor the way she looks at me with those sad, expectant eyes. We have a son together, born two years ago. It's strange. He has her eyes. Sometimes I look at him and wonder if he'll grow up to be anything like me. If he'll inherit the same coldness I know runs in my veins. I don't know if I care.

A sweet thing, Henry's wife. A kind, oblivious little thing with a laugh that grates against me every time I hear it. She's no threat, just a reminder. She pulls his attention from me, fills his gaze with something that I once thought was mine.

He forgot me."

The next pages were also ripped, jagged remnants still clinging to the spine. Whole years were missing. He flipped through quickly, his breath catching as he hit the next decipherable passage.

Ninth Entry:

"February 23rd, 1981

I think often now about the strangeness of family life. They told me once that a man is supposed to feel warmth or even pride when he looks upon his children. Perhaps, in another world, I would have. But as it stands, all I feel is suffocation. 

Three children. Michael's twelve, Elizabeth just turned three, and Evan is two. If you asked Clara, she'd say they were her world and the reason she wakes every morning with purpose. She dotes on them like they're fragile. Elizabeth, especially. She is spoiled rotten by it, a little creature who chirps and squeals, entirely under her mother's sway. I can barely keep my temper these days. My firstborn... He's stubborn, already challenging me, questioning my every word as if he's clever enough to understand what he's dealing with. He thinks he's strong. I'm half-amused, half-tempted to remind him how fragile a boy can be. Evan, the youngest, is different. A quiet sort, though he cries often enough. I can stand him more than the others. He is not yet loud or stubborn.

I close the door to my office more often these days. It's the one place they don't follow. Even Clara has learned not to enter unless invited. I suspect she's started to feel the distance."

Tenth (?) Entry:

[ink smeared and date blurred through wear...]1983

"Michael. I cannot stomach his name. It festers at the edge of my thoughts like a disease. I had always known he was as mindless as he is stubborn, but now... after what he has done, he is a ruin of all that might have been.

Evan, gone, just like that, on his own birthday, of all days. They tell me his neck snapped when that animatronic jaw clamped down. It's strange how much damage a bit of dampness can do, a few tears in the wrong place. But I feel nothing. There is no sorrow in me, no ache or grief where they say a father's heart should break. I do not feel guilt, nor regret, nor loss. Perhaps that should disturb me, perhaps it ought to suggest something monstrous or inhuman within me. What little I do feel is fury. Not at Evan, no, not at him. At him. 

I despise him with a fervor that I can feel to the very roots of my teeth, in the blood pounding behind my eyes. He had taken from me, ripped a piece of my life with his foolish, impulsive actions."

The ink smeared, as if he paused, pressing down so hard the pen ripped through the paper before he continued.

"THE THOUGHT OF HIM MAKES MY BLOOD RAGE WITH A HEAT THAT I CANNOT QUENCH NO MATTER HOW HARD I TRY. IT'S A BURN, A NEED TO ERASE HIM FROM MY WORLD ENTIRELY, TO CAST HIM OUT OF MY LIFE AS IF HE NEVER EXISTED. I CAN STILL HEAR HIM WHISPERING IN HIS ROOM, THE WHIMPERS OF "SORRY" DRIFTING THROUGH THE WALLS, THINKING I WON'T HEAR. I HEAR EVERY WORD, EVERY BIT OF HIS PATHETIC SNIVELING.

HE WALKS THE HALLS OF MY HOUSE AS IF HE BELONGS HERE. AS IF HE IS WORTHY TO BREATHE UNDER THE SAME ROOF. HE THINKS THAT JUST BECAUSE I HAVEN'T LAID A HAND ON HIM YET, THAT HE'S EARNED SOME KIND OF PLACE IN THIS FAMILY. HE THINKS HE CAN LIVE HERE, MOCK ME WITH THOSE EYES THAT DARE TO LOOK BACK AT ME WITH FEAR. WITH REMORSE.

Coward. If he had any decency, he'd have put himself in that suit instead."

Michael's throat burned from the force of his own silent cries. The words on the page blurred, the ink smudging under the wetness in his eyes. His hands trembled as he turned another page, but he could barely focus on the words anymore. He felt sick. He had always known William held no love for him, not truly, but seeing it carved into paper with the force of a man consumed by his own hatred… it was different. A sob forced itself from his throat, and he choked on it, pressing his fist against his mouth to smother the sound.

"November 5th, 1983

I have never known the warmth of human connection. What courses through me every day is a searing hatred. Even for those who should matter the most to me, which is my family, people I should cherish. They inspire in me nothing but contempt. I stare at my children, those small replicas of myself, and I feel nothing. I see myself in their eyes, and it fills me with nothing but revulsion. I see their laughter, their joy, and it sickens me. It's a mockery. My son and daughter, they came and they went, and I feel nothing. I forced myself to claim a love that isn't there, lying to others and myself.

The truth is, I am incapable. There is nothing human in me. No empathy. Why am I incapable of love? What prevents me from being a decent person? Is something broken inside me? Am I a monster?

Life is completely meaningless.

The stench of humanity chokes me.

My wife believes I love her, but I hate her with a passion I cannot control. I loathe her. I wish she would vanish into nothingness, take her naïve, saccharine delusions with her. I wish I had never been born, never subjected to the expectations of a life I never wanted. I crave the touch of another, someone who mirrors my own emptiness, not the mother of my children, never hers. I hate myself for it. Disgusting, filthy beings, all of us. Yet, I couldn't stop. I've been unfaithful throughout our entire relationship."

Michael had noticed on the paper were occasional stains where the ink had bled slightly, as if tears had once fallen onto the pages. He went through some more pages, most filled with ramblings. 

"March 25th, 1984

I made myself this way. I destroyed whatever humanity I had left, piece by piece, until only the darkness remains. I feel like I'm drowning in my own skin and suffocating on the air of my own mind. I look at myself in the mirror, and I don't recognize the man staring back at me. Who is he? What made him so messed up?

I'm a liar, a parasite.

I'm not supposed to feel this weakness. I'm scared. Scared of what I've become. Hell awaits me."

"September 17th, 1984

There is no God. It's a pure myth. People around me hold on to that comforting fantasy, a pathetic illusion, but it's a lie. If an afterlife exists, it is nothing but a void of desolation, a cold, empty void. But what if I could bend those rules, cheat death, and live on, immortal and unstoppable? That's the power I crave. The power to never die, to outlast them all. Because I am not just another man, another mortal. I am not some pathetic, broken creature. I am a goddamn God. And when I emerge, they'll all know my name. They'll tremble at my feet. Because I am the future, and there is no stopping me. I will show them all what true power is. I will become God. I am God, reborn in a new form."

Michael noted how his father's handwriting remained meticulously neat, even when expressing such thoughts. However, the pressure of the pen on the paper seemed to increase, the lines becoming slightly deeper, as if he were pressing harder as his emotions intensified. The final words, "I am God," seemed to be written with such force that the pen nearly tore through the paper, leaving faint indentations on the next page. He turned the page, sensing that what he would find might be even more disturbing. He was immediately (again) met with a barrage of repeated words. They started small but grew larger, more frenzied with each repetition, as if the force of William's hatred itself had taken over his hand. By the end of the page, the words were scrawled in enormous letters. 

"I HOPE HE DIES. I HOPE HE BURNS. HE STOLE EVERYTHING FROM ME. MY IDEAS, MY SUCCESS. BUT I'LL SHOW HIM THAT HE'S A FOOL. A WEAKLING. I WANT TO RIP HIM APART. WHY DOES HE GET EVERYTHING? WHY DOES HE GET TO BE HAPPY? I HATE HIM I HATE HIM I HATE HIM I HATE HENRY I HATE HENRY I HATE HENRY" 

Michael's breath quickened. He turned another page, hoping for a small reprieve, but it only got worse.

"I am surrounded by idiots. They don't deserve to breathe the same air as me. They don't see the truth. They don't see me. They don't understand the power I hold. They don't understand what I am capable of. I will show them, make them see. They will all bow before me. They will fear me. They will worship me. I will become their god. I will exceed this mortal shell and achieve true power. True immortality. They will remember my name. William Afton. The man who defied death. The man who became a god."

He could barely keep reading but forced himself to continue, turning another page to reveal another entry about Henry. This one, however, was different. The handwriting was more controlled, almost reverent. 

"Henry is perfect. He is everything I despise and everything I admire. He is brilliant. His mind, his creations, they are flawless. Why do I hate him? Because he is everything I am not. I want to be him. I want to consume him. He is my obsession. My hatred, my love. I need him. I need to destroy him. I need to become him. I need him to know me, to see me, to understand that I am his better. I HATE HIM."

It was clear that his father's feelings towards Henry were disturbing, a mix of envy, admiration, and a deep held hatred. 

He wanted to stop reading, to burn the fucking journal and pretend he had never seen any of it, but he couldn't. His mind was caught in a loop, trying to make sense of the single most disturbing revelation in those pages. They were together. Once. No... no, that couldn't be right. His father, who spat at the idea of men like that, who had called it unnatural, who had snarled the word "faggot" more times than he could count, had been with Henry. The same man who had raised Michael to believe that emotions were weakness, that kindness was pathetic, that real men took what they wanted and crushed anything in their way... had loved a man?

His father's words, written in that perfect handwriting, burned themselves into Michael's mind.

I want to consume him. He is my obsession. My hatred, my love. I need him. 

Michael wanted to rip that page out, shred it between his fingers, but what good would that do? 

Had his father ever been capable of love?, Was that why he hated Henry so much, why his father's obsession ran so deep, caught between rage and admiration? Was this what love looked like for him — Obsessive, harsh and violent? Did Henry ever know?  

But even as his body shook with grief, he forced himself to keep going. With his free hand, he reached into the open drawer, pushing past the folders stacked neatly on top. His movements were quick and desperate, as if the faster he moved, the less he'd have to think about the wound his father's words had torn open inside him.

His fingers brushed against something hard. Different from the first book, thicker. He hesitated for only a moment before pulling it free, his breath catching as he realized just how heavy it felt in his hands. And upon opening it, the carefully penned notes inside caught his eye immediately.

"Experiment Log: Subject #1 - Charlie Emily. 

Killed on her birthday, 1983. The security puppet contains the soul. Attempts to extract agony successful even with her high level of resistance." 

As Michael read through the entries for kids named Susie, Fritz, Gabriel, and Jeremy, learning how each child had been lured and killed, his hands began to shake uncontrollably. His vision blurred with tears of anger and disgust. Another page about the kids caught his attention too. 

"Experiment Log: Subject #6 - Cassidy. 

The most challenging subject yet. Multiple attempts required for successful agony extraction. Agony was extracted from her blood. Died by being stuffed into a springlock suit, resulting in a failure. Soul now possesses animatronic Fredbear. Most violent among the few."

Couldn't the employees notice the blood on the animatronic?

Going through some more pages, a page titled "Theories" caught Michael's attention.

"Human emotion influences the physical world. This is undeniable. But where others see fleeting impressions, I see potential, a force to be harnessed. Agony, the purest and most potent of all emotions, can embed itself into objects, turning them into something... other. Not haunted, because it implies the presence of a soul, a consciousness lingering. Agony infects, corrupts. It is pain made manifes. It spreads like a disease. It is not possession, it is parasitism."

"1. Agony as a Fuel Source: While all human emotions influence the environment to some degree, extreme negative emotions like pain and despair have potency. Agony is uniquely capable of permeating objects.

2. Catalysts of Movement: Introducing a fragment of intelligence to a source of agony can incite independent physical movement. Further experiments are required to confirm whether the "movement" is truly autonomous or merely reactive.

3. The Opposition of Remnant: Remnant, a phenomenon I hypothesize as the counterpart to agony, holds a curiously positive polarity. When combined with agony, the two should theoretically cancel each other and shouldn't be able to coexist. Yet they create a paradox, a immensely powerful force.

— Remnant —

is the essence of the soul, the very essence of life itself. With it, one could achieve eternal life, eternal youth, eternal power. It's capable of granting immortality, granting infinite energy to those who possess it. Hunger, fatigue— such mundane concerns become irrelevant in the presence of it. One could go without food or water for weeks, sustained solely by the energy of the power of remnant. Remnant is most effective when extracted from souls filled with intense emotions. But one must be careful when handling such power.

Exposure to even small amounts of remnant can have consequences, both physical and psychological. Upon initial ingestion or injection, senses become heightened, increases stamina. Injecting it is incredibly painful at first. This experience can be overwhelming and frightening. The Subject might feel a rush of sensations as The Subject's mind races to keep up with the changes happening so quickly. But the process of healing is rapid."

For the briefest moment, Michael was paralyzed by fear and uncertainty. He couldn't get enough air into his lungs no matter how hard he tried. The words had branded themselves onto his very soul. It was proof. It was everything. His father was a monster; he had always known that, in some shape or form. But this was beyond what he had imagined. The way he described every experiment, every kill, like he was documenting some scientific breakthrough... it was horrifying.

He bolted out of the office. The notebook was still in his grip, his knuckles white around it. His entire body was shaking as if his nerves had finally been ruined beyond repair. Michael practically threw himself into his bedroom, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. Tears streamed down his face uncontrollably, his mind racing with thoughts of where he could go. Michael shoved the notebook deep into his backpack, wedging it between layers of clothes and an old binder, ensuring it wouldn't be exposed to anyone but Henry. the notebook going to Henry could irreversibly change both their lives.

The police? They needed concrete proof, not just suspicions. His father was also a master manipulator, a man who had crafted a perfect mask of respectability. William's connections and influence ran deep too. Michael had no illusions about how easily his father could twist the truth, even if he went to Henry — there were no guarantees it would actually cause his father to be arrested. Henry had been one of the suspects, too. The police might also dismiss Henry's claims as some delusions of a grieving father. And another thought, what if Henry couldn't bear the weight and decided to end his own life? Michael knew how deeply Charlie's death had affected Henry, and he couldn't bear the thought of losing him. Should Michael disappear quietly and not tell anyone what he read? Should he stay? He felt the guilt of abandoning the victims, of leaving their families without answers. So, he didn't go that path.

Despite the possible consequences, he sat at his desk, hands trembling, picking up a pen and beginning to write a note first.

"Dear Uncle Henry,

I hope this letter finds you well, although I fear this will bring you anything but peace. I have something deeply disturbing to share with you, something that I discovered in Father's office.

For months, I've been suspicious of my father, and I finally managed to get into his private office. What I found there confirmed my worst fears. He had been conducting experiments, and he is responsible for the deaths of several children, including your daughter, Charlie. I know how much Charlie meant to you. Reading about her and the others, knowing what they went through, made me feel so much anger. I'm ashamed to share his blood. I also found a journal where he wrote about his feelings toward our family. The pages were filled with such anger and hatred that I could barely breathe. He feels nothing for anyone, not even himself.

I understand your first instinct might be to go to the police but I must caution you. Father is a master manipulator with deep connections. Any involvement with the police could put you at risk of being blamed. I can't let that happen. You've already lost so much because of him, and I don’t want to risk losing you too. 

Ban him from Fazbear Entertainment. Cut him off from the place where he's done so much evil. That might at least limit his influence. I know he'll find out what I've done and that I've searched through his things. He'll hate me even more, think I've exposed him. But I won't give him the satisfaction of catching me. I'm disappearing and I won't be back, so don't search for me. 

I will stop Father myself. I don't need anyone else's help. He won't get away with this, not while I'm still breathing.

Take care of yourself, Uncle Henry. I appreciate you more than you know.

I'm sorry it had to come to this."

Before he left, he pulled his sleeves up and looked down at his arms and legs, covered in a work of scars. The older ones had turned a pale white, barely visible but always there, while the fresh ones on his thighs were slightly red and angry. The shouting, the arguments, the beatings... Michael had no way to escape until now. The only escape he had was to find a different kind of pain to ease his suffering. He did it every day and night his father hurt him, carving lines into his skin as a way to cope.

The night his father had discovered them was even worse. William had cornered him in the kitchen, yanking up his sleeves to reveal them. William expressed neither regret nor concern, merely stating that Michael was weak and a disappointment.

Michael then pulled his sleeves back down, trying to hide them again, but the thoughts of them drifted back. He was further wrecked by the day William had blamed him for his mother's death. You had somehow kept him from ending it all that night, though he had considered doing so. Neither his mother nor he would want it, too. Michael would find a way to be happy, to live the life she wanted for him, despite how messed up their family turned out. Tears welled up in Michael's eyes again as he thought about how much he missed her.

He grabbed his backpack, climbed onto the windowsill, gripping the frame with trembling fingers. His legs shook as he braced himself, but there was no time to hesitate. He swung his body over and dropped. The moment his feet hit the ground, pain shot up his ankles, but he barely registered it. He forced himself forward, breaking into a sprint down the street. Every darkened house he passed felt like it was watching him silently. The pavement blurred beneath his feet. He didn't know where he was going at first, which place, only that he had to get away, to get somewhere safe to live. 

Then his brain latched onto one thought: the post office. He needed to make sure the notebook reached Henry before Michael reached the bus station. 

He ran for what felt like an hour, likely covering several kilometers. Exhausted, he could barely manage to keep walking. By the time he reached the small brick building, it was already early in the morning, his muscles screaming in protest. His chest ached, his throat was raw, and he felt like he was about to collapse, but he forced himself inside. He reached into his backpack, and the weight of the notebook & letter felt unbearable in his grip. Approaching the counter at the post office, he greeted the clerk with forced calm, affixing the necessary stamps to the envelope and packaging addressed to Henry. Handing it over, his hand shook visibly, betraying the turmoil within.

Using a fake name would be a good idea, too. Michael still deep down held onto hope that Henry would somehow manage to incriminate his father, which would forever taint the Afton name. That hope drove him to vanish before it could happen. 

Michael Afton had to disappear. 

And then he thought about you; the thought of you made his blood boil. Despite knowing the truth about his father's acts, you remained loyal him. It sickened him. He didn't give a damn what would become of you after this if anything happened.

As he disappeared, Michael vowed to leave behind not just his past, but anyone who dared to stand in his way, including you.

Art time! 

1. Drawing of Michael:

2. William (He gets uglier and uglier every time I draw him 😭):

Chapter Text

William's head ached with a persistent pain that had been brewing since he left, made worse by the lack of sleep. He hadn't slept in nearly twenty-four hours, and it was starting to show in the way his vision blurred, the way his body felt sluggish and uncooperative. He should have stopped for coffee, but the thought of delaying his return home any longer made him annoyed. Henry, for the whole time, was a walking reminder of everything William despised. William had endured it all with patience, nodding along where necessary, offering input when required, and all the while keeping himself from snapping. The ache was radiating from his temples and down the back of his sensitive neck. 

William returned to town, but he didn't go home yet. He drove to work. It was necessary, of course, for the final steps of the closure, but he had other motives. A man like him couldn't afford to let his mind rest. Complacency was what got people caught. Once he and Henry were at Freddy's, he let himself listen. Everything felt normal at first. And sure enough, hours into the day, Henry made an excuse to leave early. "Something came up at home." Henry had said. Something that warranted leaving so suddenly, something important enough that Henry couldn’t even keep up appearances. William's mind was working through every possibility. It was flimsy, barely believable, and if William had been anyone else, he might've thought nothing of it. But William was not someone who let things slide.

The moment Henry left, William knew. He had to move. 

By the time he pulled into the driveway of his home, it was 7 am. After he parked, he reached the door. His fingers curled around the handle, pushing the door open, entering the house. William realized something was wrong, physically seeing his office ransacked. His body went rigid, exhaustion suddenly disappearing as awareness took over him. A scowl twisted his features as he stormed inside. The top drawer, where he had tucked away his most important notebook, had been forced open, the metal lock snapped clean off, its contents disturbed. Papers were shoved aside haphazardly, but he didn't give a damn about them. His hands curled into fists before he forced them flat against the desk, willing himself not to drive his fist straight through the wood.

Michael had taken it.

William should have hidden it better. He should have left it at the underground facility, where the boy couldn't have sniffed it out like a pathetic fucking rat. His hand was aching to wrap around Michael's throat.  

His hands then buried in his hair, fingers gripping tight like he was trying to rip the frustration straight out of his skull.

His fist slammed against the wall- once, twice, three times.

There was no use screaming about it like some common fool. He had wasted enough energy on that outburst — Rage and revenge could wait. Right now, he had to assess the damage. 

His pulse raced as he rummaged through the papers, shifting documents aside, searching... there.

The journal was still there, luckily. If Michael took it too, it'd be over. The pages inside held far more than theories, more than careful documentation of remnant, agony and soul transfer. That book was his mind laid bare. Truths that no one else could possibly understand. Michael might have taken one piece, but he had not stolen everything. That small comfort gave William enough clarity to move. It was only a matter of time before Henry received his little surprise.

He left the office with the journal in hand and made his way upstairs to his bedroom. There you were, curled in his bed, still asleep. You hadn't noticed a thing. 

He had thought about taking you with him. It would have been easier, in some ways... You already knew too much, and you had been the first human subject for his experiments with remnant. He had injected you with it, watched you closely, documented the results. But on the other hand, he had no time to deal with a struggle, no time to waste on explanations that wouldn't satisfy you. You would wake, confused and asking too many questions, slowing him down. 

William sat heavily on the edge of the bed next to you, his head still pounding from the rage that had gripped him. There was no hesitation as he shifted his weight, reaching toward the nightstand. The hidden compartment beneath the drawer clicked softly as he pried it open, revealing a collection of vials and syringes he kept for contingencies. He had anticipated needing this at some point. It wasn't the first time he had needed something to make sure someone stayed unconscious. Carefully, he held a vial between two fingers, examining the clear liquid inside before drawing it into the syringe, tapping it once to expel any air.

His gaze then went back to you. Leaning over you, he found a vein along your arm. The needle slid in smoothly. You stirred only slightly, a quiet noise coming past your lips before your breathing settled once more. It wouldn't take long before the drug took full effect. He withdrew the needle and wiped away the bit of blood with his thumb.

With that done, he rose. He crossed the room, dragging the suitcase from the closet. It was larger than the one he used for travel. One by one, he gathered what he could afford to take. The journal, of course, was first, secured within the folds of his clothing. Next came the essentials like documents, identification, money. The fake IDs had been prepared long ago, tucked into a small lockbox beneath the floorboards. He yanked it free, flipping it open to check the contents before tossing it into the suitcase. The cash was next, bundled in stacks, each one shoved into the hidden compartments of the bag. Every key that could unlock anything of value was already in his possession. 

Before he could leave, there was still something to fix. His office door was laying on the floor. The process was likely sloppy and rushed. He could tell that Michael hadn't bothered with subtlety. He had taken the thing off in a fit of desperate determination. Fixing the door was necessary — He took his time, fitting the door back into place, replacing the old hinges with new ones from his collection securing the screws deeper this time. A lock alone wouldn't be enough... he needed reinforcement. He installed a metal bar along the inside, something that couldn't be accessed from the outside without the proper key. Once finished, he tested the door, slamming it shut. It held firm. Nobody wouldn't be getting inside without destroying the entire damn door.

Satisfied, he stood back, wiped the sweat from his brow, and returned to his room. He grabbed a sheet of lined paper from his desk, and sat down to write. He would leave you with instructions, not choices. This was a guarantee that you would do exactly as he intended.

"Y/N,

By the time you read this, I will be long gone. 

I assume you will wake up confused, and I do not care. You will feel groggy, sluggish, and your body will ache, but that will pass. The sedative I used was a necessity to prevent you from interfering, not to harm you. You will find the key to the house next to this note. It is the only key I am leaving behind, and you will use it to lock the door when you leave.

Michael took something from me from my office. Something that, in the wrong hands, could ruin everything. I do not know how much damage he has already done, but I do surely know that Henry will soon have the information. Maybe he will come for me, or maybe the police will. Maybe nothing will happen at all. I do not intend to stay and find out. 

I have fixed the office door. You will see that it is locked properly. Even if someone tries to get in after I leave, it will not be so easy this time. My study is no longer accessible.

Pack your things, leave this house, find a job somewhere that does not tie you to me. You will not speak to Henry. You will not seek out Michael. And most importantly, you will never speak my name again. 

You will not attempt to contact me.

Do not waste time reading this twice. 

Goodbye, 

W.A."

William removed the smallest key from his keyring, the only one he intended to leave behind. The house key. You had no need for the others. It was unceremoniously placed atop the bedside table, next to the folded note he had written for you. 

Then, William zipped the suitcase shut. He checked the time... good, he hadn't wasted too much time. Stepping out of the bedroom, his gaze shifted to the room he had long since stopped considering a son's. The door was slightly ajar. That alone made his steps slow. Inside, the room was a disaster. The bedsheets were half-hanging to the floor, the desk lamp knocked over, papers scattered. It wasn't an unusual sight, considering Michael's habit of leaving things in disarray, but it wasn't the mess itself that made William pause. It was the single sheet of paper resting neatly in the center of the bed. William stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he plucked it up.

The writing was rushed but legible, the pressure of each stroke heavy, as if the words had been carved into the paper rather than written. A quiet, seething breath left him as his fingers tightened, crushing the paper into his palm. Even now, Michael couldn't resist lashing out like a petulant child. What an utter waste. With an exasperated flick of his wrist, he tossed the crumpled paper back onto the bed and turned away. He moved swiftly down the stairs. 

The front door swung open with force. He reached the car, yanked open the driver's side door, and threw the suitcase onto the passenger seat. His fingers fumbled with the keys for only a second before he jammed them into the ignition, twisting hard. His foot slammed down on the gas. The tires screeched against the pavement, the car lurching forward so violently that he nearly lost control of the wheel for a second. But he recovered quickly, gripping it tight as he veered onto the road, accelerating past the posted speed limit without hesitation. He didn't give a damn if anyone saw him. 

What angered him the most is how you had been there, inside his house, stupidly failing to notice what Michael was up to.

But it wasn't over. William wasn't some fool who put all his plans into one place. The research could be rewritten. Every theory, every breakthrough, every experiment, he could recall them all. He would replicate every note, every formula, every goddamn conclusion.

You stirred slightly, barely conscious at first, caught in the soft haze of waking, the warmth of the bed making it easy to linger in that space between sleep and reality. You turned slightly, reaching out instinctively toward the other side of the bed, toward where William would be on some nights. But the sheets were empty. That wasn't surprising; It had been three days since he was absent now. Your body ached from sleeping too long in the same position, so you stretched, arms above your head, rolling onto your side before finally forcing yourself to sit up. The thought of Michael was enough to push you the rest of the way into wakefulness.

Then you noticed the nightstand. A single key, dark silver, sat atop a folded piece of paper. Slowly, you reached out, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the paper's rough texture. You unfolded it, fingers trembling slightly as your eyes darted over the familiar handwriting. Your grip on the paper tightened as your eyes widened slightly. You then forced yourself to look toward the clock sitting on the wall. It was 6:20 AM. The last thing you remembered before blacking out was late morning. You had slept for nearly an entire day! 

You stumbled as you stood, your legs weak, balance unsteady. Every step was an effort, a messy fight against the remnants of the sedative William had injected into you. You sloppily pulled on a pair of sweatpants, then you took the key from the nightstand between trembling fingers, turning it over once before slipping it into your pocket. It was light, but its meaning was heavy. Your thoughts were clouded as you pushed yourself into motion. 

Luckily, you had little to pack. Everything that mattered was at your own house.

Bag slung over your shoulders, you stepped out of the room and into the hallway. The house felt like a ghost town. Not a trace of anyone. Not even the faintest sound of life. You passed by Michael's room. You knew what you were about to find before you even entered. The door was ajar, swinging open at the barest push of your hand. The only sign he had been here at all was the mess of his bedroom, and the window, which was wide open, the curtain shifting slightly in the morning breeze. You stepped forward, pressing your hands against the windowsill, staring down at the ground below. The damp grass was flattened in a path leading away from the house.

Looking at his bed, your eyes quickly fell upon a crumpled piece of paper on it. Perhaps William had read it before he left. Picking it up, you unfolded it, reading Michael's words.

"I can't stand being around you. I hate you. You're a monster, a vile, despicable man. You've treated me like shit for years and I won't stand for it any longer. I'm moving out and I'm not coming back. I hope you rot in hell for what you've done. Goodbye, Father.

— Michael"

A tear escaped your eye, laden with guilt, but you brushed it away. He was gone...

Michael had left because he couldn't bear being around his father anymore, that much was clear from his angry note. But William's departure was more complicated, still shrouded in mystery. Of course, you knew what William was capable of, the things he had done, the secrets only you and Michael shared. And according to William, Michael had uncovered something, undeniable proof of his crimes. That's why he left — to protect himself from whatever Michael might do next. The mention of Henry's name… Could Michael have reached out to him?

And yet, William had left you behind. You could barely process it. It would have been easier, to drag you along, force you into another chapter of whatever arrangement you had fallen into, and you could've helped him further. Instead, he left you a note with nstructions, orders, and an exit. Whatever control he had over you and whatever you had allowed him to take, it was over. All you had to do was leave. You had been abused, manipulated, used in every way a person could be used, and yet you still felt empty in his absence. It disgusted you.

You thought about your feelings for him. It wasn't just about the physical attraction anymore. It was a terrifying thought, one that you had pushed to the back of your mind for far too long. You went with random guys during these past years, never letting yourself get too attached. You were always the type to have a "see ya later, maybe never" attitude towards hookups, but with William it was much different. You saw him every day; it wasn't just a fleeting night followed by a goodbye kind of thing. 

Stumbling downstairs, you found yourself in the kitchen, your eyes landing on the wall calendar. The date was staring back at you, and it sent a bit of relief through your system. It wasn't a workday, which meant you had time to figure out what the hell you were going to do next. You couldn't afford to be paralyzed by feelings right now.

You still had a job to maintain, a position that required some level of professionalism despite the situation that had just unraveled. You were the assistant manager, which meant people would expect answers and direction. And most importantly, they would expect to hear from William. His note had been clear: disappear, find another job, forget him. But Afton Robotics wouldn't just run itself. William had still been in charge before he fled. Without his presence and his hand overseeing every moving piece, the factory would shut down. That wasn't speculation, that was a fact. You needed a story, definitely something that wouldn't raise suspicion but also wouldn't invite unnecessary questions. The people working under you weren't stupid, but they were used to William being secretive. If handled properly, his absence could be dismissed as just another one of his choices.

After leaving William's house, you locked the door behind you, the metal of the key pressing into your palm for a second before you slipped it back into your pocket. You walked down the street, hands buried in your jacket pockets as you kept your gaze fixed straight ahead. Each step away from William's house felt like prying yourself away from something that had rooted too deep. Letting go was like prying your fingers from a tight grip, painful yet necessary. You had spent so many nights in that house, in his bed, caught in that strange limbo between being wanted and being controlled. And now, he was not dead, not arrested, not even truly out of reach, but absent. That should have brought relief, but it didn't. It wasn't an easy action to leave this all behind, surely, but you understood the importance of moving forward, especially after everything that had happened. It wasn't just about him; it was about you, your life, and the path you intended to tread.

Your own house was coming into your view now. The distance had never felt like much before. The closer you got, the more your heart pounded. You didn't know why. Maybe because this was the first moment of separation. The first real breath of space between you and William since… all of this began.

You fished your key from your pocket with numb fingers, sliding it into the lock, pushing the door open. The hinges creaked softly. The air inside was untouched for days. You stepped inside, kicking off your shoes by the door. It was always like stepping into a life that had been paused. Everything was exactly where you had left it. The couch, for an example, slightly indented from where you had last sat.

It had only been a few minutes since you walked through the door, but it already felt like hours. The weight in your chest hadn't lifted. You were distressed, more than you wanted to admit, more than you could even rationalize at the moment. You dropped your bag onto the couch, then your feet carried you into the kitchen, your hands moving to grab a glass. After filling it with water, you drank slowly, thinking.

Henry and William had been on a business trip; that part was true. It was all part of the finalizing of Freddy's closure. There were a few ways you could approach this. The most logical option was to frame it as a business decision. It wouldn't be unreasonable to say that William had taken an extended leave to focus on personal matters. Maybe a health issue, something that would not invite further scrutiny but would explain his absence. Then, you had to decide on a statement. Something you could tell the employees without raising alarms. 

Afton Robotics had an expiration date. The moment people realized he wasn't returning, the company would fold.

If Henry hadn't read the letter yet, you might still have time. But it was impossible to know. The only thing you were certain of was that if Henry learned the truth, the entire company would collapse overnight. 

And William had told you to find another job. But where would you go? What did you even have outside of this?

First things first, you had to go in tomorrow. You had to set the narrative, control the rumors before they started. If you let the workers start speculating it would not take long before someone raised the alarm. You had to act normal about everything that had happened to keep the peace in the building. 

Henry could report William, but doing so he wouldn't just be giving them a fugitive, he'd be implicating himself. If he admitted that William had been a monster operating under his nose for years, people wouldn’t just question William, they'd question Henry, too, like they had for a long time. Why hadn't he noticed? Had he been complicit? And when had he really found out? The last thing Henry needed was a public scandal, especially one involving children. Instead, you assumed he'd most likely distance himself from William completely, banish him from Fazbear Entertainment, and make sure his name was permanently severed from the company. That alone was enough to declare William as missing. Not wanted... not yet, at least, but absent.

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

The world moved on, as it always did, but for you, time had fractured badly. Two years since you walked out of his house with nothing but a key and the harsh reality of knowing you'd never see your abuser again. Your soul still belonged to him. 

Freddy Fazbear's Pizza had officially closed its doors in late 1985. Parents no longer trusted the brand, and it became nothing more than a fading memory. As for Henry, he made no public statements and offered no explanations. If he knew anything, he wasn't telling. That alone was strange to people. The two of them, Henry and William, had been inseparable in the public eye, always part of the same projects, the same ventures. And now, nothing. There was especially no concern in his voice when he spoke of the company's future. Fazbear Entertainment wiped William's name from their records. It was as if he had never been a part of it at all. The gossips about it had already turned into quiet horror stories. 

But Afton Robotics remained operational. Unlike Freddy's, it was a quiet private company, less public. You stayed for a few days after William's disappearance, just long enough to keep things running smoothly. Luckily no one questioned your word when you said William had taken an extended leave, dealing with personal matters that were "none of their concern." At first, people whispered, wondering if he had finally decided to retire, if he had fled the country, if something had happened to him. But in the end, their paychecks still came, and that was all that mattered. It hadn't been hard because people already expected William to be secretive.

But as the days stretched into weeks and then months, his absence became undeniable. Inevitably, William Afton was declared missing. It wasn't until payroll errors started piling up more often. Someone had contacted the police. They were polite but they were treating it as little more than another missing person case. A grown man disappearing wasn't a high-priority case, especially not when there was no evidence of foul play. If anything, the prevailing theory was that he ran. Some speculated about financial ruin, maybe about avoiding tax fraud, others about an affair. You left without a word, and eventually, another manager took over. You didnt stay long enough to learn his name, and honestly, you didn't care. At least he helped making tf paychecks go out on time again. The employees quieted down after that. 

Michael had also been marked missing for weeks also. The newspapers ran his name, his school reported him absent, and the police had been called. For a time, it seemed like people genuinely cared. A sixteen-year-old boy vanishing was enough to stir concern, especially given his father's reputation. It was until people started saying he ran away on his own terms. It was the easiest conclusion to them, and as time passed, it became the only explanation anyone was willing to accept. His missing person case was quietly closed before it could even gain momentum, and the public forgot. You had not.

You were the one who had to watch it happen in real time, the one who knew the truth: he hadn't just run away. He escaped, but not without causing his father to face consequences... at least, to some extent.

It didn't feel like two years. It felt like a breath held too long until your lungs burned, until you were lightheaded and aching. William had vanished, but his absence wasn't a clean break. It gave you a long time to realize that despite everything, you weren't free. 

You were twenty-five when you walked away, and now, at twenty-seven, you had really fucking tried to make something new for yourself. It didn't come easy. The job market wasn't kind, and without a car, without connections, without any damn thing to rely on, you spent the better part of a year in financial ruin. Your savings drained quicker than you expected. You bounced between shitty retail jobs, working long hours for barely enough to cover rent and food. But you made it work. Eventually, things evened out. A raise helped, then a promotion. It wasn't much but it kept your head above water. You weren't starving, at least. Emotionally, though? That was a different story. 

He hadn't just stolen your time and controlled your body. He had systematically gutted your life, taking away the people who might have cared, ensuring that when he finally left, there was nothing left for you.

No friends. No social life. You were just some guy to your coworkers now, too. They kept to themselves, and so did you. The workplace was full of interactions, but none of them held weight.

As for family... they were far away. Sometimes, you made the effort for holidays, but even then, it felt like you were visiting a life that no longer fit. There were questions, of course. They noticed how different you were now, the way you didn't talk about your job, about the past two years. They didn't know. It was better this way. 

You spent most days holed up in your house, yearning for someone to talk to. The thought of reaching out to Henry crossed your mind more than once, but you couldn't bring yourself to burden him with your troubles. He had his own emotions to wrestle with. You didn't want to add to his burdens.

You've also been trying to understand more about remnant on your own. William injected you with it a while prior to his disappearance, leaving you to struggle understanding these strange sensations going all through your body. While he mentioned it would dull pain, experiencing it firsthand has been weird, and it was the only thing he had explained. A scratch barely caused any pain now, whereas before it would indeed sting. Even when you almost broke your leg at work, the pain was minimal. It was concerning— what if you were seriously injured and didn't even realize it due to the dulled pain? What if other changes occurred in your body, unnoticed because of the remnant? You might have even died again without even realizing it.

One morning, while sitting in your kitchen and drinking your coffee, looking through the pages of a newspaper, an advertisement caught your eye—a bold proclamation of the "new and improved" Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. The animatronics in a picture looked... safer. Henry maybe worked alone during these two years on opening a safer location. Without fully understanding why, you felt the need to go, as if some unseen force was urging you to get a job there even though you had told yourself you would stay far away from that establishment.

You arrived at the pizzeria, some memories flooding back as you stepped through the doors.

You felt as if William was standing right behind you, his breath hot on your neck. Yet, when you turned to look, there was no one there. 

The animatronics on stage seemed completely harmless, even cute, their movements matching with the cheerful music playing in the background. Despite everything you knew about the previous location, you couldn't help but feel a feeling of safety wash over you. This place was comforting!

As you glanced around, you noticed a group of employees bustling about. But strangely, you didn't see any of your old co-workers. It was as if they had all vanished, replaced by new faces. Most of those employees seemed younger, actually. It seemed like your past co-workers wanted to distance themselves from Freddy's entirely, too, perhaps out of fear or disgust after what happened.

You approached one of the employees, a young man who seemed busy cleaning a table. "Excuse me," you began, trying to keep your voice steady. "Could you kindly direct me to the person responsible for hiring? I'm interested in applying for a position here and would appreciate any guidance."

The employee nodded enthusiastically, happy to assist. "Sure thing! You'll want to speak with Mr. Ralph. His office is located down the hallway past the stage, the first door on your left — you can't miss it. He may be on a call at the moment, but once he's free, he'll be sure to give you his full attention."

With a grateful nod, you thanked the employee and made your way towards the office, your mind already racing with plans. You got a sense of déjà vu, and it felt like you were repeating this story in a circle. 

You knocked on the door of Mr. Ralph's office, and after a moment, a nervous voice told you to enter. You went inside, revealing a man in his mid-30s, wearing a uniform with a nametag that read "Ralph - Manager." He was busy scribbling something down on a piece of paper, his brow furrowed in concentration. Clearing your throat to get his attention, you waited until he looked up. "Oh, hello there—" the man greeted you with an anxious smile, motioning for you to come in. "You must be here about the job, I presume? Please, have a seat."

You took a seat across from him, trying to appear composed. "Yes, that's correct," you replied. "Names Y/N L/N. Saw an ad and thought I'd give it a shot." 

"Nice to meet you, Mr. L/N," Ralph said, extending his hand for a shake, and you took it. "So, um, do you have any experience working in a place like this?" 

You thought for a bit, debating how much to reveal. There were two ways to play this... keep it vague and professional or lay out enough of your experience to make an impression without giving away more than necessary. You weren't here to reminisce; you were here for a job. "Actually, yes, I have experience. I worked at the older location, the one before this. I started as a day-shift security guard, but after a few months, I was promoted to assistant manager. I was there for a few months before it closed down. Before that, I've had various jobs here and there—nothing too fancy."

Ralph's brows lifted slightly in interest. "Oh, uh- really? That's impressive." He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, shifting in his chair. "You know, not many folks stuck around long enough to climb ranks back then. Lot of people just, came and went, y'know? Fazbear Entertainment always had a bit of a... high turnover rate." He let out a nervous chuckle, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Experience in a management role is definitely a plus." His voice was a little strained, like he was trying to decide if this was good news or a headache waiting to happen. "We're always on the lookout for experienced hands here!" 

"Yeah, turnover was pretty high. People didn't tend to stick around long." It was an understatement, really. Most left because of the unsettling things they'd seen, or worse, the things they couldn't explain. You'd been one of the few who stayed despite it all. 

Ralph nodded. "Yeah, that's kind of the nature of the business, huh? We're trying to make a fresh start here, though— security's been beefed up, and we're more vigilant than ever, especially when it comes to kids. Our top priority is ensuring nothing like... that tragedy ever happens again. You're here now, so that's what matters too." He said. "So, what exactly are you hoping to do here? We got security positions open, floor staff, maintenance... a little bit of everything, really." 

"... I think I'd be a good fit for a day shift position. Something that fascinated me is restocking plushies at the prize corner area," you said. "I can help out in other areas if needed,c too."

"That sounds good. Things get kind of messy around here sometimes. Not, uh, not literally! Well, sometimes literally. Kids, y'know."

You forced a small smile, nodding like you didn't already know exactly what kind of messes this place had seen

He reached into a drawer, pulling out a thin folder. "I got the paperwork right here. Just basic hiring forms, confidentiality agreements, stuff like that. You'll need to go through a background check, standard procedure." He slid the papers toward you, along with a pen. "Go ahead and fill those out. I'll be right back with something."

As you started filling them out, Ralph stood, walking toward the door. You could hear the subtle crackle of his walkie-talkie as he stepped into the hallway, leaving you alone in his office. 

He returned a few minutes later, dropping a folded uniform onto the desk. "Here's your shirt and badge. Pants, uh... you'll have to supply yourself. We don't carry those in inventory."

You slid the completed forms back across the desk, keeping your expression calm, neutral. Ralph took them, giving a quick nod before flipping through the papers. "Looks good," he muttered, setting the stack aside. He adjusted his glasses, clearing his throat. "So, congrats! You're hired. We can get you started tomorrow." He offered you a lopsided smile, but there was a nervous energy about him, like he was waiting for something to go wrong.

"Thanks for giving me an opportunity, sir." you said, standing up from your seat.  

"Of course. And listen, since you’ve done this before, you probably already know, but... lotta folks find work here kinda weird at first. Nothing bad, just, different from your average gig." He said it like someone who had spent years convincing himself of the same thing.

You forced a tight-lipped, awkward smile, the kind that barely stretched across your face. It sat there like an ill-fitting mask. "I know," you said, the words blunt, solid, as if speaking them into existence would make them feel less strange. "I know exactly what kind of place this is." 

Ralph's smile faltered.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

Then, finally... 

"Well..." Ralph said, clearing his throat, shifting in his seat. "Welcome aboard again." 

You nodded, offering a stiff handshake that he took hesitantly, and then you turned on your heel, leaving the office without another word. Tomorrow, you would start your new job at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, ready to face whatever challenges come your way. 

And you would find William Afton.

Art time :) Sorry, I don't have much this time. 

1. SpringBonnie (I drew this like two months ago but forgot to share lol) 

Chapter Text

It was a ritual now, waking up early, spending those first few moments lying still, caught between the past and the present, and then forcing yourself to move forward. You handed in your resignation that early morning, walking into your manager's office with your decision already made, back straight, face set in careful neutrality. You had already written your resignation letter the night before, carefully wording it to sound professional but firm. The man behind the desk barely looked up at first, too focused on his paperwork, until he finally registered what you were saying. He sighed, rubbing his forehead before glancing up at you with something that might have been disappointment or maybe just resignation. Maybe he could see it in your face, how sure you were, how there was no changing your mind. The job had never meant much to you because it had been a placeholder, something to keep your life moving forward. The weight of it didn't hit you until you left the building for the last time.

Just like that, you cut another tie, severed another part of your life in favor of something new. 

The hunger and the motivation to find William Afton was not just a passing, naive thought. It was a deep wound in your chest that refused to close. Finding William wasn't something you could sum up quickly. It also wasn't just revenge, or curiosity, or the need to confront him after everything. It was deeper than that, messier. A bunch of unresolved emotions that you couldn't unravel, no matter how many times you tried to reason with yourself. You should have thanked whatever higher power had decided to rid you of him. But he was not a memory... He was a disease. God help you, you didn't know whether you wanted to run from him, or straight back into his arms. 

A lot of things at Freddy's felt off, like something was being hidden. The way Ralph had talked: nervous, uncertain, like he was standing in the middle of a minefield, just waiting for something to go off... The way the old employees were gone, replaced by fresh faces. You had to figure out what the company was doing in private before it was too late to intervene again. 

You were in the bus, listening to the distant sound of cars passing outside.

Even though you had experience with places like this, you couldn't help but feel a bit nervous. The familiarity didn't erase the unsettling memories tied to the old location, even if the place was truly better and safer. The shiny, clean interior felt like a mockery of everything you had heard happened before. 

You knew the history. The incident at Fredbear's Family Diner, followed by the tragedies at Freddy's last location. It was as if none of that mattered to the people in charge of the current location. It made you angry. How could they do this? How could they brush aside the lives lost and the families broken just to make more money? You knew that some of the higher-ups had to be aware of the deaths tied to these places. Yet, they continued, driven by greed. 

If Henry was still around, did he find out about William's research? If he did, then why the hell had he let this place reopen? You still felt guilty about Henry, but you couldn't be sure if he was complicit. Though, if he was, condemning him would be hypocritical... after all, you had helped William even more.

Your thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a cheerful voice. "Hey, you must be the new guy!" You turned to see the same young man from yesterday, his eyes bright and his smile easy and genuine. As you paid more attention to him, you saw that the guy looked like he had just dropped out of high school, 18 years old at most. "My name's Jeremy Fitzgerald. What's yours?"

His energy was infectious, almost overwhelming, and it also made you wonder if he was mocking you. Was he testing you? Or was this just how he talked? "Y/N L/N," you replied, trying to sound confident but feeling a bit off. It had been so long since you had a real conversation with anyone. Making friends again felt foreign and uncomfortable. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet ya too, Y/N! You look a bit lost. First day nerves, huh? Don’t worry... you'll get the hang of it in no time." he spoke with a grin on his face. 

You nodded. "Yeah, something like that. It's been a while since I worked in a place like this." 

"Don't worry about it," Jeremy said. "Everyone's a bit nervous on their first day. I mean, look at this place. It's supposed to be all friendly and shit, but it's also kinda weird." he giggled. "So, where you from? I'm guessing not around here, judging by the 'lost puppy' look. And don't worry about fitting in, we're all a bit weird in our own ways."

Seriously? Was there a sign on your forehead that said 'Help me, I'm lost'? "I moved here about two years ago. I've had the chance to work at a few different places here and there, picking up new experiences along the way." You said, not wanting to go into too much detail about the struggles. "Guess I ended up here" ... again.

"Job hunting sucks, can be a real pain in the ass. At least you landed here, right? Could be worse." 

"So, how long have you been working here?" you asked a question back, starting to relax a little. 

Jeremy scratched the back of his head, furrowing his eyebrows in thought. "Oh, not long. Only a few days, actually. This place just opened, so I'm one of the first hires. Guess that means we're in this together. New guy and… slightly less new guy." 

"Haha, something like that." 

"Yeah, though, uh..." Jeremy leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was telling some grand secret. "Some of the other guys have already been talking about weird stuff happening at night. The usual haunted pizzeria bullshit." He grinned. "Honestly, I think they just freak themselves out. You believe in ghosts?"

You held his gaze for a moment before answering. "I believe in things that can't be explained."

Jeremy whistled, rocking back on his heels. "Creepy."

You shrugged. "Just realistic."

"Well, now I better go wrangle these animatronics. They think they can sneak around when nobody's looking."

"Sure thing. Good luck. Don't let them bite."

He slapped you on the shoulder in a friendly gesture before heading toward the maintenance hallway.

You could still feel William's presence here even if he was gone.

You exhaled slowly, pushing down the intrusive thoughts as you reminded yourself why you were here. You weren't some lost, pathetic soul hoping to reconnect with the ghost of a monster.

You couldn't help but notice the age difference between you and the rest of the staff, too. They were all younger than you, yet you were being treated as the newbie despite your experience. It reminded you of how people often underestimated you because of your quiet demeanor and recent struggles. It wasn't their fault, but it did make you wonder how you'd fit in here.

After your shift ended, you changed out of your uniform in the employee locker room, grateful to be out of the fabric. It felt like shedding a layer of someone else's skin. As you gathered your things to head home, Jeremy caught up with you just as you were about to leave. "Hey, Y/N, wait up!"

You turned to him. "Yeah?"

"Look, I wanted to give you my number. We should hang out sometime, grab a drink or something. You know, friends and all." He handed you a slip of paper with his number scrawled on it.

"Friends?" you repeated, feeling a pang of confusion. It had been so long since you'd considered anyone a friend, let alone someone as lively as Jeremy. 

"Yeah, friends," Jeremy affirmed with a smile. "I got your back, man— see you 'round!" With a pat on your shoulder, Jeremy turned and went his way, leaving you standing there, feeling strangely touched. Maybe Jeremy saw something in you that others didn't or maybe he was just that kind of guy.

As you walked back home, your foot kicked something on the ground. You looked down and saw a dirty newspaper. It seemed like it had been discarded there on for a very long time. A name caught your eye...

"William Afton Disappeared" the headline said.

Who would read this and then just toss it here instead of throwing it in the trash? You bent down, picking up the newspaper, and wiped off the dirt with your fingers. You focused on the text, your eyes scanning the article quickly, trying to absorb every word. The date was partially indiscernible, but it was from 1985, two years ago.

"WILLIAM AFTON DISAPPEARED: The co-owner of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza and CEO of Afton Robotics, has mysteriously vanished from his home.

═════════════════

Afton was reported missing in late December, though the exact date is unclear. It is believed that Mr. Afton could have been gone for several days after returning from a business trip before anyone noticed. An employee of Afton's filed a missing person report after Mr. Afton did not show up for work at Afton Robotics for several days.

Afton Robotics was a separate company owned by William Afton, which has been extremely affected by his sudden disappearance. Employees at Afton Robotics are reportedly shocked by the situation, as Afton was last seen at the company headquarters before he went on his business trip with his partner, Henry Emily. 'He was here late into the evening, as usual, working on one of his many projects. It's just strange that he would leave everything behind without any explanation after he came back.' one employee, who chose to remain anonymous, said.

Authorities are currently investigating the circumstances surrounding his disappearance, but there is no clear evidence to suggest foul play. Some speculate that Afton may have skipped town, moved out on his own, or met with an unfortunate accident. Neighbors described Afton's house as unusually quiet. Friends and colleagues describe him as a private yet dedicated individual. He was always meticulous about his schedules and commitments."

A photo of William accompanied the article. Below the photo, a description read:

"Missing Person Report: Have you seen this man? 

──────────────────

Missing from: Hurricane, Utah

Name: William Afton

Age: 47

Height: 6'2"

Weight: 180 lbs

Sex: M

Race: Caucasian

Last seen wearing: a dark suit.

──────────────────

If seen, please contact the Hurricane Police Department."

You stood there, processing the words as his image looked back at you from the page. So, this was how they saw it? No suspicion, no real investigation into why he suddenly disappeared.

You sighed and moved toward the trash bin, newspaper in hand. It didn't need to be another piece of litter harming the environment. With one final glance at William's printed face, you crumpled the paper, tossed it in, and turned away without hesitation.

As you walked home, thoughts of the day stayed in your mind. Maybe taking this job was a mistake. Sure, the people seemed nice, but the unease about William lingered. You pondered again whether there had been any signs of William today...

Nothing. Maybe it was just your anxiety acting up again.

When you were finally home, you ran a hand through your hair, sighing deeply. You trudged wearily to your bedroom, and the familiar routine of changing into your pajamas and crawling into bed felt empty. The night sky outside your window was a dark blue. Hugging your pillow tight, you closed your eyes, trying to relax.

Suddenly, a sharp headache pierced through your thoughts, causing you to groan. You sat up, rubbing at your temples, trying to ease the pain. Maybe it was just stress again from the new job, or perhaps something else entirely. Then it hit you: two whole years had passed without a single dream or nightmare about the missing children. Their voices, their pleading faces have disappeared from your mind. You wondered why. Had they left you alone because he was no longer around to influence your thoughts?

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, feeling the dull ache in your body from the day's work. Shuffling into the kitchen, you rummaged through the cabinet until you found a bottle of painkillers. Popping a few into your mouth, you washed them down with a glass of water, hoping they'd kick in soon.

Back in bed, your mind continued racing with a bunch of thoughts.

Why had you felt compelled to apply for a job at Freddy's? Was it just coincidence, or was there some deeper connection, perhaps tied to that substance William injected into you? Remnant, he called it. What if it was more than immortality? What if it linked you to him somehow which made you feel his presence even when he wasn't there?

Eventually, fatigue won out, and you drifted into an sleep.

The next few days were a cycle. 

While you were occasionally entertaining Jeremy's attempts at friendship, he latched onto you instantly, dragging you to bars after shifts, laughing over cheap beer as he joked about how Europeans had the right idea about drinking ages. "I mean, what's the worst that can happen? I get caught? Pfft, I'll just play dumb. Works every time," he'd say with a wink, tipping his glass back like he had no worries in the world. You smirked but said nothing. You weren't much of a drinker, and Jeremy's energy could be overwhelming, but you had to admit, his presence was starting to become familiar. Even comfortable.

Jeremy was an easy person to be around. He had a way of talking that made it seem like everything was just a joke, like the world was something to laugh at rather than be afraid of. And maybe he was right. At least, in his presence, you felt like you weren't trapped in a spiral of old ghosts and bad decisions. But even then, the feeling never lasted.

You started noticing the strange things at work around the third day, but you continously brushed it off as paranoia caused by stress. 

That was until the visions started. Fleeting at first, nothing more than a trick of the light or a momentary hallucination. You'd be wiping down a table, and in the reflection of the glossy surface, you'd see something that wasn't there. A outline of a figure standing just behind you. You recoiled so hard you nearly knocked over a rack of plushies. Jeremy had been nearby, shooting you a confused look, but you just mumbled something about being lightheaded and hurried off before he could pry.

Then came the voices, which at first they were indistinct, blended in with the sounds of the restaurant. But as the hours passed, the voice forced itself into something very familiar, but you couldn't figure out what exactly it reminded you of. 

It wasn't just in your head, either. The animatronics reacted to you differently. The Toy Chica model seemed to tilt her head ever so slightly as you passed by, the beak parting as if about to speak. Toy Bonnie's eyes followed you across the room. Toy Freddy seemed to twitch every so often, even once stopping mid-movement when you passed by the stage. And Mangle twitched erratically when you were nearby, the movements halting the second you looked directly at it. 

That thing had always been unsettling. One of the janitors mentioned it had started climbing along the ceiling near the day shift workers, something it had never done before. Mangle had already been an issue since opening day. The animatronic was originally meant to be a fully functional, standard animatronic but was turned a part of a "take-apart-and-put-back-together" attraction in the Kid's Cove area. After being repeatedly torn apart by children, the animatronic began behaving like a neglected, feral dog: aggressive, unpredictable, and desperate for any form of attention.

Strange occurrences started as nearly insignificant changes, things that could be written off as simple mistakes, lapses in maintenance, or the usual growing pains of a newly opened location. But soon, the anomalies began to show up more frequently. The first real sign of trouble came when one of the janitors reported that someone had been inside the Parts & Service room. This was concerning for several reasons. The room, which housed the animatronics from the previous Freddy's location, was supposed to be accessible only to technicians, and even they were reluctant to spend more time there than necessary. Management dismissed the janitor's concerns at first, claiming it was likely an oversight, a door left open by mistake. But then, reports began stacking up. Tools were going missing. Parts that had been accounted for in the morning were inexplicably absent. The animatronics, despite being non-operational, were sometimes found repositioned, as if someone had been moving them during the night. 

The newer Toy animatronics had begun exhibiting strange behavior as well. Their facial recognition softwares seemed to malfunction intermittently. 

No one could figure out who was tampering with the animatronics. Management, too stubborn or too dismissive to investigate properly, decided to shift the responsibility onto the night guard, a man named Dave Miller. They assigned him the responsibility of ensuring that the strange incidents weren't the work of a trespasser. You didn't know much about him because you worked during the day, and whatever happened once the doors were locked was someone else's problem. Still, the fact that they had to assign someone to specifically watch over the animatronics wasn't exactly reassuring.

(...)

It was late afternoon when you found yourself at the Prize Corner, kneeling beside a crate filled with plushies. The scent of new fabric clung to the air as you pulled out plushies, smoothing their fur before setting them on the shelves, stacking the plushies in neat little rows. The last thing you needed was a lecture from management about presentation. Jeremy waved his hands animatedly, rambling about something you only half-registered.

"…and I swear, Y/N, it was like the teacher knew I hadn't done the homework. Like, she made eye contact with me and just smiled, like some kind of evil witch. That's why I always kept my head down in class. If you don't make eye contact, they can't smell the fear." After a few moments, Jeremy let out a dramatic sigh. "... You are listening, right?" 

"Sure," you muttered.

"Liar," he accused, nudging your shoulder with his shoe. "But whatever, I'll let it slide this time. This time."

You shot him a look, and he grinned. For a moment, the two of you fell into silence. Then, Jeremy spoke again, his voice quieter this time. "Man, you're so mysterious. Like, really... I try to get to know you, and you just hit me with the 'I dunno' routine every so often." 

You smirked. "Maybe I just enjoy watching you struggle." 

"Yeah, yeah, real sadist, you are." He rolled his eyes, then shifted the conversation. "You know, this reminds me of school." 

You glanced up. "Restocking plushies?"

He snorted. "No, dumbass. Just... being here, working and hanging out. Feels kinda like how it did back in high school before everyone grew up and got jobs." 

You considered that for a moment. It had been a long time since you thought about high school, about anything from that part of your life that wasn't drenched in blood and regret. You didn't have the luxury of reminiscing about the 'good old days' because those days never existed for you.

Jeremy, oblivious to your internal thoughts, continued. "There was this guy I knew in school," he began. "His name was Michael. He was kind of a loner." 

You almost choked. The name Michael brought back a flood of memories. Jeremy didn't seem to notice your reaction. "He went through a lot. First, he lost his younger brother, then his sister, and after that… he was never the same. I tried to be friends with him, but he just shut everyone out." he continued. "I guess I can't blame him; people were assholes to him... Maybe, to him, I was just another face in the crowd." he sighed. "One day he stopped coming to school altogether. No one saw him for a whole year, and it was pretty clear he wasn't coming back. There were all sorts of rumors," Jeremy said, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "Some people said his dad was treating him badly. Really messed up stuff."

The Michael Jeremy described sounded exactly like the Michael you knew. That poor boy...

You didn't let your expression falter, didn't let the pause stretch too long. Just gave a noncommittal shrug and acted like Jeremy's words were nothing more than casual conversation. The last thing you needed was to show even a hint of recognition. 

"Sounds rough." you said. 

"... Yeah," he stretched, yawning loudly. "Anyway, enough depressing stuff. I gotta get back before the manager chews my ass for slacking. Catch ya later, newbie."

"Yeah. Later."

Jeremy jogged off, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You exhaled, trying to shake off the anxiety before focusing back on your task.

You finished restocking the plushies, stacking the last of them on the shelves, but as you reached into the crate one last time, your fingers brushed against something unexpected. You pulled it out and found yourself staring at a golden rabbit with green eyes and a cute, innocent expression. Its long ears flopped slightly that seemed to invite you to pick it up, and it wore a purple bow tie. SpringBonnie, perhaps? It was old, in the way that suggested it shouldn't be here at all. The fabric was warm, as if it had been sitting in the sun rather than buried at the bottom of a crate. Holding it, you had a feeling that made you want to keep it close.

You bit your lip, glancing around the Prize Corner, scanning for any wandering eyes. You hesitated only for a moment before shoving it into your jacket, tucking it beneath the folds of fabric. Your heart pounded as you straightened up, forcing yourself to act natural. No one was paying attention. Jeremy was long gone, and the other employees were busy with their own tasks. You walked toward the break room, needing a moment to collect yourself before heading home.

You stepped off the bus and walked the short distance to your house, the weight of the stolen plush pressing against your chest beneath your jacket. Your thoughts kept circling back to the rabbit in your possession, its warmth oddly persistent, as if it had soaked up something more than just the heat of your body. Once inside, you locked the door behind you and let out a breath, rolling your shoulders to shake off the lingering tension from work. You slipped off your jacket, pulling the toy from inside.

Your admiration was short-lived, because the longer you looked at it, the harder it became to ignore the creeping, uneasy sensations pushing up your your spine. Because you knew what it represented. It was based off the suit he had worn when he lured them away, those children, step by step throughout passing days. Their laughter, swallowed by the promise of fun before everything went silent.

It was both unsettling and strangely reassuring, unsettling because of its connection to William, yet comforting because it reminded you of a time when things were different, simpler even.

Its ears flopped lazily when you nudged them, bouncing back into place like they had a mind of their own. You then traced a finger over the purple bow tie, the only pop of color against its golden body.

Eventually, you decided to go rest in your bedroom. You moved to the bed, kicking off your shoes before lying down. The mattress creaked beneath your weight.

You hesitated for a moment, then pulled the plushie closer, tucking it against your chest as you curled onto your side. Your eyes felt heavy. The day had been long, and sleep was pulling at you, urging you to let go.

And so, with the golden rabbit nestled beside you, you closed your eyes.

Sleep took you before you could think about why the warmth felt so familiar.

Art time! 💜

Here's my Dave Miller design :)

A little bit of info: 

More gray is threaded through his dark brown hair than before, especially at the temples and roots. It had grown uneven and a bit overlong, like he's been cutting it himself. Grease clings to it some days, flattened in places where he's run his hands through it too often. Hairline may be slightly receding now, stress quickening its retreat. 

His complexion is sallow, with the signs of poor sleep and worse nutrition. Skin clings tighter to his cheekbones. His eye bags are deeper than before, looking bruised. Eyes are constantly bloodshot or glassy. 

Alternates between patchy stubble and a thin, scruffy beard.

He rarely shaves on a consistent schedule anymore. When he does, it's hurried, uneven, like nicks on his neck, spots missed. He never trims it properly, just shaves it off in frustration when it gets too itchy. When he's been spiraling or locked away in his obsessions, a short beard takes hold.

It gives him a shadowed look, and makes him harder to recognize.

His uniform is always a little rumpled, like he slept in it or didn't care enough to fix the creases.

Movements sometimes twitchy or stiff, like sleep-deprivation has messed with his coordination. Tension hangs in his neck and jaw. 

<3

Chapter Text

The next week was absolute chaos. A major systems failure had thrown the entire establishment into disarray.

One morning, the restaurant's sound system failed completely, blasting static through the speakers at an ear-splitting volume. That same afternoon, the main power grid experienced a temporary outage, cutting off electricity to half the establishment for nearly thirty minutes. The situation reached a peak when the stage curtains jammed, refusing to open during a birthday event, leaving the dining area full of children confused and crying as their idols stood motionless behind the fabric.

As a precaution, the restaurant made the decision to overlap shifts, ensuring that at least one employee was present during the transition from day to night. Having someone from the outgoing shift stick around to talk to the incoming shift helps with communication, they said... that they can explain what happened, what's been done, and what still needs attention. They reduced the chance of something falling through the cracks like "oh, I thought the night shift would handle that." 

Unfortunately for you... they chose you. The decision came down from the top, framed as an opportunity for "team collaboration" and "learning more about company operations," but it was clear to you that it was a desperate attempt to pacify complaints without spending money on real solutions.

Your job? Work alongside the night guard for a few minutes during the transition, Dave Miller, and report anything out of the ordinary, then go home. Simple in theory. In practice, it felt like a punishment. The employees who did know him never had anything good to say. He was one of those guys people avoided without really explaining why. It was instinctive. 

There was a sense of dread inside you, clearly uncomfortable with this assignment. 

Today was rainy, the sky a dull gray, casting a gloomy darkness over everything. Customers were scarce due to the bad weather, and the atmosphere was somber. The last of the day-shift workers had already left, their footsteps fading into the wet streets outside. It was rare for you to be the last employee to leave, as you always tried to head out as quickly as possible, but you had to do your job. 

The main lights had been turned off to conserve power, leaving only the light from your flashlight to help you out through the dark.

With a sigh, you set to work wiping down the countertop at the prize corner while waiting, taking a look around every once in a while. As you worked, you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. You turned back around to look around the dining area, and found yourself in total alone. It was very eerie. The night shift would have started soon, therefore it was strange that the night guard hadn't arrived yet. The colorful decorations and empty tables of the restaurant were contrast to the uneasy feeling that descended upon your chest.

Your left arm suddenly throbbed, and it wasn't the kind of ache that came from overuse or some lingering injury. This was deep, alive. You hissed through your teeth and instinctively grabbed your wrist, fingers digging into your sleeve as if holding it might stop the hurt from climbing any higher. That was a warning. The Remnant inside you... it didn't cry out without reason. You tugged your sleeve up and stared down at where the slightly gray-slicked veins ran like a diseased river branching down to your wrist. They were not throbbing visibly, but the ache behind them radiated with heat. You pressed your fingers into the flesh, testing the pain, and flinched.

This hadn't happened in months. You thought the worst of it had passed, thought the remnant had stabilized, or... or stopped reacting. It didn't normally do this unless— Unless what? You weren't sure. 

You shoved the sleeve back. A chill ran up your spine that had nothing to do with the weather. You exhaled sharply, whispering, "Jesus Christ..." 

Your pulse was racing now, and the pain in your arm dulled into something like static under your skin.

Then, you heard footsteps from outside. These were slow, the kind that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise. The past week had been nothing but a shitstorm of technical failures and long shifts, and now, because upper management had the backbone of a wet napkin, you were stuck on "extra duty" with the one person nobody wanted to be alone with after dark.

You moved toward the entrance, shoes squeaking against the floor, but the moment you stepped close enough to see, something in you hesitated. Even through the fogged-up glass, you could tell he was in no hurry. His stance was unbothered, his posture relaxed, like he had all the time in the goddamn world.

The glass doors swung open, and a gust of the cold night air swept into the restaurant, curling around your legs like invisible fingers. You squinted against the darkness, trying to make out the figure, but the dark lighting made it impossible to properly see his face. 

Lightning suddenly cracked outside, briefly illuminating the floor. In that flash, you saw his shadow which was a long, tall figure standing in the doorway in front of you, making you jump a little in fear. Another flash of lightning illuminated the man for an instant, and you could have sworn it was someone you recognized...

It was, without a second of doubt, William.

And he looked... irritated. His jaw tensed slightly, the lines on his forehead deepening as he stepped further inside, letting the door swing shut behind him with a muted thud. Your breath hitched, body locking up as if the electricity had surged through your veins instead of the sky.

His hair had kinda lost its luster, now messier with even more strands of gray betraying the passage of time. He was leaner, the fabric of his uniform hanging a little loose at the waist, the belt cinched tighter than it should have been to compensate. The lines of his face were more pronounced, shadows settling in the hollows of his cheeks. A five o'clock shadow darkened his jawline, making him look even rougher, like he hadn't cared enough to shave properly in days.

He was also wearing a name-tag that read "Dave." 

The change in his appearance caught you off guard, but there was no mistaking the man himself. William Afton stood before you, older and yet somehow even more magnetic. 

"William...?" The name escaped your lips as a breathless whisper, your eyes locked on his face. 

He smirked with that same smirk you hated. "It's Dave now, kid." he corrected, his attempt at an American accent painfully bad, despite his British roots. The words rolled off his tongue unnaturally, like he had to chew them into shape before spitting them out. You noticed a chip marred one of his teeth as he spoke, but now it wasn't the time to ask about it. "Fancy meeting you here. Though I must say, you look like you've seen a ghost." He spoke with a casualness as if no years had passed at all. 

"…What the fuck?" 

It wasn't eloquent, but it was all you could manage.

You tested the name, let it roll off your tongue in a way that felt foreign, stiff. "So... you're going by Dave now." It didn't fit. Like trying to shove a square peg into a round hole. Dave was the name of some guy who worked at a gas station or a grocery store. Your mind screamed his true name even as your eyes drank in the changes. "You left with just a piece of paper with the vaguest excuse imaginable — 'Michael took something from me from my office... You will never speak my name again... You will not attempt to contact me.' Do you have any idea what it was like to wake up one morning and realize you were just gone?" 

You took in a shuddering breath before continuing, rambling in anger. "And now, you don't get to act like this is some casual run-in. You left me to rot in my own head. After all the shit you put me through, you just walk back in my life like nothing happened? Like you didn't carve yourself into my goddamn life and then rip yourself out?" you shook your head, "The cops couldn't figure out what happened to you. Your name was put on a damn missing persons report. People thought you were dead." 

He scoffed, the sound filled with disdain. "Dead? Hardly. I had to reinvent myself. William Afton couldn't exist anymore, not with the mud that name carries around here. So, I became Dave Miller. Had to blend in, lay low, keep my head down, not screw around like you." he rolled his eyes. "Michael took something important from me, something that compromised my work, simple as that. I had no choice but to leave and correct the situation." Dave's gaze shifted slightly, the first sign of anything resembling thoughtfulness, but then he straightened. "It was something tied to my research. And he even had the gall to write a note to Henry. The brat wanted to expose me." 

"Where'd you go?" you inquired.

"A small apartment. Something cheap. Near enough to here to be convenient but far enough to avoid suspicion and unnecessary complications. Keeps me off the radar, laying low. It's a simple life but it's all part of the plan." His words are almost as if he were stating facts on a report rather than addressing a former... whatever the hell you had been to each other. "When you disappear, you don't do it halfway. You don't burn through savings on comfort when the priority is staying unseen. I had to ensure I wouldn't be found, and that requires cutting off everything. Including you. In short, I wasn't running; I was strategizing."

"... Dude, what kind of strategy makes some people think you're dead?" 

"One that keeps me out of prison." Dave replied, still avoiding complete answers. He sighed dismissively, stepping inside. "Anyway, enough of that... Do you have any idea what time it is?" he began. "Your shift ended an hour ago. You were supposed to lock the door and be on your way. Yet here you are. Why? Can't follow simple instructions? Or is it that you enjoy wasting my time?" His fake accent wavered, British tones now bleeding through.  

He wasn't asking because he wanted you gone. No, he was simply seeing how much of your backbone had stayed after all these years.

"I was told to wait for you. Management wanted someone from day shift to stick around to brief the night. It's supposed to keep things from falling apart, share updates, prevent miscommunication. I figured I might as well clean while I waited."

"Is that right?" He took another step closer. The space between you shrank, and with it, any illusion of control you might have had over this conversation. You had to tilt your head up slightly just to keep your eyes on his. "And here I was, under the impression that when a shift ends, an employee locks up and leaves. Not loiters about, waiting to be told what to do like some... lost pup. But then again, you always were a bit stubborn." 

"Funny. I follow orders for once, and somehow, that's still a wrong move that pissed you off." you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

"Pissed?" He let out a soft humorless chuckle. "No. 'Pissed' implies an emotional investment I do not have the luxury of indulging in." Then he took a step back, shifting the conversation. "This isn't a reunion. I don't have time to play catch-up with you. I've got work to do, and unlike you, I take my responsibilities seriously. I have animatronics I need to handle, and they're not going to take care of themselves. So unless you want to be here all night, get the hell out and let me do my job."

You squared your shoulders. "I'm staying with you tonight." you blurted out, your voice shaking with determination.

"Suit yourself." he spoke evenly, the word clipped. "But understand this, staying for a shift that isn't yours can get you into serious trouble. It's against protocol, a safety issue. You're not supposed to be here, and if anything happens, you're on your own." He placed a hand on your shoulder, not gently, guiding you back into the building. His grip was firm, reminding you of just how much control he still had. The man beside you was a killer; you knew that. But you also knew that he was the only thing keeping you from feeling completely lost.

As you walked through the dark halls with Dave by your side, he began to mutter to himself. "These animatronics, they're a bloody nightmare..." he said, shining his flashlight into the darkness. Dave's boots made soft sounds against the floor. His voice was unhurried, like a teacher giving a particularly condescending lecture. "They're all tied into some kind of criminal database, which—" he let out a chuckle, amused by his own audacity, "—means they can sniff out a predator a mile away. Bunch of self-righteous bastards programmed them. If I step too close to some of them, they act up, start tracking my movements. Brilliant idea, really, but a bit of a miscalculation on their part."

Your silence was enough of a reaction.

Dave tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "Surprised I'm still walking around then, yeah?" he continued, voice slipping into that instructional tone. "See, lucky for me, the database isn’t exactly up-to-date. Lots of flaws in the system, gaps. Nothing's perfect, but that doesn't mean they don't try. That's why when the building shuts down for the night, they start searching; they think they're in the wrong place, so they go looking for people. And in this case, people means the office, their point of reference. It is why we've got a temp solution - A music box in the prize corner. It's rigged to be wound up remotely. Every once in a while, you have to switch the camera feed over and wind it up for a few seconds."

You narrowed your eyes. "And that actually works?"

He exhaled, the breath pushing through his nose like he was trying to hold something back. The pause had stretched just long enough to feel unnatural. "It does affect… Charlotte." 

It was silent for a few seconds before he continued, less tense this time. 

"She's the Puppet, possessed it the night she died. She's much different from the other spirits; Smarter, more... aware. During the day, she plays her role well enough, keeps an eye on things and watches over the brats. Almost like she still thinks she can protect them. But at night, she searches... Always looking for me."

You were unsettled, the words caught in your throat, bile rising with them. But you forced yourself to inquire. You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. "I'm curious about something… Do you know if Henry still works here? If he's still… around?"

Dave's expression darkened at the mention of Henry. "Last I heard, he's too stressed out to deal with this place anymore. Hired some manager to run the place for him as you've seen. The irony is, Ralph once was my employee tasked with recording tapes on springlock mechanisms. Now he's in charge, even handling the night training tapes."

You noticed his disdain, but you kept your mouth shut. The last thing you wanted was to trigger his anger.

The security room had only two vents as the only respite. Dave tossed his things onto the desk, checking his watch.

"That's our best friend in here." he then nodded toward the empty Freddy Fazbear head sitting on the desk. "Tricks most of them, including the older models at the Parts and Service room. They're barely functional at this point... Company had this brilliant idea to repair them at first, even started retrofitting them with new tech. But… turns out corpses don't make for good insulation." The nonchalance in his tone sent a fresh wave of nausea through you. He wasn't bragging, wasn't gloating. "They started fitting them with new parts before realizing what was inside."

Your body locked up.

"The kids—"

"Stuffed them inside," he confirmed without hesitation, his tone devoid of remorse. "Efficient at the time. Not so much in hindsight. But what's done is done." 

You had known, in some way, but hearing him admit it so plainly, so effortlessly, made your disgust for him surge.

He continued, speaking evenly. "The older Foxy model, however... He's different, more aggressive. The others respond to the disguise, hesitate long enough for you to outmaneuver them. Foxy doesn't fall for it."

Dave moved past you, already losing interest in the conversation, 

"How does this job work, then?" you questioned. "Like... Without all the complications." 

"Tsk, quit with the questions. It ain't that hard. Keep an eye on the cameras, make sure nothing dodgy goes on. Got it?" He glanced at the monitors. "I'll handle the rest; it's just past midnight. If the animatronics catch you, they'll kill you for good. And since you're still clueless about handling them, you're better off watching." he told you. "They know my face since I'm on their criminal database, but they'll go for anyone they can get hold of. Get under the desk. They're less likely to notice you there, and if you're lucky, they'll just ignore you." 

The hours dragged on slowly as you and Dave remained vigilant, ensuring the animatronics remained at bay. Dave moved swiftly, using the Freddy mask whenever necessary to fool the animatronics into thinking he was one of them.

Your skin felt clammy. Your stomach hurt. It was suffocating in the room considering the fact there were no windows in this area, no airflow. You were under the desk most of the time, knees aching from how long you had been folded in on yourself, hiding your face and hoping to avoid detection. Despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins, you remained focused. His boots were planted wide on either side of you, shoulder brushing his thigh every time you shifted. You couldn't hear your own heartbeat over the static humming of the security systems. Your job was helping him rewinding the music box on command. Fetching his tools when he tossed them down without warning. Keeping the flashlight batteries charged. Anything he demanded with that bored tone like he was assigning chores to a teenager. You obeyed; fear made you stupid like that. 

You often heard them crawling through metal tunnels, dragging themselves closer inch by inch, scraping and clanging like rats the size of corpses. Some didn't even try to be quiet.

Finally, the clock striked 6 am.

Ding dong, ding dong.

Dave removed the mask for the final time, wiping the sweat from his brow. 

Lucky for you, you didn't have to endure five nights at Freddy's every week, evading homicidal animatronics.

(...)

You two left the restaurant. The thunderstorm had stopped, but stars were still barely visible through the clouds. The air was cool and damp, with the faint scent of rain lingering in the atmosphere. You knew you had to leave soon, but you weren't quite ready to say goodbye. Far from that actually. 

You broke the silence. " William," 

He turned his head slightly at the sound of his actual name. 

"How the hell did you manage to just... wipe off your actual identity?" you asked. "A new name, a whole new life. I mean, I can't imagine just erasing myself and... starting over."

"Connections," he said flatly. "I have...had people who owed me favors. Got a new driver's license, fake ID, the works. It's not as hard as you think if you know the right people." He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tapping one out and lighting it with a flick of his lighter. The tip glowed red as he took a deep drag, exhaling smoke into the damp air. "You'd be surprised what money can do. There are people out there who can make you disappear if you've got enough cash and the right leverage."

It was strange to think that just a few hours ago, you two were pretty much distant toward each other, yet now you were standing there, talking like old friends. It was as if you forgot about all the abuse he had inflicted upon you. 

"Anyway, what's your plan here, besides the obvious — Killing kids?" 

"Precisely. I'm here to collect remnant, to continue my work. And if that means taking out a few more brats along the way, so be it." he said, leaning back. "Soon, I'll need to check on my experiments at the underground facility. First at my lab, then...some more private subjects. They require constant attention."

You nodded, feeling off at his nonchalant mention of murder. "Right," you replied, trying to keep your tone steady. "And after your current mission? What's next?"

"After that, I'll disappear again. Move to a new place, start fresh again. Can't risk anyone catching up to me again. Not after all I've worked for."

"What if you didn't have to go through all that trouble? What if... you moved in with me?" you suddenly suggested, out of your mind. 

William looked at you, almost with surprise. "Move in with you?" he repeated. "Why would I do that?" 

Fuck. How the hell were you supposed to explain this without sounding like some pathetic, love-starved idiot?

"I meant... it would be easier. You wouldn't have to keep sneaking around. The police doesn't suspect me of anything, if that's what you're concerned about. My house is close enough that we could still access your old house if needed, and you can continue... whatever you want to do, with the remnant and all." you said. "It's not like I missed you or anything," your told him, rubbing the back of your neck, trying to play off your sudden suggestion like it was purely logical. "It's just… practical. It's foolish, I know, but yeah." It wasn't only foolish. It was insane, that you were willing to aid and abet a fugitive. 

"Hmm." he mused, his tone unreadable. "I imagine that's how you justify many of your choices. Always seeking reason where there is none, convincing yourself you act on logic, when in reality, you are ruled by your emotions." 

You froze at his words. But then you continued, giving up on concealing yourself. "Whatever. I don't care. It's not like I've done anything to stop you before, have I?" You started feeling a pang of shame for even suggesting such a thing. Why were you allowing a murderer like William to carry out his acts even under your roof? You knew you didn't care as much as you should. Maybe it was just the desperate longing for companionship. "So, will you move in with me or not? I have some space for you to put your things." 

"You're an idiot. But perhaps... a useful one." he fell silent for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of your suggestion. "Fine. But in one condition. We do things my way, understand? And you will keep your mouth shut about this."

You rolled your eyes, but you nodded, acknowledging William's condition. "Yeah, understood," you said, kinda annoyed. "Your way it is."

Without another word, William turned and walked away, disappearing into the dark streets. You stood there for a moment, watching his figure fade into the distance before finally heading back to your own place, your mind racing with the insanity of what you had just agreed to.

What the hell was wrong with you?

He hurt you. Repeatedly. You spent two whole years trying to piece yourself back together, and now here you were, offering him shelter, offering him you. There was a word for it—trauma bond; but naming it didn't make it easier to live with. Maybe you'd been living in the aftermath for so long that the damage felt like home. Maybe the idea of cutting him out completely felt more terrifying than keeping him close.

You weren't proud of yourself. Not for helping him continue whatever experiments he was still running. But there was a sick comfort in pretending it was logic, in calling it practicality. At least, that lie kept the shame from eating you alive.

And that was the worst part: the shame didn't stop you.

The next morning, William had just finished his night shift and felt the exhaustion settling in his bones, but there was no rest for him. There never was.

At his apartment, he packed his belongings into boxes. Later, as he loaded the boxes into his car, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched and being caught. With one last glance around, he ensured that he hadn't forgotten anything before starting the engine and driving toward your house. Half an hour later, arriving at your doorstep, he knocked on the door, his knuckles rapping against the wood.

It didn't take long for you to shuffle your half-awake ass to the door. The knock had startled you awake, groggy and disoriented in the early morning hush. You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand then opened the door with a curious expression.

You were still wearing the oversized tee you'd passed out in, the logo nearly peeled off, and shorts beneath. His eyes dropped— quick flick down your body. You glanced down at yourself, too, pretending not to notice the way your thighs were on display or how much of your ass might be visible from the back. And yet, it isn't only about clothing, it is about being seen, possibly judged, and definitely perceived in a vulnerable state— just woken up, not put-together, minimal layers on. Looking down was often one of your ways to cope, like redirecting the focus. 

And then his eyes went up again. He didn't even greet you, moving past you and into the house. His shoulder brushed yours intentionally, a box tucked under one arm, the rest probably still in the trunk. "Where should I put my things?"

You gestured toward the living room, where there was plenty of space for his belongings to be put before unpacking. "Just over there is fine," you said. You followed a few steps behind, your heart racing a little.

William nodded. His eyes briefly swept over the interior, taking in the details of your living space with a critical eye. You couldn't help but feel self-conscious under his scrutiny, suddenly aware of every imperfection in your home. As William began to unpack his belongings, you were surprised by the amount of items he had brought with him. You even thought that maybe you were making a mistake by allowing him to stay, even if it was your own stupid suggestion. "So, uh, make yourself at home," you said, walking toward him and reaching to help. "I'll help you with your stuff." 

"No need." he replied immediately and you backed off. 

You stayed quiet, hugging yourself, uncertain of what to say. After a few moments of awkward silence, you spoke up again. "I only have one bedroom, by the way," you explained, gesturing towards the room down the hall. "If you're okay with sharing, like we did in your bedroom back at your place, we can make it work. The couch's a piece of shit, you'd wake up with your spine snapped in two."

William paused in his unpacking. "Well, I suppose it'll have to do. But don't expect me to cuddle you or anything." he said, a small smirk curling up his lips. "I'll take the left side."

He stood there in the center of your living room with his back half-turned, head angled, staring at you for a little while. Not with suspicion, but that same calculation in his eyes, the one you had come to recognize when he was turning something over in his head, slotting it neatly into the puzzle of his hidden motives. Then, without changing his tone or expression, he spoke. "Do you think anyone could be watching?" His eyes flicked toward the drawn curtains. "The houses around here are stacked like bricks. Closer than I prefer... Neighbors nosier than they look?" 

"Nobody gives a shit about the freak who lives alone and takes the bus," you said. "Pretty sure the most attention I ever got was when my trashcan got knocked over and nobody cared for two weeks." You looked at him. "You're safe." You sighed, "They don't talk to me. Most of 'em probably assume I'm some pervert they gotta keep their kids away from. It's easier for them to label me than actually get to know me." You gestured vaguely toward the window.

"Get blackout curtains," he said.

You blinked. "What?" 

"For the bedroom. Someone with binoculars could still get a pretty good look through these blinds. Especially at night. When the lights are on and you're busy entertaining." 

You opened your mouth to say something smart, something deflective, but nothing came out. Instead, you shifted your weight and rubbed the back of your neck. "I'll look into it," you muttered, knowing damn well you'd probably do it the next day.

He hummed, noncommittal. His eyes lingered on the window anyway, and you could tell his mind was ticking through scenarios, how fast he could get out if things went south, which walls were thinnest, how far his voice would carry if you screamed. You hated that you couldn't tell if he cared or if he just noted it for later like some observation in one of his damn experiments.

After a hour of unpacking, the living room was finally neat again. Your house was now filled with William's belongings. His clothes were neatly folded and placed in the dresser in your bedroom, organized by color and type, and his personal items were carefully arranged on the bedside table, such as packs of cigarettes and a lighter, but his keys were kept to himself.

It was almost as if he had turned your home into his own now. 

Night fell swiftly, and you were laying on the bed in your bedroom while he was finishing something up. It felt strange to be in this room again, now shared with William. You glanced around, trying to get used to the sight of his belongings mixed with yours. Under the pillow, you felt the familiar shape of the SpringBonnie plush. You picked it up and looked at it. You kept it close to you for the past few days since you worked at the new location, since it felt wrong to leave it behind or let it collect dust somewhere else. You thought about how William might react if he saw it, considering it was a representation of a character he had created. 

The sound of footsteps in the hallway broke your thoughts, and you quickly placed the toy back under the pillow, not wanting to seem too eager. William walked into the room, looking more tired than you had seen him since he arrived. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, barely focusing on anything but the bed as he dragged himself over to it and sunk under the covers. For the first time, his hair was left untamed, disheveled from the long shift. Felt strangely intimate, almost intrusive, like you'd walked in on him changing or crying (even if that wasn't the case and you were just being weird with your imaginations).

He sat on the edge of the bed with a long, drawn-out sigh, one hand dragging down his face. You stayed quiet, watching the subtle tremble in his fingers, the way his shoulders slouched. He was unraveling. Not in the dramatic, messy way you'd expect from someone, but in quiet details. The aging of a man who'd spent too many nights awake. The slow decay of someone who lived entirely off nerves and obsession.

You could feel the warmth of his body near yours, and it wasn't comforting- it was dangerous. That warmth had teeth. That warmth was the same heat you'd seen scorch children into silence. 

It was 8PM. You did the math in your head. At best, he'd get three hours of sleep before his next shift. At worst, he'd get none. And that was starting to feel less like carelessness and more like some slow suicide.

William sat back against the pillows, legs stretched out stiff and straight, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. He looked like he was about to pass out right there. 

"I need a smoke." he muttered, voice hoarse like gravel dragged across concrete.

"Inside?" you asked, wrinkling your nose slightly. You didn't really care, but the question felt like something a normal person would say.

He turned, slowly. His expression hardened as his gaze pinned you in place, like he couldn't believe you even asked. "I did not ask for your permission." he said, "This is my space now too, isn't it?" 

"Smoke by the window if you must," you said, folding your arms. "I don't like when the cigarette clouds the room. It stinks up the bed, lingers… I don't want it crawling over everything. That's all I ask." You didn't say it with a whine. It wasn't a plea. You were firm, because you were not some spineless boy tiptoeing around him anymore. You were giving him shelter. You had a say in this too.

William stared at you a long moment before he slid out of bed without a word. The mattress barely shifted from the loss of his weight. He grabbed the cigarette from the nightstand and then stalked across the room toward the window, pulled it open, and leaned half his body out. He stood like a bad omen. One hand on the sill, the other raising the cigarette to his mouth, again and again. The silence between you both was dense. You hated how normal this had become, this cold distance dressed in the shape of domesticity. You stayed where you were, sitting half-upright in bed, trying not to look at him too directly. 

After a bit, you kicked off the covers and sat up, your bare feet hitting the cold floor. You walked up beside him, not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel him. He offered the cigarette wordlessly. You hesitated, then took it, bringing it to your lips. The smoke hit the back of your throat like guilt. You didn't even cough. 

You exhaled toward the window. "Do you regret any of it?" 

His face didn't change. "No. I think the answer should be very clear now." Not a moment's hesitation.

You looked down at the glowing tip of the cigarette, then back out into the night. The world kept turning, even with men like William still breathing.

He spoke again. "Clara screamed for a long time. You know that?"

You stared at each other for a beat too long. That was always the thing with William. You couldn't tell when he was about to touch you or kill you. Both felt equally likely. "Why are you telling me this?" You took a drag. The smoke tasted sharp, acrid, numbing against your tongue. Familiar. Like a lie you've told so many times it started to sound true. Then you said it, "I've been sleeping beside a killer for a while now," you said, voice low and without drama. "That isn't new. I know what you are." The words didn't sting like you expected. They left your mouth like breath. There was a time you might've flinched at saying that. But not anymore. 

Because you'd felt the weight of him next to you. You'd watched the way his face relaxed in sleep, like a man not haunted by anything at all. You'd seen the blood under his fingernails on occasion. You'd touched him after, still warm from death. You'd kissed a mouth that once whispered lullabies to children before snapping their lives shut like drawers. And still, you kissed him.

Your voice wasn't steady, but it wasn't weak either. You were stating a fact, maybe daring him to contradict it. "You think I just figured it out recently? That I just now started seeing you for what you are? William, I've seen the blood on your hands since the first time I looked into your eyes. The way you walk, the way you speak, like everything you say already has a body tied to it. And it never made me recoil. If anything, I think I leaned into it. I think I wanted to see what kind of man I'd become if I let it happen long enough."

William didn't respond right away. It was silent for a bit. 

Then he turned toward you. "That offer you made," he said slowly, "about letting me stay here. Letting me keep working. That was unlike you." 

You frowned. He didn't mean it as a compliment.

"Not the version of you I first met. The one who kept his chin up and his hands clean. Who flinched when I raised my voice. Who held doors open for old women on the bus, and asked kids if they were okay when they cried in the arcade. Every time I looked at you too long, touched you too much, said something that peeled back the skin of decency, you hesitated. You had lines, morals, even. A conscience that twitched when I said too much. You had this… pitiful little hope that you could keep things clean between us. Keep me in a box. Sex in one corner. My crimes in another."

He took a step closer. You didn't move. 

"You offered me a place to continue my experiments. That tells me one of two things. Either you've rotted, or you were always like this. Always lonely enough to mistake anything for intimacy. The shock wore off and now you're filling the hole with something worse. Attachment. Affection, if you can twist the definition enough. I've seen that look before... on soldiers. On addicts. That emptiness in their eyes when they've decided their soul's already gone. When they've convinced themselves they've already done the worst thing they could do, so nothing after that matters."

"You want me close because distance is unbearable. Because you'd rather drown with me in the same room than stay dry alone." 

The cigarette in your hand had gone cold, nearly spent. "…You done psychoanalyzing me?" you finally asked. 

He said something that made your skin feel too tight. "I don't psychoanalyze. I dissect. Comes with experience."

He constantly reminded you, “I see you. I understand you better than you understand yourself.” It was terrifying and incredibly powerful. It was how William kept himself in control without raising his voice, treating you like a subject. To him, you were something to study, peel back, expose. Like an autopsy. The closer you got to him emotionally, the more William needs to dissect you to keep the upper hand. If he was "opening up," it was by tearing someone else open first. And in his sick worldview understanding someone's darkness was intimacy.

You sighed. You handed the cigarette back without a word. His fingers brushed yours as he took it. Still damp with your spit. He turned toward the window again and finished it off in three long drags while you settled back into the bed. Eventually, he flicked the cigarette out the window and shut it again. He returned to bed, pulling the blanket over himself without so much as a glance in your direction. He paused, though, when he noticed the rabbit plush's ears peeking out from under your pillow. You froze as he reached over and pulled it out, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric. You watched him nervously, unsure of how he would react to the small, innocent object.

He turned it around in his hands, his eyebrows raising slightly in surprise. "Is this... a SpringBonnie plush?" he asked, studying the thing like it was something worth remembering.

"Uh, yeah," you mumbled. "I was restocking the prize corner a couple days ago, and there it was, at the bottom of the crate. The shelves were full, so nobody was gonna put it out anyway. And it wasn't some toy-brand animatronic plushie, so I figured nobody would miss it." 

"It's been a while since I've seen one of these." he said quietly, his tone almost gentle. "Back when Fredbear's first opened, he and Fredbear were the main attraction. The originals. But when Fazbear Entertainment expanded, they replaced him. Phased him out. Suddenly, Bonnie the Bunny was the new favorite, and no one cared about the old rabbit anymore." His fingers pressed into the plush, as if testing its durability. "Strange, that one of these would still be floating around. Fazbear Entertainment usually does a good job scrubbing out its past." he sighed, "SpringBonnie was always my favorite... Out of all the creations, they had the most potential. Simple but effective. I put a lot of thought into that character." For a brief moment, he seemed almost wistful, lost in memories of the past. But it was short. 

"So, you keep this thing," he said, his voice suddenly sharp. "Like some child clutching their favorite toy..." He tossed the plush onto you. "It's rather pathetic for someone your age to be holding onto something so childish. Reminds me of how my youngest son used to cling to his toys."

"It's about sentimentality. This plush means something to me and I don't see why I should toss it aside just because you think it's silly." you said. 

William rolled his eyes at your response, a scoff escaping his lips. "Whatever," he said. He turned on his side, facing away from you, clearly signaling that the conversation was over.

"Yeah, I get it. I'm a big baby for liking a stuffed animal," you muttered under your breath. 

"Get some sleep. I don't want to hear any more of your stupid jokes tonight." 

The conversation clearly over now, so you turned on your side, letting out a sigh, holding the plush close to your chest.

You woke with a start, groggily taking in the room. William's side of the bed laid empty, the sheets rumpled. He left during the night while you were asleep, and he'd be back by now. With a sigh, you swung your legs over the edge of the mattress, pushing yourself up. You ran a hand through your disheveled hair, feeling the tangles. The morning light highlighted the dust motes in the air. Padding barefoot across the hallway, you made your way to the living room. That was where you found William, sitting lazily on the couch. A notebook laid open in his hand, a cigarette dangled from his lips, and a half-empty cup of coffee sat on the table. 

You settled beside him, eyeing the notebook. "What's all this, then?" you asked, nodding towards the papers.

"Just planning," he replied, taking a drag from his cigarette before flicking the ash into the tray. "Got some things I need to take care of."

You waited, but he didn't elaborate. "Well... when are you planning to go to your house?" you asked, not bothering with pleasantries. 

"I was thinking tonight." he replied evenly.

You considered his words, then asked, "Need some backup, or?"

"No," he said. "Can't risk anyone slowing me down or getting in my way."

"... Yeah," The room fell silent. Finally, you broke the quiet, asking, "How did you end up with that chip in your tooth, anyway?" you finally decided to ask. 

William glanced at you briefly before turning his attention back to the notebook in his hand. "It doesn't matter." he muttered, stubbing out the cig, pressing it firmly into the ashtray until it was nothing more than a smoldering ember.

You leaned closer, curiosity getting the better of you. "Let me see it up close," you said, reaching out to tilt his head back and straddling him. 

William relented this time. He lifted his upper lip with his fingers to reveal the chip in his tooth. You noted the jagged edge, like a small piece had been chipped off, and the slight discoloration surrounding it. You examined it closely, your face mere inches from his, taking in the imperfection. "Does it hurt?" you asked, your voice coming out softer and gentle despite your best efforts to keep it neutral.

William shook his head. "Only if I bite down wrong."

You reached out and let your thumb trail along the faint line at the left side of William's lips. Looked like the skin had split there at some point and healed clumsily. The scar was so small it barely caught the light, but you noticed it anyway. You didn't even realize you were holding your breath until your chest started to ache. "You must've gotten this the same time your tooth chipped, hm?" you said, your thumb dragging gently across the line again. "Looks like it split the skin when whatever it was hit you."

You didn't say anything more about the scar. He probably wouldn't have told you the story anyway. You'd get some half-answer about a bar fight or a bad night in Utah, and it would be just convincing enough to almost believe.

He looked so tired under the morning light. The short beard on him was uneven but suited him. Your gaze lingered on it out of fascination. "You pull the beard off very well, like you were born for it. Frames your face in this perfect way. And the gray in it... looks earned." you added, "You're hot."

Still no pushback. Still no recoil. You could've counted the number of times he'd let you touch him like this. Willingly. Without yanking away or sneering or barking for space. And this wasn't sex; this was contact. Intimate in the way that made your skin tingle because you knew it shouldn't be happening because Afton absolutely hated touch. 

You didn't exactly know why it felt important to push past his boundaries even when he felt uncomfortable. It was not like you were trying to hurt him the way he hurt you. No, it was more like... you just wanted to be closer to him. The whole thing was a game, a puzzle, and you couldn't help but play. You were not even sure what you were after... maybe just some kind of victory.

Eventually, you peeled away. Eased off his lap and sat beside him again. The warmth of his legs faded fast under your thighs. A small, awkward smile played on your lips. "Suits you, it does. Adds character."

He frowned. "I'm not looking for your approval." he said, somewhat defensive, as if your comment had struck a nerve. 

Rolling your eyes at his tone, you decided to drop the subject. "I still think it's dashing. Now, I'm starving. I'll go eat some breakfast."

•••

The day passed. Today was unexpectedly quiet, your day off, granted not by choice but by circumstance, as technical issues at work had brought operations to a standstill, but William still had to work as the security. You spent the morning cleaning and tidying up around the house, trying to keep yourself occupied and your mind off of William and his plans. As night fell, he was already deep into preparations, gathering what he needed, checking the time, mentally pacing through the steps he would take on his brief visit to his home before getting ready for his night shift. He packed a small bag with tools and equipment, including a flashlight, a small crowbar and a few other items.

"The electricity's off at your house since the bills haven't been paid," you pointed out. "Won't that be a problem?"

"The underground facility has its own power source. It should still be operational. I'll be back when I'm done," he said. With that, William slung the bag over his shoulder and opened the door to leave. "Don't wait up for me."

You were sitting on the couch for the rest of the night, flicking through the channels on the television, and munching on popcorn. You glanced at the clock, noting the late hour, and wondered what was taking William so long. Sure, he was probably busy with stuff there, but it seemed like he was taking much longer than usual. The thought crossed your mind that maybe he had been caught by the police, but you quickly dismissed it. After all, William was cunning and resourceful. He wouldn't let himself get caught that easily.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, startling you from your thoughts. You turned to see William standing in the doorway, looking like a mess with oil and dirt smeared across his face.

You were about to ask him what he was doing, but he began speaking before you could even voice your concern. "I had some more tests to run down in the lab and I had to check on my experiments. They were... agitated, but they didn't escape their cages." William reached into his jacket pocket and carefully pulled out a set of small jars, the glasses stained with black streaks that clung to the sides like tar. You leaned forward, staring at the strange liquid inside. You could almost swear the darkness within it was alive.

Most of the jars were filled to the brim with the viscous black substance, but one jar stood out, holding a pale silver liquid, but noticeably depleted compared to the others.

"Is that... agony?" you asked hesitantly. 

"The black ones, yes. Agony. Extracted from their intense emotions and suffering. The silver..." He picked up the jar with the shimmering contents, holding it up to the light for emphasis. "...is remnant, you know that. My first sample, the one I partially used on you, and certainly the most promising. Pure energy, distilled from their essence."

You hated how easily he dismissed their lives, how casually he spoke about their suffering as if it meant nothing. But at the same time, you couldn't deny the morbid curiosity that kept you sitting there, listening, watching. It was like staring at a violent scene, and you couldn't look away. 

"You're planning to do some tests here, right?" you then asked. 

William nodded as he peeled off his jacket, tossing it onto the couch. "Just for a bit. I'll take them in the spare room." was all he said, sitting onto the couch. His eyes, already burdened with dark bags, seemed even more sunken.

You took the hint and quietly stepped out of the living room. William needed space. Whatever was weighing on him, he wasn't up to talk, and pressing him would only make things worse. 

As you busied yourself in the kitchen briefly, you couldn't help but reflect on your recent behavior. Lately, you had been extra careful around him, trying to be as obedient yet neutral as possible in hopes of avoiding his abuse. His temper was a beast you knew all too well. There were moments, those which were shameful, when his violence felt like a release you craved.

But you knew deep down that it was better to forget about it and to not act on those desires, because that way you would heal. It was better to bury them deep inside yourself until they were nothing but memories.

Still, all you could think about is the way he used to hit you. You missed it. You longed for the days when William's fists were rough and punishing. In those moments of pain, you felt so good in a way that you couldn't explain. It was a reminder that you were alive, that you were still capable of feeling, even if it was pain. You knew you should be repulsed and disgusted by the thought of seeking out abuse, but the truth was what it is. You wanted to feel unsafe, to live on the edge, because those were the only times you felt anything at all. The more you thought about it, the more overwhelming the need became.

You couldn't help but wonder if there was something wrong with you, if there was something broken inside of you that made you crave the very thing that should terrify you. 

The thought of purposely provoking William's anger just to feel his hands on you again lingered in your mind. What if you welcomed his violence with open arms, welcomed the pain and the danger like an old friend? You could picture your plans so clearly in your mind. You could say something sarcastic, talk back to him, something that would piss him off to the edge. Or maybe you could "accidentally" mess up one of his experiments. The thoughts made your heart race, your palms starting to sweat.

Your house was too quiet, too calm. And he always looked peaceful right now, almost too peaceful, and it irked you. You glanced at the door, half-hoping William would storm in, ready to take out his anger on you. But he didn't.

The thought of his hands on you, not in a loving or gentle way, but in that harsh, brutal manner—it was a drug. You felt something deep inside your chest. Ecstacy.

You poured yourself a glass of water, trying to calm yourself down. 

You stared into the glass of water, the surface studdenlytrembling slightly as your unsteady hand gripped it tighter than necessary. You almost flinched, the muscles in your hand tightening. You could almost feel the pressure of cold water against your face as William forced you under. The clarity of the moment was haunting. Remnant and agony had fused in you.

You set the glass down on the counter with a shaky hand, staring at the droplets of condensation sliding down its surface.

Would he hit you tonight? You half-hoped he didn't, because then it would only reignite your cravings to the point you were obsessed, and the other part yearned for him to do so, to satisfy your craving. A tear slipped down your cheek unexpectedly. You felt your throat tighten, a knot forming as you swallowed hard. You wanted it, craved it, but the fear was just as strong. Your body shook with the effort to keep your sobs and uneven breaths silent. You couldn't let him hear you cry. Not now, not ever.

“Please, please don't hit me ever again,” you thought, but even as the words formed in your mind, you knew they were a lie. “Make me feel something.” 

“Take a deep breath, Y/N. You're okay. You're safe here. You know these thoughts can be overwhelming sometimes, but you're in control,” you told yourself.

Sometimes, you told yourself you don't love him, fearing you would lose who you are in the process. Yet, your emotions refused to obey. Stockholm Syndrome? You scoffed at the thought, dismissing it as absurd. You were not some textbook case. But why the hell did he stay on your mind?

It wasn't his looks. That thought looped in your head again, playing over and over like a broken tape. You could tell, if you stepped back and looked at him objectively, that William wasn't conventionally attractive. At least not in the way magazines liked to pretend men should be. There was something off-putting about him to most people. His eyes were tired things, a dull blue that always looked like they were watching something you couldn't see. And his smile… Jesus. Like everything he gave you was being rationed, calculated down to the last twitch of muscle. It was in the way he carried himself, too: too still, too silent, like he didn't belong in a room with people. He could tear someone down to pieces with a single sentence, quiet as breath. Most people would see that and back away.

You just found him hot, plain and simple. It was confusing but maybe it was because he was older, and you always had a thing for older men— they just seemed to get better with age. William had this confidence and maturity that younger guys like you lacked. He had been through things, and it showed in a way that turned you on. That calmness, that quiet authority from the man who'd buried bodies and regrets and slept just fine afterward — it was sexy as hell. He moved like gravity. And you were the idiot body stuck in orbit.

But that wasn't it, again. You were into how he treated you. That burned under your ribs even when he wasn't around. William had this terrifying ability to flip a switch in you.

You couldn't quite explain it, even to yourself. It was not about pain— you've never sought it out and never liked the sting of hurt. It was not like you had some kind of craving for abuse in your life before. But from William, you would take it and welcome it. Sometimes he got rough, and it hurt. Like, really hurt — and you hated pain, normally. But you still wanted to please him so badly that you would take anything from him. When he got angry and his hand came down hard, you felt this mix of fear, rush of adrenaline and something else, which was ecstacy. And you knew he didn't feel bad about it, not in the slightest, if anything, it excited him as he saw you take it. And that just made you more excited, too.

You've never dared to voice these thoughts aloud to anyone; they were too shameful. So, for a long time on your own you've tried to understand why you craved pain from him. Maybe it was because deep down you thought you deserved it. Or maybe not, maybe you were blaming yourself here? Then there was the guilt. Afterward, when the adrenaline faded and the marks started to sting, you wondered if you were broken for wanting this. 

Your family and your old friends would dislike who you've turned into. You got mixed up with that murderer, doing things you never would have considered before meeting him. He didn't even change you; he merely revealed your true nature to himself. To them, if they saw you now, you'd be nothing but filth.

At times, it felt as William saw a part of you that even you couldn't fully understand yourself. 

What was happening to you?

Chapter Text

The time blurred together in a storm of highs and devastating lows.

You started noticing how your schedules almost seemed crafted to avoid each other, even if neither of you said it aloud. You saw each other in passing like two ghosts haunting the same house on opposite schedules.

You barely saw him in the mornings; you'd wake to the sound of the front door clicking shut or the faint growl of his car pulling into your garden. But by the time you were preparing your breakfast or dragging yourself into your clothes, he'd already be peeling off his security uniform in silence, dropping it in a heap before trudging into the shower. You left for your shift at 9 a.m., sometimes catching him on his way to bed, and other times you wouldn't see him at all. You'd come home around five, exhausted, sore from standing all day, and he'd be asleep in your bed. He'd usually wake around eleven, sometimes a bit before if he wanted extra time to write in his damn notebook or run experiments in the spare room. You heard the sound of equipment in there sometimes. You never really asked what exactly he did during those hours, because truthfully, you didn't want to know too much.

You were still required to stay alert, just in case something at Freddy's went sideways. Ongoing reports indicated that the systems at the restaurant were repeatedly malfunctioning, with technical glitches continuing to disrupt normal operations. The facial recognition systems in the animatronics were especially messy, getting worse and worse after each day. Around kids, they still performed with perfectly programmed actions, but with adults it was another story. Toy Bonnie once lurched mid-performance, right in front of you. No one else had seen it happen, and when you tried to replay the footage later, the file was corrupted. Glitches like that weren't uncommon. The whole building felt like it was haunted by its own code.

William had once warned you not to mention that specific incident to management when you spoke to him about it. He said it was a "sensitive period." Said the system just needed "recalibration."

When you and William did spend time together, which happened rarely and almost always without planning— it felt like brushing shoulders with a man who was always half-elsewhere. It was more like an obligation on both ends, tolerated only because the silence in the house grew too thick otherwise. 

There were times he'd help you fix things around the house: tighten a hinge, rewire a socket. 

If you cooked, he'd eat without complaint, but rarely with praise. He almost never commented on your cooking, but once he threw out an entire pot of soup you left on the stove overnight and told you to "stop wasting food like a teenager with no sense of discipline." 

If you touched him in bed, when it was just skin on skin, seeking warmth, he'd let you, even if he disliked it. Let you press your head against his chest, let you trace the lines of old scars with your fingertips while he stared at the ceiling and pretended not to notice. You memorized the shape of him this way, even saw the faint tremor in his hands after certain nights. You never asked what triggered it because he wouldn't tell you. If anything, he cut it off. Either with a frown, a muttered insult, or by grabbing your wrist and redirecting your attention somewhere else entirely, usually down. 

William's affection was a pendulum, swinging violently between cruelty and solace. It didn't make sense, this pull you felt toward him for so long, but logic had no place in the mess of your emotions. It was like you had forgotten how to exist without him, too. The abuse wasn't just physical anymore— It was mental, insidious.

You couldn't bear the thought of him not touching you, not looking at you. You told yourself that you could stop this whenever you wanted, that you weren't a prisoner here. But you knew the truth that you craved him more than your own sanity. 

The house was quiet that morning, after William got back from work in the late six— around 6:50 or so. It started innocently enough. Strangely, William had left you in the living room with a pile of scattered files on the coffee table that he left to "keep you busy" while he went off to rewind, his cryptic way of saying he needed to recharge or reset himself. The files were about surveillance logs, internal rotas, glitch pattern tracking. A full week's worth of timestamps and shift overlaps, all cross-referenced against technician reports and incident records. It was clear he'd been monitoring more than just cameras. He was tracking specific staff movements.

You didn't know what he expected you to do with this. 

You ran your fingers along the edge of one, your mind half-distracted by the sound of the shower running. 

The memory replayed like a bad dream, but you reminded yourself that you weren't in the water. It wasn't happening again. You were here, in his house, going through his stuff like a good boy.

He liked the idea of you sitting here, waiting for him. Dependent on him.  

A little bit later, the sound of William's footsteps drew your attention. You glanced up briefly, then wished you hadn't. He emerged from the hallway with damp, disheveled hair from drying roughly with a towel. He was also shirtless now, only wearing a pair of old, low-hanging sweatpants that rode dangerously low on his hips, the drawstring untied. Water had soaked into the waistband, and the fabric clung damply to the top of his pelvis, outlining the V-line that cut down toward the patch of dark hair disappearing beneath. Droplets of water ran down his scarred body like he'd given up halfway through drying off. The sight of those springlock scars all around brought back memories when you first saw them, and they looked more visible in the daylight. Time hadn't dulled the memory of their origin.

You couldn't explain it, but somehow, you found the springlock marks attractive.

You'd be a filthy liar if you said the sight never visually stimulated you. You could hardly look at William without feeling anxious—and sometimes even aroused... — but it wasn't an easy mix of emotions. 

He reached for a cigarette from the pack on the counter, his movements lazy, unbothered. "Got any coffee ready, Y/N?" His voice was gruff, still thick with exhaustion, edged with expectation rather than a true question. 

The question was so casual like you were some housewife playing servant to him. The anger flared up so fast, it felt like it had been waiting. You lifted your head, sitting up straighter, not caring about the consequences.

Without thinking, your mouth moved before your brain could stop it. "You have two hands, don't you?" you asked. "I'm not your personal maid. Go pour your own damn cup, asshole." 

...

Shit. You should have bitten your tongue.

The room fell deathly quiet. You regretted it the second his eyes locked onto yours. The brief surge of rebellion that had formed in your chest died out as quickly as it came. 

You saw that irritated expression cross William's face as he stared at you. It was the look he gave before speaking. You could feel his eyes on you, burning holes into your skin. Then came the sound of his feet crossing the floor.

He stopped in front of you. You felt a slight shift in your body, a tensing of muscles, preparing to move if you had to. William moved. Not fast like some unhinged outburst of rage, it was worse than that. It was terrifying in an unsettling way, giving you time to anticipate what was coming. His hand clamped around your wrist, his fingers digging in hard. His fingers flexed, his hold tightening incrementally as if testing how much pressure you could withstand before you whimpered. 

Your first instinct was to wrench away, but he yanked your arm forward so that you stumbled, barely catching yourself. His grip shifted slightly, his thumb forcefully pressing into the delicate bones of your wrist until you felt the uncomfortable scrape of bone against bone. You yelped, but the hold on your wrist did not loosen. "Is that how you speak to your elder now? Such disrespect. . ." His tone was one of a father scolding a child. It made sense, given he was a parent, but you were an adult. "You don't speak to me like some mouthy little wife on her period." His tone had that low, gravel-edged timbre that warned you not to test him.

You weren't sure which was worse: the pain in your wrist or the way your mind scrambled for the right response. You thought about backpedaling, saying it was a joke, something stupid that slipped out, but it was too late. You also had the urge to apologize, but you couldn't do it either. It was instinctive, automatic, a habit burned into you over time.

It felt like you weren't even inside your own body right now. Maybe if you didn't fully acknowledge it, this wouldn't feel so real... Maybe if you blinked enough, you'd open your eyes and this would all be gone.

He exhaled the smoke directly into your face, the cigarette still held loosely in his free hand. The smell burned your nose, made your eyes sting, but you held still. "You think because I fuck you, that makes us equals?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "You're young. Stupid. You run that mouth without thinking, and now look where it's got you." 

Then, as if the moment had passed, he sighed, expression shifting into something almost calm. As if he wasn't still gripping you so hard your skin was paling beneath his fingers. "I asked for a simple cup of coffee." he spoke. "Is that too difficult for you? Hm?" Despite your attempts to pull your arm free, William held onto it firmly. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, a rapid thud-thud-thud of adrenaline and something much sicker.

"Now are you going to prepare my coffee, or shall I make it… along with a few adjustments to your pretty little face?" He said it like this entire situation was some inconvenience you had caused him, like you were the unreasonable one.

William played this game well, making you feel like a trapped animal, knowing full well that huge part of you liked it.

It wasn't just about the coffee anymore. It never was.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry… I-I'll go prepare your coffee right away, just the way you like it." You stammered. "Give me a moment, please."

He regarded you for another moment, wrist still captive, before finally releasing you. You rubbed the tender skin, your chest heaving as you stood. You beat a go to kitchen as quickly as you could. You hated yourself for giving him what he wanted, but what choice did you have? The alternative was worse.

In the kitchen, as you prepared the coffee, you told yourself it wasn't fear that made your hands shake. You wanted to believe it was the caffeine deprivation.

The mug trembled violently in your grip as you carried it to him. Finally, you stood before William. "Here," you said, extending the cup.

William took the mug from your hand, his fingers brushing yours briefly. "Be careful. You'll ruin the floor. Or worse, burn me. Is that what you want?"

You shook your head quickly, stepping back, but his free hand reached out, grabbing you by the wrist before you could retreat further. The coffee was set aside on the nearby table. Before you could protest, he was guiding you down, pulling you into his lap. You turned your head slightly, trying to meet his eyes, but he shifted, keeping his face out of view. His hand found its place on your thigh, his thumb pressing into the muscle as if testing it. His attention lingered on the same spot over and over. Something about the way he focused there unsettled you, his gaze dropping to where his hand rested, like he was marking it in his mind. "You've got such lovely legs. I bet you've never had someone appreciate them the way I do." 

"I… no, sir. I—" 

William cut you off with a quiet chuckle. It was quiet, breathy, carrying that infuriating note of amusement like he already won something. "Oh, I like it when you call me sir," he said, his fingers curling slightly against your thigh. "It suits you. Makes you sound so deliciously obedient."

The heavy shape of him nestled right between your ass cheeks with nowhere else to go. You didn't want to move, to shift and make it more obvious that you could feel the hard shape of his arousal. You kept your eyes on the table, on the files you were supposed to be looking through. His fingers trailed along your thigh again, but this time, they kept going, moving between your legs, ghosting just barely over the growing bulge in your pants. 

"Come on, lad. Let me fuck you before you have to deal with those miserable brats at the restaurant... I'll even make it quick, if you're worried about time." His hips shifted up slightly, pressing against you with a slow roll. You bit down on the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound.

The idea of having to walk around all day with the soreness from him was tempting... but you couldn't let him win this time. "I'd prefer to be able to walk today." you said flatly, trying not to sound affected. You hoped he took the hint and would leave you alone.

"Oh, that so? Not even gonna beg me to be gentle? Tch... What a shame; you used to be more fun." He leaned back against the couch, exhaling slowly, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip. His eyes never left you, but the heat in them did. "Go get ready for work, then. You look like you just had your first kiss."

Relief flooded through you so fast it left you dizzy. You pushed yourself up from William's lap quickly, careful not to move too abruptly, not to show how unsteady your legs felt. 

Eventually, you left for work. You stared out the window, counting the seconds until you could step out of the bus and breathe freely.

By the time your shift ended, the exhaustion had settled inside you, but it wasn't the kind that sleep could fix in any way. You'd already been standing at the bus stop. It was 5:30 sharp when a familiar Cadillac rolled to a stop in front of you. Seems he got the energy to pick you up. The new license plate number stood out, something you'd noticed a few days ago but didn't think much about. William didn't lean over to unlock the door because he already popped the lock before you touched the handle. You barely got the door shut before he drove off again.

It was silent for a while until he spoke, even and low. "How was work today?"

You rubbed at the back of your neck, already tired again just thinking about it. "Same as usual. I heard from Jeremy that the Mangle acted up again. Like, almost lunged at him when he was walking past Kid's Cove. I didn't see it, but he swears it twitched. Couple of the others said the stage animatronics were weird again, too." You scoffed. "The place hasn't even been open there full weeks." 

"I see. The technicians... they aren't checking it. They're running default diagnostics and calling it a day. Lazy bastards. I could fix it blindfolded with one hand down my trousers and I'd still outperform that entire department. The real problem is in how the AI flags 'threats.' These models are designed to respond to body language cues. If those are misread, it throws everything into chaos." he said. "I'll check their system when my shift starts."

You didn't dare ask why he was driving so much slower than usual.

Once back at William's house, you needed a distraction, anything to avoid thinking about him.

Dishes. Yes. You'd wash the dishes.

The water ran hot over your hands as you scrubbed plates with almost manic intensity, a sponge held tightly in your grip. You tried not to hear the sound of William in the spare room, but every muffled thud sent your nerves spiraling. It was only a matter of time before his footsteps came. And then they did.

Booted steps approached, slow, and you froze. The plate you were holding slipped a little. You didn't dare turn around, though you felt him behind you.

"You've been quite a disappointment today." The calm in his voice chilled you more than if he had yelled. You tensed, every muscle locking up as you listened. "...Not just today, really," he continued. "I've noticed it for a while now. I ask for something so simple, something any decent person would do without question, and what do you give me? Backtalk. Disrespect." 

Finally, you turned off the faucet, your breathing shaky. "I'm sorry." you said. "I was wrong to speak to you like that." 

William's hand slammed onto the counter beside you with enough force to rattle the dish rack, sounding like a gunshot. Your body jolted, a flinch you couldn't suppress. "Don't turn your back to me when I'm speaking to you." he said, his voice rising slightly. 

You turned slowly, gripping the counter behind you as if it might anchor you. His face was unreadable except for the slight narrowing of his eyes. 

"I... was wrong, I'm sorry. I disrespected you. It was thoughtless and ungrateful of me to speak to you that way. I... I was frustrated. With work, with everything. But I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I should have made your coffee without question." you told him. 

It was clear from the fear in your eyes that you were dreading what was coming. No matter how hard you tried to mask it, you were losing, the battle. Your body betrayed you. You had the tense posture, bit your lip in a feeble attempt to keep yourself steady. William saw you, his eyes boring into yours with such severity that it felt like they could strip you bare.

In your eyes, there was something that thrilled William in equal measure. Lust.

"Apologize properly." William commanded, and you knew what he wanted: a full, unabashed apology, a concession delivered with the kind of sincerity that would cool anger inside him.

So you gave it to him.

"I'm sorry..." you repeated the fourth time today. "I was wrong to speak to you that way," you said, clear, your voice devoid of stutter or hesitation. "It was disrespectful of me to snap at you. You asked for something simple, and I chose to challenge you instead. I should know better. I... I do know better. It won't happen again. I'll listen to you, and I'll do as you ask without argument." You paused before continuing, "Sorry I acted like a brat earlier. I really didn't want to disappoint you."

A silence followed. You stood frozen under his scrutiny. 

"When I tell you to do something," he then said slowly, every word dropping like a weight, "you fucking do it without hesitation. Understand?"

You nodded immediately, the muscles in your neck tight. "Yes." Your words came out calmly, but the adrenaline buzzing through you made every breath shaky.

"You really do have such a lovely way with words when you put your mind to it. Almost makes me think you actually mean it. But, in fact, you're not sorry," he muttered, "You're just afraid of what I'll do if you don't say what you think I want to hear. But don't worry. I'll make you regret that little outburst earlier properly."

Your gaze went briefly from his eyes to his lips before darting back. That moment of hesitation was all he needed. The bastard smiled- Not a wide grin or anything obvious. Just the slightest curve of his mouth. 

"Now..." he said, his tone soft, "kiss me."

You hesitated for a second too long. William's fingers flexed at his sides like he might reach for you if you didn't obey soon enough. So you grabbed his face first. But the moment your lips met his, the decision was out of your hands. It was a blur. He kissed you like it was a punishment all its own, his mouth swallowing the soft noises you didn't realize were slipping out. You tried to fight for control, your tongue teasing against his, flicking at the tip before retreating, only to be overtaken again when William seized the advantage. It left you dizzy, panting into his mouth. You moaned quietly at first, then louder when his fingers tangled into your hair, tugging sharply. Your back then hit the wall before you even realized he was walking you there. The impact was soft but jarring enough to make you gasp against him, a noise he seemed to enjoy. William pressed closer, his body crowding yours, the heat of him searing through the fabric of your shirt. 

As he broke off, your chest heaved as you tried to fill your lungs, but William didn't step back. His thumb brushed your lower lip, dragging across the skin as he studied you. 

"I'm going to break you over and over," he continued, his thumb brushing over the corner of your mouth. "Bit by bit. Until every time you look in the mirror, you'll see what you are. Worthless without me, desperate for my approval. You'll worship the ground I walk on, and you'll be grateful for every moment I allow you to serve me. You're going to show me just how much you appreciate every ounce of suffering I give you." His hand slid down, his face fingers brushing over your cheek in a mockery of tenderness.

Your lips parted, but no response would have sufficed. William didn't wait. 

"You'll thank me. Say 'thank you,' and mean it."

"I... Thank you?" you mumbled, your voice barely audible.

The shift in his demeanor was instant, and you knew you had fucked up, the regret settling in your stomach. His expression hardened, the brief hint of patience now completely gone. "Did I tell you to whisper? Did I say you could fucking mumble?" the disappointment etched into his features. "Thank you… what? I want to hear you say it like you mean it. You don't get to just say the words and think it's over. No, you're going to mean it. You're going to feel it. Every single word."

Each heartbeat like a countdown. You had to give him what he wanted, had to make him believe you meant every word. So, you took a shaky breath and started again, pouring every ounce of desperation into your words. You could feel the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, but you forced them back, knowing that crying now would only make things worse. "Thank you for giving me a purpose," you said, your voice barely holding together. "For giving me a reason to wake up every day, even if it's just to serve you. Even if it's just to take whatever you decide to give out. I'm grateful for every moment of pain, every moment of pleasure, every moment of suffering. Because my pain is your pleasure. My suffering is your delight. Thank you, for making me understand that every bit of pain you give me is a gift. A reminder that I'm alive, that I'm still here because of you. Because you chose not to get rid of me."

"Good boy," he muttered, almost like he was speaking to himself. His approval was like a drug, flooding your veins, making your head light. "That's a good boy. I wonder about what other tricks you've been keeping from me..." he said, the words almost a sigh. 

Before you could react, his mouth was on yours again. Your hands moved of their own accord, reaching up to tangle in his hair. You tugged hard, enough to elicit a groan from him. Encouraged, you kissed him harder, your teeth grazing his bottom lip before you bit down, pulling on the skin until it broke, just enough to draw blood. William didn't pull away. If anything, the pain seemed to drive him closer, his free hand reaching and fisting your shirt as if he wanted to rip it off. Your hands moved up, slipping under the collar of his shirt and raking your nails across the back of his neck where the scars from the springlock suit had left the skin hypersensitive. The reaction was immediate. William's breath caught in his throat, his grip on you tightening as if to say, "Don't stop."

You were both so caught up in the moment that it didn't matter if you knocked into walls or tripped over furniture. All that mattered was getting him to the bed. He pushed you forward, the kiss turning sloppier as he maneuvered you both towards his bedroom, your feet stumbling over each other in the desperate rush to get there. The back of your legs hit the bed, and before you could steady yourself, William shoved you onto it, making you fall onto your back.

You still feared what he might do to you, but now was not the time to dwell on it.

Suddenly, he dropped to his knees, his movements slow as he reached beneath the bed into one of his boxes. The rustling of fabric stopped the silence. What emerged made your heart sink.

A ball gag. 

Fear gripped your insides as he stood back up, the item swaying before your face. You were both excited and terrified at the prospect of being silenced, of giving up even the smallest amount of control. He didn't ask if you were ready. He simply climbed onto the bed, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of your legs, and brought the gag to your lips, forcing it into your mouth. He fastened it tightly behind your head, your eyes widening in the sudden shift. It bit into your mouth, the rubbery texture filling your mouth, the pressure firm against your jaws. You couldn't speak — your only means of communication was now reduced to muffled sounds and pleading eyes. 

As he got off the bed, his hands found their way on his hips. He looked you over like you were a piece of art he was particularly proud of.

He spoke then. "Tonight, it's all about me. Your pain, your torment, and your servitude. Pleasure will be earned with obedience." He paused for a moment, letting the silence fill the air, before he started listing some rules. "You will keep your mouth shut unless I give you permission to speak. The gag will ensure that your silence is maintained." He gestured to the toy in your mouth with his hand as he spoke. You trembled slightly while listening to him. "Rule number two... you will keep eye contact with me at all times. You will maintain the utmost respect when looking at me. And last rule, you are not allowed to cum without my permission. Your pleasure is mine to control, and I will decide when, or if, you are allowed. Understand?"

He didn't wait for an answer; your gag made that impossible anyway in your current state. Instead, he let the silence hang for a moment before giving a short, satisfied nod. "Good."

He then moved closer, his fingers grazing your lips lightly before he grabbed the ball gag that had been silencing you. He pulled it from your mouth, the now saliva-soaked rubber stretching slightly before coming free. The sensation was almost a relief. He leaned in, his breath hot against your face. "Any questions, Doll?" he asked, his tone suddenly gentle, but a pure contrast to the malevolence in his eyes.

"Is there… an alternative?" you asked.

"Alternative?" William repeated, his tone shifting into something unreadable. "And why would there need to be an alternative?"

Your words stumbled out in a hurried explanation. "I just... Well, I've made worse mistakes before. You didn't react like this then. Why is this different?" 

"You ask me why, as though you somehow deserve an explanation. Do you really think that just because I didn't discipline you immediately, you somehow escaped my notice? I'm under no obligation to act in haste. I allowed you to believe you were getting away with it, and there lies your mistake. I was watching, waiting, assessing the whole time. You think you know me, but you don't have the faintest clue how my mind works." he told you.

"Every single time you defied me, every smart-ass comment, every little act of rebellion, I remembered. And now, I'm making you pay for it all at once. You are being disciplined according to my will because it pleases me. Your obedience is not a gift to be rewarded, but a requirement to be met. Understand that. And, for the record, I do not need a reason to discipline you." He paused, his gaze hardening. "This is your final warning. Choose your route; obey me, or or prepare to face a far more severe reckoning." 

Without a word, he pressed the ball gag back into your mouth, forcing it between your teeth. The rubber bit into your mouth again, cutting off any protests or questions before they could form. He then shifted his focus to your pants, his movements slowing as his hands worked at the waistband. The fabric slid down your legs, his movements almost gentle now, as if he was unwrapping a precious gift. His gaze dropped, roaming over your exposed body, but his attention kept returning to one spot- your thighs. Whatever he was planning, it wasn't for now; it was for later, you could see that much in the look he gave you. His hands moved to your chest. He gripped your shirt roughly, his fingers curling into the fabric before tearing it apart.

Buttons scattered across the bed and floor, leaving your chest bare to his view. You flinched at the sound, the sudden aggression sending a jolt through you. He didn't comment, his focus shifting to his next task, which were the ropes. You barely had time to register what was happening, unsure where the ropes even came from because of how fast things were going in front of you, before he had secured your wrists. 

The coarse fibers bit into your skin as he tied you to the headboard. He tugged the ropes once to test their strength, ensuring there was no slack. You tested the binds instinctively, pulling against them, but they didn't budge. 

He then knelt once again, his hand disappearing under the bed. You, once again, heard the subtle shuffle of objects, but the one he picked was heavier.

When he rose, a flogger was in his hand, its long strands dangling as he brandished it with deliberate slowness. He inspected it with quiet reverence, his head tilting slightly as if considering its weight, the possibilities of its use. "So terrified and vulnerable, yet still obeying every command. That's what I like to see from you..." he whispered softly. As he brought the flogger down onto his open palm, a loud crack resounded in the room, causing you to flinch, your movement limited due to the ropes. "You disgust me, utterly. But fuck, like it doesn't turn me on..." 

As he moved closer to the bed again, your body tensed instinctively. He traced the leather strands along your exposed skin, dragging them softly over your chest and down your abdomen, purposefully eliciting a shiver from you from the tickles. Your breathing quickened as the leather kissed your overly sensitive flesh, causing goosebumps to rise and your body to tremble.

The older man then pulled back, preparing for the first strike, giving you just enough time to feel the fear settle in your bones before— 

He swung the flogger towards your stomach, the strands landing with a sharp THWACK! against your flesh.

The impact was intense, a mix of sting and thud that made your body jerk. Your yelp of pain was muffled by the gag, and your eyes squeezed shut involuntarily, but you fought hard to keep them open, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact through misty eyes. You knew it was a rule, and you were determined to fulfill it even through the pain; after all, the punishment would be even more severe if you didn't obey him. 

It felt like your skin was being peeled away, layer by layer, and the pain was so intense. He didn't pause, not one second even... He just kept going like he was taking out all his pent-up anger on you.

Each thwack caused you to writhe in pain as you struggled against your restraints, desperate to find some relief, yet unable to escape the torment. The only indication of your distress was the tears that flowed unceasingly down your cheeks because you couldn't voice your pain. 

"What happened to that mouth of yours, hm? All that backtalk earlier, where did it go? Now all I hear are those little cries." he mocked you. "You're pathetic. Worthless. And I'm going to keep reminding you of that until you get it through your thick skull." 

My body is a fucking traitor. I should be fighting this, not… not craving it. Please never stop. God, what's wrong with me? Hurt me more... please. 

After an agonizing amount of time, he finally ceased the flogging. Your body sank into the mattress, trembling from the waves of pain. His eyes went over the marks he had left behind. You forced yourself to look down as well, though it felt like your head was too heavy to lift. 

Your skin was a furious red, streaked with raised welts where the flogger had repeatedly struck, mottled with small patches where the skin broke and shallow scratches oozed with blood. You barely registered the clatter as he set the flogger aside.

"Look at what you made me do... If you had just obeyed, if you had just done what I asked without question, this would not have happened. Here we are, and it's all your fault." he said. Your face was a mess of tears and snot, your eyelashes clumped together from the wetness. William grabbed your chin, forcing your face up to meet his gaze. "Psst. . ." he whispered, as if he hadn't just been the cause of your agony. "No need to cry anymore, bunny. I didn't hurt you too bad, did I? You'll be fine. There…"

You didn't realize you were leaning into his touch until you felt the warmth of his palm on your cheek. It was an instinctive need for any kind of kindness, even if it came from someone like him. William noticed, of course, and he smiled, something dark and knowing in his eyes as he brushed his fingers through your hair, almost like he was soothing a scared animal. 

William's gaze was glassy, like he'd come down from something high. His hand traveled over your arm, rubbing softly, as if that would help the blood flow return. "Pain tells you you're alive. And I'm the one giving it to you. Doesn't that make it something to cherish? Not every man gets the privilege of being rebuilt." he told you. "You'd rot if you were left to your own devices. No purpose. But now… you're mine to fix."

You shuddered at the word mine but he didn't say it like a cliché. He said it like a man explaining a fact, like saying water's wet, or that you needed oxygen.

"It's alright, don't be afraid." he told you. 

The devil's voice was sweet to hear, every word like poison wrapped in honey, slipping past your defenses, sinking deep into your mind, where it corrupted your every thought. Rabbits were supposed to be gentle, timid creatures, weren't they...?

But the man before you was anything but that. He was the predator in the rabbit's skin. The devil.

"Keep those legs open and don’t move." he said suddenly. You froze as he straightened, his hands retreating from you, leaving your skin cold and exposed. "I want to see everything." He added. 

He already had everything. What more could he possibly take from you? The thought was sour. 

You saw his hand dug into his pocket, pulling out a small but deadly pocket knife. You felt your chest constrict, your heart suddenly hammering so loudly you were certain he could hear it. A sudden, visceral fear gripped you, stronger than anything you felt before. Was he going to kill you? 

Your body tensed against the ropes.

What if this is how it ends... tied to his bed like some sacrificial offering? Had he finally decided that this game wasn't enough? That your humiliation wasn't sufficient?

Was he truly planning to fight the very immortality he had injected into you, just to finally put an end to your existence once and for all?

"I wonder," he began, "Do you think, for even a second, that I'd stop myself if it pleased me to cut this skin of yours?" 

You shook your head, desperate to appease him. 

"Relax." he said, his voice now mocking. He noticed your panicked state. "If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't waste my time with a knife. There are far more interesting ways to make someone disappear. Besides, your body is not even built for death anymore. Don't worry."

He thought to himself for a moment before speaking again. "I wonder what sound you'll make when I cut into you... Will you try to scream? Or will you bite that gag so hard your teeth crack? Say it with those pretty eyes. Beg me not to stop." he told you. 

You didn't want it to. Under all the terror, under the humiliation that soaked into your bones, there was that thing. That broken, rotted core of you that begged for more. A sickness no amount of therapy could have scrubbed out.

You were tainted, maybe always had been. And he uncovered it, pulled it into the light and made it bloom. And now it was all you were. Just this shaking, bleeding, gagged thing tied up on a bed while a killer watched with fascination.

The way your body shook, the way your eyes darted between him and the knife, spoke volumes. William smiled, a predator reveling in his prey's helplessness.

His hand then shot out, gripping your thigh. The blade hovered for just a moment, teasingly grazing your skin, before he pressed it down firmly. The blade bit into your flesh, breaking your skin, drawing forth a searing pain that made you let out a pained sound, muffled by the gag. Tears began to form at the corners of your eyes because of the sting, but you forced yourself not to move an inch. You watched through hazy eyes as William carved something into your skin, something that seemed like letters, etched in red against the expanse of your inner thigh. Blood welled up around the edges of the wound, dripping down your leg slowly and steadily.

When he finally finished, he wiped the blade on your thigh to clean it. You leaned in a bit to take a glance at what he wrote. His name in red. The letters burned into your mind as much as they did into your body which was a permanent reminder of his ownership.

William Afton.

The letters were jagged and uneven, but unmistakably his. "Beautiful..." he murmured.

Before you could even process what he said, he bent down, his face inches from your bleeding thigh. His tongue darted out to lick the blood. It seemed like a sickeningly intimate gesture, and you couldn't help but let out a muffled whimper. You felt like you were on the brink of losing control. Despite the pain, or perhaps because of it, you were so hard it almost hurt. William didn't stop, he only kept licking, kept drinking so much his face became a mess of blood, streaks of it smearing across his mouth, his cheeks, even dripping down his chin. But he obviously didn't care. The man was literally lost in it, eyes half-closed in pleasure, a satisfied hum vibrating in his throat as he continued to feed on you.

"I can taste your fear..." he muttered, licking along the wounds. "It's better than anything I've ever had before."

You couldn't help it, your thighs shifted, squeezing together slightly, trying to find some stimulation. He continued lapping at the blood until he was finally sated. 

As he pulled back, you tried to divert your mind from the pain, but then he delivered a vicious slap to your thigh. Your scream was strangled by the gag, your body jerking violently against the ropes. You felt the wound on your thigh reopen, fresh blood spilling out once more. It throbbed, the pain pulsating with each heartbeat. Your face was a blend of tear-streaked cheeks and sweat-slicked skin, yet your gaze remained fixed on William, filled with undeniable lust. You bit down hard on the ball gag, the leather digging into your teeth as you fought to control your reactions.

"You've been so obedient tonight. I think you've earned a change of scenery." he said. 

William then leaned in, his fingers working to undo the straps behind your head. The gag fell away, and you gulped down air greedily, your jaw aching from being restrained for so long. Relief rushed through you, but it was brief, fleeting. The ropes around your wrists reminded you there was no true reprieve. "Better?" he asked. The curve of his lips hinted at a smirk that didn't quite materialize. You nodded weakly, unsure if speaking out of turn would provoke him. William's movements were unhurried as he settled beside you. 

His hand moved, trailing down your torso, fingers tracing the fresh cuts on your chest. His fingers then curled around your cock, giving it a squeeze that made you let out a shaky gasp. He rubbed his thumb over the tip, collecting the beads of pre-cum that had gathered there. The callouses of the man's palm grazed against your dick deliciously, the sensations building rapidly. You drew in deep, shuddering breaths, punctuated by the noises that escaped your lips. 

It was obscene how well he knew what he was doing.

"If you want any kind of relief, you are going to have to beg for it. And I mean really beg. Make me believe you want it, or I'll walk out of this room and let you stew in your own filth, leave you sprawled out on the bed like a prisoner awaiting judgment. C'mon."

"Please, I... I need it. Touch me."

"That's it? You barely tried. I told you to beg, not whimper like a wounded dog. I want you to grovel." He was forcing you, dragging out every bit of humiliation from the depths of your soul, leaving nothing behind but the barest threads of your dignity. 

"Please, sir... I'm a whore for this. I need you so badly. I love it when you hurt me, when you make me beg for even the slightest bit of attention..." you trailed off.

"See. It's not so hard when you stop pretending you're something more than a piece of meat. Keep going." William encouraged.

"I'm... I'm so fucking disgusting," you continued, your voice breaking, tears welling up in your eyes. "You degrade me until I feel like I'm nothing but a slut who can't control himself, and I still want it. I want more. Pleaseee..."

"What would people think if they knew? That you get off on being treated like this?" he asked you, still keeping the pace slow as he pumped you with his hand. 

You didn't even recognize yourself anymore. You were just a puppet with ruined pride and too much trauma carved into your skin to fight back. You were drowned in years of needing male attention so bad you'd let monsters sculpt you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, the tears streaming down your cheeks as you kept going, the words spilling out of you now in a desperate rush, your hips trying to follow his hand's movements. "They'd... they would think I'm a freak, a perverted freak. But I don't care, I just want you. . . Please, I'll do anything for you to give me that relief. You want me to say it, right? That I'm your bitch? That I love it when you treat me like shit? I do, I love every single second of  it. I need more."

"Anything, hm?" he mocked as he continued to toy with you, his hand slowing to a torturous pace as he fondled you. "If I told you to crawl across broken glass, you'd do it? If I told you to rip your clothes to shreds, you'd tear them off yourself and beg me to fuck you raw right after?"

"Yes! God, yes." You could barely keep your voice steady as you practically choked. "I'll beg on my knees in public if that's what you want. Please, you can choke me till I pass out, slap me till I'm black and blue. I'll eat out of your hand, I'll lick your boots clean... You can make me crawl around the house naked with a leash. I'll let you carve your name into me again, I won't even cry. I'll let you do whatever you want. Just... please... I'm begging you, I need it so bad..."

The words spilled out of you, each one more humiliating than the last, your mind too clouded with need to even register the shame anymore. You were beyond pride.

William grinned like the devil just got his due. "Fucking unbelievable. You're not just a depraved little whore. You're a goddamn masochist." he breathed. "The way you beg... It's delicious, baby."

William's hand moved with merciless intent now, increasing speed. Your eyebrows furrowed in pleasure, your eyes fighting to remain locked with his, even as they threatened to roll back in ecstasy. Your thighs trembled, your hands clenched into fists where they lay bound, and your head pressed back against the pillow. 

"That's it. That's it, boy."

He bent forward. His tongue licked up the tears on your cheek. His voice was breathless, so close to breaking. 

Your chest heaved, still raw from the earlier flogging, each motion a mix of pain and bliss. The letters on your thigh still hurt. Yet all you could focus on was the movements of his hand. "Please," you managed to gasp out. "May I… may I cum, please? I need it so badly..." Your pelvis lifted off the bed, driven by an uncontrollable yearning. "I need it so much… I can't bear it any longer… Please. I don't even deserve to cum, but please give me permission. I can't hold back anymore." 

William had immediately refused, and it crushed you. 

The frustration was unbearable; you couldn't restrain yourself for even five seconds longer.  

You couldn't control yourself as your release spilled and coated his hand in a mess of arousal as you came undone, weak and boneless.

The sight of you all fucked out already had William desperate for his own release, yet... he was disappointed, utterly. The warmth that had burned in his eyes moments ago was gone, replaced by something colder. 

"You've managed to break not just one, but two rules tonight, which showed a troubling lack of self-control. Disobedience," he continued, "requires correction. Harsh correction." 

His hand shot out, fingers gripping the rope around your wrists. The fibers scraped against your skin as he yanked you forward, untying the knot that held you to the headboard but leaving your hands bound tightly, keeping you helpless. He swiftly maneuvered you across his lap. Your chest, stomach and thigh stung horribly as the skin rubbed against the fabric of his slacks. Your rear end was awkwardly perched on one of his thighs, your legs dangling off to one side. It was an uncomfortable position, your weight barely balanced, your body put in a way that made it impossible to find any stability. 

"Don't move." he ordered.

You tried, but the awkwardness of the position genuinely made it difficult, your body instinctively shifting in an attempt to find some kind of balance.

William wasn't having any of it. He grabbed your tied wrists, holding you firmly in place with one hand, his grip firm. The weight of your body pressed down on his thighs, as he held you in place for what you knew was coming— a spanking. 

The impact of the first echoed in the bedroom as your body jerked forward. The sting on your ass became nearly unbearable as he continued, switching between cheeks each swat, which left your skin turning a shade of red with the force of his blows. You bit down hard on your lower lip to muffle the gasp threatening to escape, conscious of neighbors nearby. You needed to stay quiet.

"Mm. Pretty thing's got a nice bounce to it." 

You tried squirm and wriggle in his grip, but the ropes held you firmly in place, intensified by his hand that held you, and he ignored you. Your dick rubbed against the side of his leg with each strike, the friction causing it to leak pre-cum. You felt like you were going to burst again, and you couldn't help but grind against him. 

"How pretty, whining and begging for me. A tearful, quivering mess over my lap. You look lovely, Doll." he said. 

Finally, when William decided you had received enough, his strikes ceased, leaving your body quivering. He rubbed his palm over the abused flesh of your ass, the roughness of his hand offering a comfort. You stayed limp over his lap, panting softy.

William disregarded your desperate glance. He unceremoniously lifted you off his lap and set you down, making you sit on the bed. 

And then, without warning, he shoved you to the floor. The movement caught you off-guard, and you landed awkwardly, hands still bound, the rope biting into your wrists as your knees scraped the floor. A gasp left you, your head whipping up in startled urgency.  

Before your body could fully process what happened now, William's harsh slap jolted you, sending you stumbling back as stars danced before your eyes. Before you could collapse, he seized your hair and forcefully yanked you back into your kneeling position, your arms and legs aching. 

He ensured that you were still before he let go of your hair for a brief moment, hurriedly unbuckling his belt and unfastening his pants, allowing his cock to finally be free. The glistening pre-cum at its tip peeked out from beneath the foreskin. "You like that?" he teased. You responded with a soft 'mm-hm' sound, your tongue flicking out to taste him as he glided across your lips. He grabbed it and slapped it against your lips, demanding entrance. "Open wide for Daddy, darling."

You obeyed, parting your lips to take him in, taking him deep into your mouth, making sure to keep eye contact with him as you did. He fed it to you slow at first, groaned and panted above you, his breath coming out in uneven huffs. It was true that your throat had been trained by him, allowing you to take him deeper than before, but his forcefulness and his curve still pushed you to the limits of your abilities. Nearly choking on his length, you forced yourself to take William even deeper than before, your throat accommodating his cock with every practiced motion. The combination of his length and girth made it a challenge, but you were determined to please him. He moaned appreciatively in response, his grip tightening in your hair, guiding your movements to his liking.

You were so into it, so lost in the act of pleasuring him that you barely noticed the way your throat burned from the force of his movements. The ache in your knees was nothing compared to the ache in your chest, the overwhelming need to please him, to be the perfect servant. Your tears mixed with the trails of saliva and spittle that dripped off your chin. You braced your knees wider on the floor, your arms shaking behind your back, wrists still bound, blood rushing in your ears.

William's restraint snapped. His other hand moved to the back of your head, fingers digging into the base of your skull as he forced you down onto him. You gagged immediately. The curve of him made it worse as he fucked your mouth, the slight upward tilt pressing insistently against the abused sensitive tissue of your throat. 

The repeated intrusion left no room for a moment of respite. Every thrust pushed deeper, You were desperate for stability as the onslaught continued. But it was impossible. Tears streamed freely down your flushed cheeks, the heat of exertion mixing with the dampness of your own spit, trickling from the corners of your mouth. The tension in your jaw was unbearable. The burning lack of oxygen sent alarms blaring in your mind, yet you couldn't breathe. The panic was real, a sensation you'd never grow used to, no matter how many times he forced you into this exact position. Black spots came in your eyesight, a warning. The room was hazy, spinning in the periphery. 

Your throat clenched involuntarily, trying and failing to expel the thick presence lodged deep inside. If anything, he groaned at the tight squeeze around him. "You're squeezing me so tight, dear..." He shuddered, the praise dripping from his tongue like honey as he continued fucking your throat. "Keep it up… fuck, just like that."

Your nerves were burning with a combination of desperation and dizzying euphoria. 

The world above you came into uneven fragments. The continuous impact of his pelvis against your lips sent tremors through your skull, your entire existence narrowing down to this singular moment. His brows were furrowed, deepening the creases on his forehead, those lines etched in permanently from years of scowling. He fought to maintain his composure, but his gaze never wavered from yours. The eye contact made it worse, made it more intense. He knew you were struggling, yet he didn't stop. 

Then, without warning, his fingers tangled deep in your hair that you swore you could feel his fingers breaching your skull, holding you firmly in place as a groan tore from his chest. Heat shot down your throat, thick and overwhelming, the heavy spurts nearly gagging you.You desperately swallowed, wanting to please him and not spill a single drop.

As William finally let you go, you fell on your backside, gasping harshly for much-needed air. Your breaths came in heaving, irregular gasps, and your throat was raw and sore. Your face was wrecked, flushed with exertion and smeared with saliva, strands of it dangling from his cock. You knew looked dirty at that moment. But that was perfect for him.

As the arousal faded, you were sitting on the bed with William sitting beside you, a roll of bandages in his hand as he began to wrap them around your injured thigh. You watched him in silence, your breaths coming slow as the stinging pain had ebbed away, replaced by a dull ache. 

"I don't need you squirming around like a damn child." William said. 

You gritted your teeth against the pain, trying to focus on something other than the sensation of his hands on your skin. "Sorry," you muttered.

William paused in his movements, his gaze going over to you. "What was that?"

"I said sorry," you repeated, louder this time. "I'll try to stay still."

"Good," he replied. "The wound will heal beautifully if you don't mess it up. You'll have marks to remind you of me." he added, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. 

With that, he finished tending to your wound. He stood up, moving to help you lay on the bed. He guided you back onto the mattress, arranging the pillows behind you so you could lie down comfortably, his movements surprisingly gentle despite everything he had done to you. You watched him warily, trying to understand what he was doing, but it was impossible to predict him. What were you even supposed to say to the man who had just tortured you? Who had carved his name into your skin like you were nothing more than a piece of property?

It was almost as if his approval was a reward, a validation of your submission. You couldn't help but still somehow feel a strange sense of gratitude towards William. It was weird but undeniably there. He had hurt you, yes, but he had also taken care of you in his own way. And despite William's abusive tendencies, you couldn't shake the desperate longing for intimacy, even if it meant just a simple hug or something.

The bandages were being put away. You couldn't help but watch him. He was the man who'd become everything to you, yet nothing at all. He had your body, but he never quite held your heart. William now looked... unaffected. Done. Like whatever he had wanted from you tonight had already been taken, and now there was nothing left to hold his attention. The bed creaked beneath you as you sat up. William's eyes went toward you for half a second before returning to his task. That half-second of acknowledgment gave you the courage to speak.

It felt pathetic coming out of your mouth, like begging for scraps from a man who had never been generous. "William," you whispered, turning to glance at him, "can we, uh... cuddle? Just this once?" 

William let out a heavy sigh, the kind that made your stomach tighten with anxiety before he even opened his mouth. He rubbed a hand down his face, as if exhausted by the sheer effort of dealing with you. Then, he looked at you, his expression hardening into a stern glare. "I thought I made it clear the day we met that I'm not one for that kind of shit. Don't be stupid."

You felt like you were asking for something forbidden. "I know, but... I'm not feeling really well after everything." You paused, struggling to find the right words, your body still aching from the punishment. "Listen... I...I don't have anyone else, William. No one. And I know that's my fault, that I put myself in this position. But just for tonight, just for one fucking night, I don't want to feel like I'm only worth anything when I'm on my knees. If I don't sleep,  I'll fuck up at work. I'll stand around like a goddamn idiot and drop things and forget what I'm supposed to be doing, and you'll be pissed at me. And then I'll feel even worse because I'll know it's my own damn fault."

Your hands trembled slightly where they rested against the sheets, curled into useless fists. "I hate when I get like that, when I can't even think straight because I'm too tired to function. I feel like a walking corpse, like some pathetic, brain-dead husk who barely deserves to exist, let alone take up space in my own bed with you."

This was embarrassing, feeling like you were admitting to a weakness you shouldn't have. You could practically feel his disapproval radiating off him. It made you feel small, pathetic. You feared he might dismiss your plea outright, or worse, punish you for daring to ask for something so intimate, so out of character for the boundaries established. 

"You knew what you were getting into when you decided to mouth off to me. I had to correct you like a misbehaving child."

"Please," you whispered, barely audible. "I don't care what you think I deserve, I just need to feel okay. Just for tonight, let me pretend I'm worth holding. If that's what it takes to keep me from being a useless mess tomorrow." 

William's eyes didn't soften, not even for a second. If anything, they hardened even more, like he was disgusted by the idea of giving you what you were asking for. But then you noticed a shift in his demeanor. It wasn't compassion, you knew better than to expect that, but... something else. He let out another sigh, this one quieter, almost like he was giving in. "... Fine," he said. "But don't think that this will become a habit." 

William had gotten under the blanket, laying next to you by your side. The glow from the lamp stayed before he switched it off, and the room was swallowed by darkness. He shifted again, and before you could adjust to the sudden change in temperature, you felt the weight of him behind you. Relief washed over you as he moved to lie down closer beside you, his body pressing against yours as he spooned you from behind. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close to his chest. You shifted slightly under the blanket, your breath slowing. You could feel the tension radiating off him, his body rigid against yours as if he was forcing himself to tolerate your presence. It was a bit awkward. Or better to say, too awkward, uncomfortably so. It took a moment for you to fully relax into the embrace, the tension in your body gradually easing as William’s warmth seeped into you. 

"Thank you." you told him. You didn't expect him to speak, and he didn't. William wasn't the type to fill the silence with meaningless words. He was there because you asked, and nothing more.

You found yourself pushing back slightly against him, seeking just a little more of that warmth, that contact. You didn't care if he noticed, didn't care if he thought it was stupid. You tried to hold onto that feeling of everything being perfect, trying to ignore the doubts and fears still lingering.

Then, you suddenly felt his hand on top of yours, the skin of his palm brushing against your knuckles.

The touch was so unexpected, so out of character for him, that you froze, your breath catching in your throat. It was such a simple gesture, but felt like... everything. You could feel his fingers sliding between yours. You hesitated, and then slowly, you turned your hand over, intertwining your fingers with his. His grip tightened, and you held on like a lifeline, pushing even closer to him.

You wanted to cry, but not out of fear or pain this time.

It was something that scared you because it was mixed with everything he had done to you. It gripped your heart and refused to let go, and that was what made you want to to cry out in desperation because you craved this so much. You didn't even think of it as love, because that would imply something pure, something good.

Love wasn't supposed to be like this, was it? The way he hurt you, controlled you, hurt others, killed innocents... should've filled you with hatred, to make you want him to go burn in hell for all eternity, but all it did was make you want him more, need him more. This was something darker, yet just as powerful.

You didn't want to give it a name, because naming it meant acknowledging it, and acknowledging it meant accepting the truth.

The two of you pushed even closer together, the awkwardness giving way to something far more… intimate. 

You felt William's breath against your neck, each exhale warm and steady. Your own breathing quickened, the air in your lungs feeling too thick, too heavy, heart thudding against your ribs. You could feel the faint pulse of his own heartbeat where his chest met your back, a reminder that this man, this terrifying, cruel man, was right there, holding you, touching you.

How could you feel this way about someone who hurt you so deeply?

“How could I be so drawn to the very person who made me feel like I'm worth nothing?” 

You shifted slowly, careful not to disturb the uneasy truce that had settled between you both. You turned slightly to face him, and the tangled blanket felt like a cage around your legs, pulling your movements into something slow. You watched him, his eyes closed, lashes dark against the pallor of his skin. You wondered if he was truly asleep, or if he was just pretending. But the twitch of his eyelids told you he was not as lost in rest as you thought. Your breath, warm and uneven, ghosted over his skin, and sure enough, after a moment of unbearable silence, his eyes opened. Tired, dull gray, staring at you with an unreadable expression, as if waiting to see what you would do next.

You didn't think. You just acted. You pressed your lips against William's softly, waiting for the resistance that never came. Encouraged, you pressed harder, your mouth fitting against his like it was the only thing keeping you from drowning. You kissed him like he was the air you needed to breathe. There was no violence this time, no rough grip on your jaw, no punishing teeth sinking into your skin. He didn't shove you away or seize control, didn't make it into something brutal or aggressive. It was a simple response. And that, more than anything, made your heart ache. 

No power struggle. Just the need to be close to another human being.

The kiss broke, but your lips barely moved an inch from his. Close enough that you could still feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. You thought about leaning in again, about closing the distance once more. But instead, you pulled back.

You stared at him, memorizing every detail of his face, the hard lines softened by the dim light. To you, in that moment, he looked almost perfect, like the person you had always wanted him to be. You saw him not as the monster who had hurt you, but as someone you desperately wanted to love, someone you needed to love, no matter how much it destroyed you.

William's face didn't change, but his eyes had shown genuine confusion at first, as if he couldn't comprehend what was happening. A sight of curiosity, an almost analytical interest, like he was dissecting you in real-time. 

Your hand moved almost on its own, fingers trembling slightly as you cupped William's face. Your thumb brushed over the line of his cheekbone, and you watched as his eyes shifted, just for a moment, before they fixed on you again. He didn't move away; didn't react at all, really. Like he was caught in some strange paralysis. 

You could see the cogs turning in his mind, the unraveling of logic as he tried to categorize this moment into something familiar, something that fit within the confines of the world he had made for himself and him only. He had hurt you before, taken from you, but now you were offering something freely, something untainted by fear or pain. And that unsettled him more than any act of his violence ever could.

He was analyzing you the way he would a machine, looking for the hidden mechanism, the flaw in the design. His breathing was slow, but you could hear the tension in it. Feel it in the way his body remained deathly still, like a predator caught in a snare. "What are you doing?" His voice was barely a whisper.

You swallowed against the anxiety that wanted to escape you, forcing yourself to let the words spill out before you lost the nerve. "Please don't let me go." you whispered. "Hold me for as long as you can, until you have to leave, if that's all we have. I know you don't want this, that you don't care, but… just this once, let me feel like you do. Let me cling to the illusion that I matter to you."

You saw his hand move toward you, and for a split second, fear shot through you. But he didn't strike you. Instead, he grasped your hand that held his face in his, his touch firm yet gentle. William's eyes, those cold eyes, didn't soften. They never did. But something in his gaze shifted, just enough for you to see it. "My poor, sweet bunny." he spoke. "You don't have to worry. I'm right here, and I won't let anything happen to you. No one's going to hurt you. Not even me." 

He said it so easily, so matter-of-factly, as if he was reassuring a child who had woken from a nightmare. It was a strange thing to hear from him, from the man who had done things to you that no one should ever have to endure. As if the bruises, the cuts, the aching in your ribs and the name he'd carved into your skin didn't contradict everything he had just said. And yet, for some reason, you believed him, because the alternative, that there was no safety, no certainty, not even in the moments when he chose to be gentle, was too much to bear.

You smiled then, a genuine, fragile smile, one that felt foreign on your face. It wasn't pleasant, not in the way people romanticized these things, but it was him...

He was your tormentor, yes, but in your mind, he was also your savior. He held you captive but also kept you from drifting into a void of nothingness.

He pulled you close to him then, his arms wrapping around you. Your arms slid around him, gripping the back of his shirt as you buried your face against him. It was kinda stiff at first again, like neither of you knew how to exist in this moment. It was also like he didn't know how to hold someone like this. But he didn't pull away from you. 

You nuzzled closer, the fabric of his shirt brushing against your cheek, hands clutching at him as if he might disappear if you didn't hold on tight enough. The smell of cigarettes clung to him, the scent woven so deep into the fabric of his shirt that it almost felt like part of his skin. Beneath that, the faded traces of cologne lingered, something that had probably been applied hours ago but still lingered faintly on his pulse points. You took in a slow breath, nuzzling closer, your nose brushing against the warmth of his collarbone. You felt his heartbeat against your ear and you let yourself believe that it was beating just for you. It was the most comforting sound in the world. 

You felt safe. The realization should have made you sick because William Afton was the last person in the world you should feel safe with, but your body betrayed you. You felt small; not weak nor insignificant, just... like you were held. Like the way a child must feel when wrapped in a parent's arms, even if that parent was undeserving. 

His hand moved. Not to correct you for being too needy, instead, long fingers slid into your hair, rough calloused fingertips brushing against your scalp. His palm rested against the back of your head, his fingers curling slightly, holding you there. Keeping you close.

You pressed your lips to his chest, right over his heart, and the words slipped out before you could stop them. "I… I don't know why," you began, "but... somehow, I feel like I love you."

You were terrified of the silence that followed, of the way his body tensed ever so slightly, but you didn't pull away. You felt like you had just flung yourself off a cliff. If you stopped, it would fester inside you like rot, and you couldn't take that anymore. So you kept speaking, even though your hands trembled where they gripped his shirt. Even though you wanted to run from the weight of your own confession.

"I don't... I don’t know when it happened. Maybe it was gradual, maybe it was all at once and I was too fucking scared to admit it, but I love you." Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. "I love the way you smell," you admitted, barely above a whisper, like it was something shameful. "I love the way your voice sounds when you're tired. I love that stupid way you talk down to me, even when it makes me want to hit you. I love how you always act like you don't care, but sometimes... sometimes I think maybe you do.... I know it doesn't mean anything to you, I know you don't feel the same, but I don't care. I don't care, William. I just... I love you. I love you, I love you, I... —"

You stopped. You swallowed against the lump in your throat, your body suddenly exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical pain. 

You sighed, "I don't want to be anywhere else but here, with you..."

And then you felt his heartbeat beneath your ear, quickening against his ribcage. He was affected.

You didn't dare move, you don't even breathe, just waited, hoping for something. 

But there was no response.

The smile you hadn't even realized was still lingering on your lips faded into nothing.

Exhaustion finally began to take its toll, the adrenaline and emotions of the day leaving you drained. You closed your eyes, your breathing slowing as you drifted off, the warmth of William's body lulling you into a sleep.

As you slept, William looked down at you, his expression unreadable. He waited until your breathing fully evened out and your body relaxed in his arms. Only then did he finally whisper back, his voice too soft to hear.

"I love you too."

Sorry to interrupt your (possible?) emotional breakdown, but here's some fresh art to cheer you up! Most of these were requests from my friends.

1. Charlotte Emily:

2. Elizabeth:

3. William looking a little too nice:

4. My Jeremy Fitzgerald design! (His appearance is up to interpretation, but this is how I personally imagine him):

5. William as rabbit hole Miku:

Chapter Text

William's legs were stretched long under the blanket, one of yours slung over his. Your body was smaller than his, not fragile, but pressed to him like a heat-seeking thing. His arm was locked across your middle, and his body remained frozen against you, like a corpse that hadn't yet cooled.

His lips were set, the corners tugged down slightly, not into a frown, but the natural shape they settled into. His jaw clenched once every few seconds, the muscle jumping there. His eyes were blank, utterly devoid. Not serene, not at peace, but expressionless in a way that only came with years of burying what was underneath. Like the man had excused himself from his own skull.

You stirred a little in your sleep, murmuring something. William blinked slowly. His gaze dropped to the crown of your head. Your hair was mussed.

His hand moved without thinking, brushing back a strand clinging to your temple.

He should've pulled away, corrected the illusion before it metastasized. But he didn't.

Love wasn't real — it was a script, a device, a foolish fantasy for the weak, he reminded himself. But here it was, resting in his arms.

"I love you too." He had said it once you fell asleep, like saying it to a ghost. A memory. Not a person who could hear it and throw it back at him.

He felt disgusting afterward.

He wanted to hurt something.

The truth was, it wasn't calculation that made his heart stutter when you said you loved him. It was fear. Real, human, useless fear.

(...) 

He must've fallen asleep sometime after that. Maybe around nine. The room had gone still. He didn't even dream, it was just blackness, as if the mind knew better than to bother stirring memories that had no right surfacing. But he woke abruptly, no groggy haze, just the awareness of time and obligation snapping him out of it.

Time to get ready for work.

The next morning, you woke up to an empty bed. 

Your body was stiff from sleep, warmth still lingering where William had held you last night. But when you reached out, your fingers met empty sheets. Cold. You sat up, the blankets pooling around your waist, heart beating just a little too fast. Your bed felt too big without him in it.

The pillow next to you still had the indent of his head, but the space was empty. You sighed. The air was too hard to breathe in already...

He was obviously back to his usual self, leaving you behind to make sense of whatever the hell had just happened. You remembered your confession, how you practically bared your soul to him in a moment of weakness. And what did you get in return? Nothing, of course, not even the courtesy of an acknowledgment. 

Every part of you ached, your chest and stomach felt bruised and stung horribly, your throat was raw and your thigh burned under the bandage. Your head was pounding also, but not just from the physical pain. It was from the embarrassment too. The things you said were coming back to you in broken pieces, the aftertaste of humiliation thick on your tongue. You could hardly remember them all clearly now with your brain still foggy with sleep, but certain moments came back to you in flashes, moments you wished you could erase from your brain entirely.

"I'll eat out of your hand, I'll lick your boots clean... You can make me crawl around the house naked with a leash. I'll let you carve your name into me again, I won't even cry."

What have you done? You said it, all of it, and you hadn't been joking. You knew now, with horrible clarity, that Williams surely was convinced you would actually do all of it.

You spewed words that no human should ever say to another person. 

When you finally pushed yourself up, the pain flared, sharp and hot, and you hissed through your teeth. You couldn't stop the slight wobble in your legs as you climbed out of bed. 

And when you were inside the bathroom, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror. God, you looked like shit. There was also a deep look in your expression, a look of someone who had been pushed to the brink and didn't know how to come back from it. You felt a sudden urge to punch the mirror, to destroy that pathetic version of yourself staring back at you. But you didn't. Instead, you forced yourself to calm down. There was no point in losing it now.

The bandage around your thigh peeked out from beneath the hem of your shirt, and you knew better than to mess with it right now. You lifted your shirt to check the damage on your torso instead. Bruises in varying shades were across your skin, while the other marks were welts and some particularly deeper cuts. You traced your fingers over them, the slight pressure making you wince. They filled you with sadness and self-loathing. Red might look good on you, but now it was as if your suffering was something to be admired, even celebrated.

Few days ahead...

You floated through the days, half-aware. Your body ached, but it was a distant throb, like your nerves had given up on sending signals properly. Your voice was somewhere far away, locked behind walls you didn't have the energy to tear down anymore. You moved because you had to, not because you wanted to. You felt like some hollowed-out puppet left forgotten in the attic. You felt the need to be marked up and emptied out before you had to put on your uniform and go pretend to be human for the rest of the day. 

You continued taking care of the cuts on your thigh, as well as marks across your chest and stomach from that night. Bandages, ointments, whatever helped keep it from getting infected, you handled it in silence. William barely acknowledged it, since he had been busy in the spare room like usual. You had no clue what he was doing in there, but you knew it was related to his experiments with Remnant and keeping a low profile after the murders (which was stupid, again, how you let a child murderer continue his work under your roof). He barely spoke to you these days when he wasn't working late at his night shift. He was emerging from the spare room only for food or a brief few hours of sleep before disappearing. Your schedules were completely out of sync, because he would leave the house around 11 pm to head to work at Freddy's then arrive home around 6 am like usual. And by the time you got home from your own shift, exhausted from the long hours, he was either asleep or buried in that room again.

Today, you were on the prize counter, like every other dayshift. The sound of kids running and yelling filled the room, making the place feel more like a madhouse than a family establishment. Parents were just as bad, barking orders at you to fetch toys or prizes their brats didn't even deserve. You leaned against the counter, forcing a tight-lipped smile as a mother berated you for not having the "right" plush bear. You gave her the usual line, "Sorry, ma'am, we're out of stock," but she huffed and stormed off, dragging her screaming kid by the arm.

Everyone around you was living in their own place of self-importance. You wondered how many times you repeated the same robotic phrases this week alone.

It used to be better, though, back when you actually spoke to your coworker, Jeremy. You two used to have a sort of camaraderie, chatting during breaks, joking about the more unbearable parts of the job. But now, nothing— Jeremy was off handling security in a different section. You could've made an effort to meet up with him, grab a break together or something, but no, because you distanced yourself. Why? The answer was obvious: William.

Over and over in your head, the man had gotten under your skin so deeply that he was all you could think about, even here. You used to be better, more you, back when you had friends, when you weren't living this isolated version of your life. But then you met him, and it all changed. He never outright said it, but he slowly pushed everyone out of your life. It wasn't like he forced you to cut ties with your friends; he just planted the seed of doubt, and you believed him, stupidly enough. Especially since some of your ex friends got into some nasty trouble.

Here you were with no one to talk to except the man who caused it all. The worst part was the fact you were the one doing it now. Jeremy hadn't pushed you away; you pushed him away, voluntarily. 

You leaned against the counter, absently watching the scene around you. It was quieting down in the building since people were starting to leave, but your thoughts weren't on them. They were back at home, on William, and whatever he was doing.

"Y/N?" Jeremy's voice broke through your thoughts, pulling you back to reality. You blinked, realizing he was standing a few feet away, a tired look on his face. He must've just came off his duties for his break.

"Oh. Hey," you said, your voice flat, sounding more disconnected to the present than you intended. You quickly tried to recover, but the damage was done. 

Jeremy raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter, looking you over like he was trying to figure you out. "Hey... are you alright?" he asked, his voice careful.

You hesitated, your brain struggling to come up with an answer that would make him drop it. It should've been easy to tell him you were fine, but you weren't, since in reality you were stuck in a toxic situation with an old man who thought 'abuse' was just a fancy word for 'affection.'

"Yeah. I'm just tired because of the long days like usual, you get me?" You gestured at your face, trying to make light of it. "Probably looks like it too, huh?"

It was a weak attempt at a joke, and you could tell by Jeremy's unimpressed expression that it didn't land.

He frowned slightly, his gaze not wavering. "I get it. These shifts can be brutal, especially lately." You nodded, but the way he was looking at you made you feel exposed, like he could see right through the walls you were putting up. He offered a small, sympathetic smile, though, before glancing around, probably trying to think of something else to say. "I was gonna grab a smoke out back. Do you wanna come with me to talk?" 

You considered it, if only to feel normal for a few minutes. You glanced at the clock. There was still time before your own shift ended. Say yes!, you thought. "I'll go." you muttered, almost as if you were convincing yourself.

The door clicked shut behind you as you followed Jeremy out of the kitchen. He leaned against the wall, fishing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He tapped the bottom of the pack against his palm before pulling one out with his lips, lighting it with a small flick of his lighter. He took a drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke, then held the pack out to you. "Want one?" he asked. 

You didn't smoke, not really. But right now, it didn't seem like a terrible idea. Maybe it would help, distract you from everything. People always said smoking was supposed to help with stress, with all the heavy things going on in your head. Maybe that was just bullshit, but it was worth a shot. "Sure," you said, taking one. Your fingers fumbled slightly as you lit the cigarette, the weight of it between your lips. You took a shallow drag, the smoke burning your throat a little on the way down. It tasted bitter, sharp, but you didn't cough. You took another hit, trying to keep your face neutral.

Jeremy glanced over at you, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't know you smoked." he said, his tone light. 

"Well... I don't, really. Just thought I'd give it a shot again today."

He nodded, letting it go, taking another drag. The two of you stood there in silence for a moment. You flicked some ash off the end of your cigarette and turned to him. "How have you been?" you asked, your voice calm, but there was a hint of concern in it. 

Jeremy took a drag of his cigarette, exhaling slow. "Been doin' the same things, really..." he said, voice casual, but something about it felt off. "Parents are still a pain in my ass, but at least they're not my problem anymore. You know, they weren't exactly thrilled when I dropped out. 'You're throwing your life away, Jeremyyy,' 'No one's gonna hire a high school dropout, Jeremy'" he mimicked in a nasally voice, rolling his eyes. "And yet, here I am, gainfully employed in the fine establishment of Freddy Fazbear's, dealing with the worst kids imaginable. Real success story!" He laughed. "I've been working extra shifts lately. They've been running me ragged in security. But I have the energy for it."

You nodded, taking another drag. The burn in your chest was starting to feel more bearable, though it still tasted like ash in your mouth. "I remember when I was your age, fresh out of high school. Feels like a lifetime ago." You tried to chuckle, but it came out more as a sigh. "You've got your whole life ahead of you. I hope you get out of this dump before it ruins you."

"Why?" Jeremy raised an eyebrow, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. "By the way you're wording this, it sounds like you're speaking from experience."

You shrugged. "I've just been here too long, that's all — I used to work at the first Freddy's."

"Seriously?" he asked, "Wait, like the old one, with those busted animatronics? What did you think of that old Chica model?" 

You let out an actual laugh at that, the sound surprising even you. "Oh God, her jaws were awful even then. Like, really bad. Always looked like she was about to fall apart..." You shook your head, "Creepy, too. I'm glad they updated the designs with the Toy versions. At least they don't look like they're about to bite your head off most of the time."

Jeremy laughed too, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, those things still weird me out, but at least the new ones aren't nightmares. Well, except for The Puppet, really..."

You chuckled softly, but your mind wandered a little, slipping back into that familiar place of anxiety. Still, you had to keep it together. If you acted normal, Jeremy wouldn't ask more questions, and you didn't need anyone asking about your life right now. 

He exhaled. "You ever talked to that night guard? Dave Miller? Just curious. He's been around a lot lately even when it ain't his shift."

The alias William used at work. You kept your expression neutral. "Why do you ask?" 

"Man, it's just... that guy gives me the creeps. Something about him is just off. I mean, this place is a magnet for weirdos, but there's something about him that doesn't sit right with me. I caught him doing something the other day. Something shady as hell." 

This was dangerous territory, but you couldn't act too interested or too dismissive. If you reacted the wrong way, he'd pick up on it.

"He showed up early. Like, way earlier than his shift. Said he 'forgot something' and needed to grab it from his locker." Jeremy made air quotes around the words, his skepticism obvious. "I mean, okay, maybe he did. But the thing is, I saw him go into Parts and Service instead. No one's supposed to be in there except the techs. Even the daytime security isn't allowed in there unless it's an emergency. I kept an eye on that hallway for hours, but he never left. At least, not through the door."

"... You should be careful around him," you said. "Don't push too hard. If he catches on that you're watching him, it won't end well."

Jeremy frowned, finally looking at you. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just… don't get too curious about the guy. He's not the type you want to piss off."

Jeremy studied you for a moment. He wasn't stupid. He could tell when someone was holding back on information. You saw the gears turning in his head, his mouth pressing into a line like he wanted to push, wanted to ask why you were warning him at all. Instead, he just exhaled a slow stream of smoke and muttered, "Yeah. Noted."

That was good enough. For now.

Jeremy finished his cigarette first, stomping it out against the pavement before pushing off the wall. "I should get back inside before Ralph starts bitching about me slacking off."

You nodded, taking one last drag before flicking your own cigarette away. "Yeah. I should head back too." The sun had almost fully set by the time you stubbed out the last of the butt.

You stepped off the bus, your body aching from the long shift. The plastic bag in your hand dug into your fingers, the weight of groceries making the skin sore. It was quiet right now, and it was a relief, in a way. After a day filled with screaming kids and demanding parents, you liked to sink in the quiet because it was something that wouldn't ask anything of you.

Your head had been killing you lately, and you had a really clear feeling that it wasn't going to get any better.

Your feet carried you home weakly. The shoes you had barely held together scraped against the pavement, every step feeling heavier than the last. Your thoughts were constantly looping back to the conversation with Jeremy. Something about the way he spoke about William unsettled you.

If Jeremy kept sniffing around...

...?

You shook the thought away. It couldn't matter, right? 

By the time you reached your door, your shoulders ached from carrying the groceries, and the thought of collapsing into bed was the only thing keeping you moving.

The moment you stepped inside, though, the scent of something cooking filled the air. And the moment your eyes landed on the slender figure, you felt like your entire soul was sucked out of your body. 

William was standing in your small, shitty kitchen. Cooking for you. Like a... like a husband. You froze just inside the doorway, heart kicking hard against your ribs. Your shoes might as well have been welded to the floor, and every agonizing second stretched into an eternity before you finally wrenched your legs into motion. You kicked your shoes off quietly, like you were afraid you might scare away the scene. 

You walked into the kitchen, then set down the plastic bag on the counter with a quiet thunk, your movements stiff from exhaustion. The sight was such a strange picture that your exhausted brain refused to believe it. You thought you might still be hallucinating from the lack of sleep.

Your stomach rumbled embarrassingly loud, forcing you into the present reality. William snorted quietly like he heard it but had the decency not to say anything.

"What are you doing?" You were so tired it was hard to tell if it was gratitude or some awful swelling ache that made your heart lurch.

"What does it look like?"

"Looks like you're cooking." you said slowly, almost accusingly. You stepped closer, wary, like if you got too close he'd vanish.

"Very astute observation, boy."

The kitchen was small, barely big enough for two people, but it felt like a cathedral with how silent and reverent the moment felt to you. 

You crossed your arms, feeling the awkward tension bite into your chest. You tried to laugh it off, "Well, that's new. You usually treat this place like a motel. In and out without a second glance." 

"You are remarkably quick to doubt sincerity. I understand that might be the way of your generation, like constant second-guessing, taking everything that is not immediate and flashy as falsehood. But that is not how I operate. You do not have to tear it apart looking for some ulterior motive. Sometimes things are simply as they appear."

His voice made you feel stupid for even asking. Like you should have known better by now.

Then, with a shift of his weight, William spoke again, his voice losing some of its sharpness. "... You came home quite late tonight. Maybe I should have higher expectations by now."

You swallowed, the change in subject slapping you across the face harder than any insult could have. "Had to stay a little longer," you murmured, keeping your voice soft. "Busy day." 

"Busy. Yes. That's what you always say. But I imagine it's more than just work that kept you, isn't it? I can see it on your face. Someone talked to you. Someone got into that thick skull of yours."

You hesitated, then nodded slightly. Lying wouldn't help. "... Jeremy."

He finally turned, briefly setting aside his dinner preparations. He leaned a hip against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes pinned you in place. "Tell me exactly what was said. Leave nothing out." His tone was stern. 

You licked your dry lips, shifting on your feet like you could escape the weight of his heavy stare. Your fingers curled slightly.

You knew there was no point in trying to deflect. "He mentioned you, had ideas about what you could possibly be up to," you admitted. "Saw you in Parts and Service. Thought it was weird."

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Ideas get people killed. You didn't entertain it, did you?" 

You shook your head. "No."

"A man does not need proof to cause trouble. Only fear. Fear and foolishness are the breeding grounds of most disasters. If he fears me, he could make things... complicated, for certain."

"I understand. I won't talk to him anymore. I'll keep my head down."

William let out a low hum of near-approval deep in his throat. Turning back to the counter, he grabbed two plates and carefully portioned out the steaming pie, the rich filling spilling slightly as he plated it.

A small beat of silence stretched between the two of you as he plated the food before he finally spoke again. "How are the bandages holding up?" You froze for a fraction of a second, and he continued, "Your leg. I imagine the pain is still considerable. Deep wounds like that don't close over the course of a few days, even with the help of Remnant. It accelerates healing, yes, but it does not work miracles. Scarring, especially with lacerations of that severity, takes significantly longer. So it would be such a shame if you weren’t taking care of my work properly. . ."

You stood there stupidly, still unmoving. You were feeling like you were fifteen again, desperate for some scrap of affection that would make all the ugly things disappear.

"Still stings, but I've been taking care of it." You shifted your weight slightly. "Cleaning it, changing the bandages regularly. I know better than to let it get infected." The words came out flat, more like a statement of fact than anything else.

"Good. Sit down now," he then said. "Dinner's nearly done. I'll be leaving for work by 11 sharp. So let's make the most of the time we have, shall we?"

You hesitated for a second before obeying, lowering yourself into the chair. Your thigh ached as you bent your leg, the deep wound pulsing under the fresh bandages. You let out a quiet whimper, barely more than a breath. You tried to ignore it; you'd gotten used to pain a long time ago.

William turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. His eyes drifted down to your leg as if he could see straight through the fabric. "You'll need to stop favoring that leg so much," he said. "You're making it obvious."

You clenched your jaw. "I can't exactly control how much it hurts."

He sighed in response, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

William set the plates down. Not just dumping them like some gruff man might. He placed them properly, one in front of you, one at his usual spot. The meal was British, something you didn't recognize by name but still smelled good in a way that made your stomach tighten with hunger. Then he sat down himself, the chair creaking under his weight. 

The domestic scene was hitting you harder than any wound ever could. In your mind, it expanded, blossomed absurdly beautiful, larger than life. It twisted the simple moment into something sacred, like he was some precious thing meant only for you. Like this shitty little kitchen was your sanctuary, and he was your priest, your confessor, your executioner. You wanted to marry this man... your abuser. The one who broke you in ways no one could see. You dreamed of love, of safety, of a future together.

Your mind curled itself around the word and tried to crush it, tried to replace it with something prettier, but couldn't. You were soulmates, you convinced yourself, twin creatures clawing for scraps in a world that hated people like you. William Afton was the only one who could understand you. 

You knew you were being manipulated. You knew what was happening. You knew he had broken you into something soft and pliant. But knowing didn't make it any easier to fight.

You stole another look at him when you thought he would not notice. It was infuriating how handsome he could look without even trying. You wondered if this was what it could have been like. In another life. 

You pressed your hand to your chest, feeling your heartbeat hammering painfully hard against your ribs.

It hurt.

God, it hurt.

Loving him like this.

Like he was something rare and fragile you could never really touch without ruining.

He had not said anything about your confession. Had not so much as acknowledged it. You wanted to tell him again. How he ruined you for anyone else. How just sitting here across from him made your whole body ache with violent affection like you were about to split open. 

You would probably never know his answer; he was a thousand locked doors and you only had two hands.

He picked up his fork. He sliced his food into even bites, chewing slowly, thinking as he always was. You followed his lead, though your appetite wasn't strong enough to finish quickly. 

It tasted... good? Really good, actually. You blinked, genuinely startled, the flavor rich and savory on your tongue. You were pretty sure you had never tasted anything like this in your entire life, but somehow it felt significant. Like he was handing you something that mattered to him even if it was just some random British meal. 

You looked up at him, unable to hide the genuine surprise in your voice. "This is really tasty." Your tone was almost childishly earnest before you could think better of it. 

William smiled. "Of course it is. I am not completely without skill outside of other pursuits."

"Did you learn to cook in England?"

He nodded once, chewing. "Mother insisted. Thought it was important to know how to fend for myself. Was not many years before I had to."

"That's nice." you said, feeling an odd sense of discomfort as the words left your mouth. It felt unusually normal.

Then he spoke again. "I will be taking a day off soon. I have been preoccupied with my responsibilities. But a break would allow me to tend to my experiments properly. Might also give me time to go through my house again for resources and supplies."

You exhaled, steadying your voice. "Do you think Henry might've broken in once after he recieved the revelations from Michael?"

William barely reacted, just scoffed as he cut into his meal with the calm of a surgeon. "No, Henry is not the type."

He wasn't lying. His confidence was unshaken but that wasn't surprising. William was never the kind of man to let doubt take root. You weren't sure if that was admirable or scary.

"He could've, though," you pressed. "He has more reason than anyone."

William finally looked at you. "He has proof that would have seen me hanged if he'd chosen to act on it. Yet here I am, free, unbothered, very much alive. It's because he lacks the will to fight me. His grief drained him long before his hatred could take root. The only action he took was to have my name stricken from Fazbear Entertainment. He severed all professional ties, made sure no one could trace my involvement in any official capacity. And even that was done at a distance." he told you. "Do you really believe he would drag himself into my house? What would he do, wander through my empty halls, searching for ghosts?"

Henry had every reason to want William dead. He had every reason to want justice for what happened to Charlotte and the other children. And yet, he had done nothing but push William out of the company. That was all. You weren't sure if that made Henry a coward.

You frowned. "I don't know... Maybe he wanted closure?"

"Closure is a privilege for the living, not the half-dead. Henry is a walking corpse, rotting under the weight of his failures. If he stepped foot in my house, it wasn't to find something of mine. It was to lose himself." he sighed, "He barely leaves his house. He can hardly lift his head most days. If he had any intention of seeking justice, he would have done it long ago." His tone remained analytical as if speaking about some irrelevant coworker rather than the man who once considered him a friend.

There was something disturbing in the certainty in his voice. As if he knew Henry better than Henry knew himself.

His tone had shifted, subtly filled with disgust, bitterness, something rotting beneath his words like old meat. Despite how weak William claimed Henry was, despite how much he sneered at the man's grief, some part of him loathed it. William was jealous of him because Henry still had his humanity, because Henry could feel any of those things at all.

"You sound angry." you said.

"I find wasted potential infuriating."

A vague answer, but a telling one.

You didn't push further on that topic from that point. You had already seen more than he meant to show. 

You didn't realize your leg was bouncing until he looked down at it.

"You're fidgeting again." he said flatly, not looking up from his plate.

"I'm not."

"You are." The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Are you nervous?" he asked.

Your throat worked. "No."

He leaned forward, slow. "You're lying. And you're bad at it." 

"I'm just tired—" you tried again.

His eyes pinned you in place. "Tired," he echoed. "Yet you're still sitting there with your eyes all wide like you're waiting to be struck."

You stiffened. He wasn't wrong. 

"And now, you're clenching your jaw like it's going to keep you from saying something stupid. You wear your tells like a badge, easier to read than the classifieds." 

You stared at him, blood rising hot to your face, the pressure behind your eyes prickling into something electric. "You memorize all that just so you can spit it back like a goddamn tape recorder? Why the fuck do you care so much about every move I make? You act like this is some great burden you carry."

He smiled, but it wasn't kind. "I am carrying you, whether you like it or not. You've never made it easy." William leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out. The overhead light caught on his cheekbone as he turned his head just slightly. "Do you think I'm going to hurt you, Y/N?"

The question was casual. It made it worse.

You clenched your jaw. "I don't know what you're going to do half the time." 

"That's the smartest thing you've said tonight." His legs spread under the table, a leisurely sprawl that took up more space than he needed. "You've got that look on your face again..." he said softly, something unreadable in his tone now.

"What look, William?" you asked, a little sharper than you meant to. His gaze hardened instantly, and your stomach flipped.

"That one." He tilted his head. "The one that says you want me to fuck the fear out of you."

You felt the heat spike in your face, not embarrassment but something rawer. Your heart thudded unevenly, but you didn't flinch away from his gaze. You forced yourself to hold it, to let the ugly thing inside you show. "Yeah, I do." you said. "I want you to fuck every shred of dignity out of me. You have no idea... how fucking badly I want you."

"... Pathetic little thing," he said, almost fondly. "I have not even touched you and yet look at you. Quivering like some starved mongrel. Perhaps you should demonstrate your gratitude properly." 

You licked your lips, breathing a little harder. Your hand drifted under the table, palming yourself through your pants without thinking, desperate for friction.

"You don't even have to touch me sometimes. I just have to think about that look you get… like I'm meat. And I fucking lose it..." Your voice cracked just slightly, not from emotion, it was too twisted for that. It cracked from need. "You hit me. You've lied to me. You cut into me, then put me back together with bandages like you were fixing one of your broken dolls. And I still get so needy when I hear your damn voice. I want every filthy piece of you under my skin. I want to taste the part of you that hurts and never heals."

The way it burns, the way it cuts through the numbness, I want it so badly. Every touch, every word, every bit of pain you give me... I feel alive in it. I don't even know who I am without this ache, it's like an addiction. 

Hurt me more. I want you to take it all from me.

Suddenly, without a single word being said, William's hand drifted under the table. You heard that he unzipped his pants, slow and practiced, like it was a part of dinner service. 

"Disgusting. Revolting. How low do you have to sink to let yourself be used by a killer, to struggle through the dirt just to be in my grasp..." he said through heavy breaths, "I've killed without remorse, watched the light leave the eyes of those I deemed unworthy of living. Innocents. I'm the man mothers warn their children about. Do you think this blood on my hands is a mistake? I chose it. Just like you. The only thing that separates you from those buried is that I still find you useful."

Your mind connected pain into something it should never have been: to sexual satisfaction. It was an answer, a reward, a kind of relief. While he tore you apart, your body stayed there, but you were already gone, floating somewhere far from the skin he claimed as his.

He grinned, all teeth. Then, he said: "On your knees. Show me how much you adore what ruins you."

Your chair scraped against the kitchen floor as you pushed it back. You slid off the chair like you were being summoned by gravity itself. You barely noticed the jolt of pain from your thigh as you crawled to him under the table; your body had already drowned itself in desire. You shoved yourself between his legs, the heat of him overwhelming, the sight of him obscene at this angle. It seemed almost impossible that something that large could be contained within that worn, simple fabric of his briefs. They weren't too small; there was just something suspiciously big hiding in there.

He slid his briefs down without a word. The fabric bunched around his thighs, revealing the weight of him, thick and uncut, already half-hard from nothing but the way you looked at him. You tried to look unaffected, but your jaw slackened, just slightly, and your gaze clung too long. There was absolute no denying the way your gaze dropped and held, stunned and starving. It wasn't just lust; it was reverence, shame, and hunger all twisted together. You looked at him like he'd just torn open heaven and dared you to crawl through. He wasn't stroking himself yet, just holding it there like an offer, like a leash you were expected to grab with your teeth.

"You look good down there." William said, voice dropping even lower, if possible. "Where you belong. Under my table. Under my boot if I wanted."

"You own me, sir..."

Something dark flashed through his expression. Approval. Ownership. Lust so strong it was almost violent.

You leaned in, pressed your face against the base of his cock. It was alive with blood. Your skin buzzed just from being this close. It felt humbling. And fuck, it only made the need between your legs worse. Your pants clung tight from where you'd been hard for minutes. 

"I love your cock," you said, voice trembling, reverent. You dragged your fingers down his thigh. "I love you."

His free hand slid down to pet the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair gently, almost lovingly. He pressed his palm flat against your nape, grounding you. 

"Of course you do," William murmured above you. "Only a good boy would know his place this well."

You parted your lips, feeling his weight settle against your tongue as you leaned in. He was hot and heavy, the musk of him filling your nose, your throat. He let you feel the full shame of it. Making you marinate in the position you had crawled into willingly. You moaned like it was a second dinner, dragging your tongue along the underside with reverence and filth in equal measure. William leaned back slightly in his chair, stroking your hair almost absently as he pressed a little deeper, forcing you to take more of him inch by inch. Your spit ran down your chin. Your lashes fluttered as you stared up at him, eyes glassy, lost, adoring. You felt nothing and everything all at once. 

His eyes were unreadable, glassy and strange under the flickering kitchen light. You could only recognize the violent fire in them.

"Look at you..." he said, almost wonderingly, "Look at what I made. My little deviant disciple. All your bodily functions exist for a single purpose— to serve me. You were born to fulfill this role. You want the man that abuses you to feed you his seed like it's something earned... to let it sit in your gut like a curse."

You slurped around the head like a man dying of thirst, saliva dribbling freely as your jaw ached from the stretch.

"Good boy." William said, voice cracking just slightly like a man halfway to breaking, "my good little pet... Drooling over the very weapon that's going to gut you from the inside out."

You whimpered, too full to answer properly, only managing a sloppy nod around him. Your lips tightened around him, your cheeks hollowing, desperate for more of the taste, the filth, the only tenderness he ever offered you. To be fed more of that poisonous adoration. His hand tangled into the hair at the back of your skull. His thigh muscles were tensed under your palms, trembling with the force he was holding back.

You choked again and he groaned, his head tipping back for a heartbeat before he forced himself to look back down at you. "I could write sonnets about your mouth," he said, voice shaking, eyes blown wide. "How it stretches. How it worships. How it serves."

You whimpered around him. 

"You sound so pretty when you're full of me," he murmured. "That little cry… you don't even realize what it does to me. Like you ache to please. You look like love. The kind they burn men alive for."

Suddenly, he tugged your hair harshly, forcing your mouth to take him deeper. You gagged, tears welling in your eyes, but you didn’t dare pull away. You welcomed the burn in your throat. 

"You're a weakness I can sink my cock into whenever I get the urge."

You moaned helplessly around him, eyes squeezing shut, but he grumbled low in his chest. "No," he suddenly said, voice sharp. "Look at me. Keep those pretty little eyes on your owner— on your rightful tormentor, your captor. Look at me, as if your very existence depends on it, for it does." 

You obeyed. Your blood sung at the tone of his voice. 

"I've made you mine, in every way that matters. All except the name you once held, and even that, I could care less for; it is but a trivial detail now and a purely empty echo of what you once were." he told you. "You're no different than the broken things in my lab, put back together in a shape that pleases me... A sweet thing, to bury the worst parts of me in. And I have many... You've barely scratched the surface. And I will savor every moment of your torment as you unravel beneath me."

His hand clenched harder into your hair, just this side of painful, pulling your head back just a little, forcing your mouth to stretch wider around him. He was trying to resist, to make you suffer a little longer, but he was too close.

"Fuck, you're making Daddy come..."

William let out a groan that tore itself free, ugly and beautiful all at once. You barely had time to brace yourself before he came. It shot right down your throat, filling your mouth faster than you could swallow. You swallowed him down greedily, ecstatic tears finally slipping from the corners of your eyes, your throat burning but your heart hammering in wild animal joy. He kept your face down until the spasms stopped.

You felt the sudden, awful cold when he pulled out of your mouth, a humiliating reminder of what you had just begged for. A strand of spit clung stubbornly from the tip of his cock to your swollen lips before snapping against your chin. The chair creaked when he shifted back, settling in with a heavy, exhausted sigh. You stayed where you were, dazed and drunk off the taste of him, your knees sore against the kitchen tile. You wanted to move, wanted to crawl up into his lap or beg for more, but you were frozen.

Then, he lazily brought one boot up. The same one he wore all shift, all day, all over the fucking floor of Freddy's. You gasped softly when he pressed the toe against your aching hard-on through your pants like he was scraping dirt off his shoe. It was a rough, decisive nudge, just enough pressure to make you jerk forward instinctively. 

His boot pressed even harder, grinding into the swollen outline in your pants, and you choked on a moan as your hips jerked again. You grabbed onto him: his shin, his knee, whatever you could reach, clinging like you'd fall apart if you didn't hold something. Your nails dug into the fabric of his slacks, and your voice broke. William kept his hand locked tight around the back of your neck, keeping you exactly where he wanted you: half-collapsed, groveling, panting against his leg like some dog that didn't know better. You rocked your hips against the hard leather again and again, grinding your ass back as if you could milk some kind of touch from the air itself.

"What a sweet little show you're putting on for me."

His boot lifted for a second, then came back down with force. You cried out.

You painfully hard despite— or because of— the abuse.

He calmly grinds his heel down slightly, like he was testing the pressure, like he was adjusting the setting on some machine.

"That hurt, didn't it?" he asked softly.

"Yes, Daddy... "

"And you liked it."

You nodded, trembling. 

"Yes," you moaned, "please... please, I'll do anything." 

"You already do anything. I say jump, and you break your legs trying to impress me. I hit you, and you get hard. I kiss you, and you cry like it's salvation." His voice softened but never lost its edge. "Begging so sweetly... like you have any dignity left to defend."

You thought you might lose your mind. "... I don't," you sobbed, "I don't, I swear, I just... fuck, I just wanna cum, I wanna cum like a little fucking bitchboy for you." You buried your face against his shin, humping frantically. 

William gave you one cruel nudge of his boot right against the head of your cock, a tiny twist like he was squashing a cigarette into your lap.

That was it.

You just knew that you were shaking, gasping, your cock throbbing in your pants as the orgasm forced itself violently through you like a seizure. Your come soaked into the fabric, forming a mortifying stickiness between your legs. Melted together into something foul and beautiful as you moaned in relief. 

"Th-thank you," you choked out, the words spilling free in a slurred, dazed whimper. "God, thank you..."

William then down to grab a fistful of your hair, yanking your head up so he could survey the damage properly. His grey eyes raked over you, from the tear tracks on your cheeks to the obvious wet patch staining the front of your pants.

"You would die begging at my feet if I let you, begging for my mercy." he said thoughtfully. "But then again, you're ruined, too twisted by the very essence I forced into you to be able to die. The Remnant coursing through your veins has bound you to a fate worse than death. Which is an eternity of torment where the very body you once relied on betrays you, keeping you in a perpetual state of suffering..." he said.

"Yes," you whimpered immediately, no hesitation, your cum-slick thighs twitching under the weight of his judgment. "And I willingly put myself in this awful, yet relieving, position." You were eager to debase yourself further if it meant staying in his favor for even one more night, willing to agree to anything, to be anything he said.

"Faggot."

You moaned softly at the word, your hips giving another pathetic jerk, a useless aftershock.

He lifted his boot and wiped the toe slowly across the wet stain spreading on your crotch. You shuddered, feeling another dribble of cum leak out uselessly into your ruined boxers, sticky against your thighs.

"You'll never be anything else..." 

His hand then slapped you, sharp and open-palmed, across the face.

You gasped, your head snapping sideways, a shocked little sob tearing from your throat before you scrambled immediately to press kisses against the back of his hand. 

His hand then eased along your face. You flinched first, reflexively, then melted into the touch. His palm was rough, calloused from years of invisible sins, but the way he held you, there was something almost reverent in it. Like you were a pet who had done well enough to deserve a scrap of tenderness, and as if the sting he left on your skin was something delicate he could smooth under the rug. William's thumb brushed under your eye where a tear had dried against your skin, a surprisingly careful motion. You felt your pulse jump under your skin, the warmth of afterglow making your bones soft, your blood syrup-slow.

You were dazed from it. From him. From the twisted high he gave you. You shut your eyes briefly, savoring all the words that have left his mouth today like they were the only nourishment your starving body could absorb.

"I learn because I want to be better for you," you whispered. Your voice cracked from overuse, hoarse and small. 

"Good. You're broken in all the right ways... And I am tired of fixing things. I'll let you stay this way."

He stood. He rose to his full height, towering over you where you still knelt on the floor like a leftover offering. 

He zipped himself back up, slow and precise, like there was nothing out of the ordinary about what had just happened.

You craned your neck to look up at him, unnerved with the sudden distance.

You could still taste the salt of his come thick on your tongue.

You were nothing but a body now. Nothing but a pet to be used.

And you loved it.

"I have to check the samples," he said simply, like it was any other night, any other job. "Don't wait up."

Then he disappeared down the hall.

You stayed like that for a long time, just breathing, just existing, half-waiting for him to come back and haul you off the floor by your hair or throw you over the table and start all over again.

But he didn't. 

He left you there, raw and used, like a dog too pathetic to be granted a seat at his feet.

And even then, you felt lucky.

Art time!

1. William in his late 30s to early 40s.

2. Springtrap which I drew for the DBD + FNAF collab release! 

3. I drew a picture of me and William... normally I wouldn't post something like this here, but I like how he turned out. So here's a little peek!

Chapter Text

[William's POV] 

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a warm glow over the beach house that William had rented. The wife had said it would be good for the kids. William had reluctantly agreed to go somewhere for the summer, knowing that resisting would only prolong the conversation he didn't want to have.

It was tucked between the sand dunes and a quiet beach, offering Clara the privacy she longed for, even though there were other houses nearby. The kids were finally asleep after a long day of sandcastles and chasing waves, their energy spent, leaving Clara and William alone in the quiet of the evening. The water glimmered with a soft light; it was one of those rare evenings when the sky seemed to melt into the sea. The breeze was gentle, carrying with it the salty tang of the ocean, and the continuous sound of waves kissing the shore was almost hypnotic.

William and Clara walked side by side along the shoreline, their bare feet sinking into the sand.

"Race you to the water?" she challenged, a grin spreading across her face.

William feigned surprise, raising an eyebrow. "Are you sure you can handle it? I would not want you to strain yourself," he teased lightly, his voice carrying just enough humor to make it believable. 

"Oh, please! I'll leave you in the dust," Clara shot back, already starting to run towards the water. 

William watched her for a moment, seeing how her wavy, blonde hair caught the wind. With a sigh, he started after her, his long strides easily catching up. Clara laughed, the sound light and free, as if they were young lovers again. She turned once and splashed him playfully, and William forced a chuckle. He walked the last few steps, the water soaking through his pants as he reached her. Her smile was wide and genuine as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into the water with her. William allowed it, his hands settling on her waist as they waded deeper into the ocean. They ventured deeper, the waves rising around them until they were both submerged up to their shoulders.

Clara's hair, now wet, clung to her face and neck, strands floating lightly around her shoulders in the water. The moonlight bathed her in a soft glow, making her green eyes appear luminous against the darkening sky. Her skin, kissed by the sun from days spent on the beach, seemed to glow under the pale light, giving her an ethereal quality that would have captivated anyone.

But not William.

It was almost sad how easily she could look at him like this, so full of faith.

Their legs brushed against each through the water, a slight and unintended contact that Clara seemed to savor, while William barely noticed it. 

"Do you remember the night we first met?" Clara asked softly. She shifted slightly in the water, her hand brushing over his chest. "At that bar downtown? You were so handsome in your suit. I remember thinking you must've been some kind of businessman. I guess I was right." 

William laughed awkwardly, his laugh carrying a stiffness that made it sound more like a cough than genuine amusement. "Ah, yes... I remember," he started, "I remember being a bit heavier back then. I wasn't exactly in the best shape." His hand moved instinctively to pat his stomach, where the memory of his former weight lingered. He flashed a grin that was supposed to look self-deprecating, but his eyes remained cold. 

"I never minded your weight, not even for a second. You were real to me, Bill. I loved that about you. I always saw something... pure in you, something that no one else ever seemed to notice. A light hidden away..." the woman replied. "I knew you were someone special. And even now, I still see that man. I see him in the way you look at our children, even when you think I don't notice." she said.

She sighed and looked up at the moon, as if the memories she spoke of were being shown across its surface.

"That night we met changed everything. We went from strangers to something so much more in the blink of an eye. And then came our sweet Michael... Maybe it wasn't what we planned, but he was our first light, wasn't he? Oh, I always loved that it was your idea to give him a biblical name. You know how much I value tradition. It felt like the right choice, like we were grounding him in something greater, something holy. I still remember the day he was born so clearly,"

Her gaze turned wistful as she looked out at the water.

"I was so scared, Bill, so unsure of what kind of mother I would be. But when I held him for the first time... all that fear just melted away. I knew then that no matter what happened, I would love him with everything I had. Then Elizabeth came along, later Evan... and my heart just expanded with love. Each moment with them fills me with a joy I never knew was possible."

Clara's voice grew even softer, which made William even more irritated internally. "I can't wait to see what they become, to be with them every step of the way, until the end of my days."

"I'm glad you think so, dear," he said, his tone poured with the perfect blend of warmth and sincerity. "You know, I always thought I got lucky. It is not every day a man like me gets to be with a woman who looks like she walked out of a painting. My, aren't you just the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes on?" he asked. "If I'm not careful, you might just steal all the attention. They'll be wondering who this stunning woman is, making even the ocean look dull in comparison."

He watched as her face lit up, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she laughed, genuinely amused by his words. "Oh, stop it, Bill," she managed to say between laughs. 

Stop thinking. Don't lose your edge. She doesn't know. She'll never know how you actually feel.

For him, Clara was a hindrance. If it weren't for the children, he would've left her a long time ago.

William was a bastard. A self centered, arrogant bastard. 

He pulled away just enough to look at her, his smile still in place, and then, with one soft kiss to her lips, he took her hand and led her back toward the shore. "Come on, let's get out of this water before you catch a cold,"

"You know," you began, your voice nervous but direct, "for as long as we've known each other, I feel like I don't really know you. You've never really talked about your family, your past... I don't even know your thoughts on life. Politics, religion, whatever. You keep everything so close to the chest, and... well..." You shifted, the bed creaking under you as you propped yourself up on one elbow. You searched his face, trying to catch his eyes for any sign that he was listening. "Don't you think that's a little strange?" 

"I've told you enough about my life." he said evenly. "What matters is the present. My family isn't relevant; they're not important participants in my life." 

His tone made it clear: end of discussion.

But you weren't done.

"I've just thought of what made you... who you are." you insisted.

He exhaled hard through his nose. Not quite a sigh— it was more like restraint as if he was swallowing the urge to lash out or leave the room entirely in two seconds.

William was already sitting up, and his hand came up to rub his temple, slow and purposeful, like your words were physically painful. You thought he might snap at you in this exact moment, but instead, in a motion far too calm to trust, William shifted to the edge of the bed and leaned down. You heard a soft scrape, before he dragged something out from beneath the frame. You watched as he pulled out an old, worn photo album from one of his storage boxes, the cover faded from years of use. It looked like it hadn't been touched in a long time, maybe since before he met you. He must've brought it with himself throughout his whole journey. You wondered why he had kept it with himself, considering his relationship with his family. 

William then settled back into the bed beside you and flipped it open, his fingers brushing over the yellowed pages. "These are some pictures you've never seen," he spoke. He didn't look at you at that moment, turning to the first picture. 

The first picture was of a boy, likely Michael, right after his birth. Clara was in the bed, looking tired but glowing with a new mother's joy, cradling the baby in her arms. There was a mirror behind her. Just barely, in the corner of the shot, you could see the reflection of the doctor holding the camera. Michael was wrapped in a thin hospital blanket, his small face barely visible, but you could see the bits of his hair that would later become the messy waves he had as a teenager. William was beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder, but his body leaned away from the bed ever so slightly. His expression was unreadable even then, though he had a smile on his face. 

"That's Michael, I think you've probably already guessed." William began. "Clara insisted on getting a picture the moment they handed him to her."

Michael was so innocent and so unaware of what his life would become. You had known Michael before he disappeared, had seen the way he would flinch when his father entered the room, the way he tried so hard to be strong despite the fear that was always lingering there. Michael had sought your help, confided in you about the abuse and the psychological torture. You had tried to help him, but there was only so little you could do when William's presence was large over both of your lives. And now, seeing him as a baby, so small and helpless, brought sadness over you. 

In one of the next pictures, he was taking his first steps, his hands reaching out toward the camera, presumably toward Clara, who had likely been the one to capture the moment. You felt a slight tug at your lips this time as you stared at the photograph, a softness in your gaze that William didn't share.

"Michael was... sweet as a child. Clara's friends used to call him a 'mama's boy,' and I suppose they were right. She adored it, of course: the world chewed up boys like him and spat them out." 

He snorted under his breath. You turned to look at him, your curiosity piqued by the shift in his tone. William, who had been closed-off before, now seemed strangely willing to talk, like a door had opened.

"As he got older, that sweetness... turned sour. He started listening to that god-awful dreadful racket he called music. Those bloody bands, screaming and wailing like they were being tortured. He'd blast it on that cheap radio of his until the walls shook. Drove me insane. The neighbors complained, Clara fussed, and I… well, I had to put a stop to it more times than I can count."  

William shook his head, flipping another page. 

"Then there were the outfits. Christ, what an idiot he made of himself... He got it into his head that he was some kind of 'rock star.' Leather jackets, chains hanging from his jeans, band t-shirts, ones with skulls. I remember he even begged for these ridiculous combat boots. Clara tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't hear any of it that time. Since he wouldn't shut up about it, I got Michael what he wanted. You should've seen the rubbish he started wearing after that."

William's fingers lingered on the edge of the page, hesitating, before he flipped it over. The photographs showed Michael in his earlier teenage years. His hair was falling over his shoulders, and the shine on his hair suggested he used too much oil, making it almost glossy under the light. His face was slightly shadowed, but you saw his eyes, which were filled with a defiance that seemed to glare back at the camera. 

"I wanted someone respectable. Someone who knew how to sit at the table without slouching, who understood that appearance: clean, polished — meant everything." he said. "And then, one night, he came home reeking of weed." He didn't say it with disgust, more like a fact, something that disgusted him only because it was so expected. 

"Eyes red, lids heavy. Couldn't even walk in a straight line... just stumbled through the front door like some half-dead mutt." He looked up, but not at you, just past you, like he was watching it play out again. "I asked him where he'd been. Calmly, at first. You know I don't lose my temper without a reason."

He rubbed his fingers together, as if recalling the exact sensation of that night.

"He couldn't even look me in the face. Mumbled something about 'friends', but the little bastard couldn't keep his story straight for more than five seconds."

His jaw flexed.

"So I grabbed him by the collar." His hand clenched reflexively, like it still remembered the fabric. "Dragged him into the kitchen, sat him down at the table, right under the overhead light. Told him to look me in the eye. I told him, plain and clear: I didn't bust my back, raise a boy I fed and clothed, just to watch him turn into some drug-addled dropout. But he couldn't even manage that. He just kept staring at the floor like a coward."

He flipped the page with a bit more force than necessary, revealing the first pictures of Elizabeth, his daughter. She was a baby in the first one, swaddled in a pink blanket, her face scrunched up slightly as she slept in her crib. The next photos showed her a bit older, as a toddler, with a mess of curly strawberry blonde hair and big, green curious eyes.

William's voice broke through your thoughts again.

"This was Elizabeth. She always liked to be the center of attention, and Clara indulged her in that. I suppose it was easier than dealing with her tantrums. Clara didn't truly see the rest, didn't see the way Elizabeth could be just as manipulative. She had her mother fooled," he let out a breath, almost a chuckle at this part.

"She was... different. Smart, maybe too smart for her own good. From the moment she could talk, it was always a game to her. If she wanted something, she would find a way to make sure she got it. She'd throw fits, cry or scream if that was what it took. And if crying didn't work, she'd change tactics and become sweet, compliant. She picked it up from me," he said. "Kids observe and absorb everything around them. She saw how I dealt with people and how I controlled situations." 

The older man then flipped to the next set of photos, the images shifting to those of his youngest son, Evan. 

Unlike the pictures of Michael and Elizabeth, which had been taken with some sense of pride, Evan's photos had a different energy.

The boy's eyes were wide and fearful, filled with confusion and discomfort which looked like almost as if they were trying to reach out for help. William kept flipping through the photo album, the pictures of the boy passing under his fingers one by one, almost like he was searching for the right one to focus on. Then he stopped on a photo where the boy held a golden plush bear.

"This was Evan, the youngest. I wouldn't call him weak, per se, but he had this... hmm. Delicate constitution." He waved his fingers vaguely near his temple, like he was trying to fish the right word out of thin air. "Out of all the kids, he was the one who didn't make much noise. That's when I got the idea," he pointed with his finger at the bear plush in the picture, "for the Fredbear plush. We had that Fredbear animatronic at the first diner before it was closed, and the kids loved it. I thought, why not make it a bit more... interactive? Evan was always terrified of it, and every time we visited the pizzeria, he'd cling to my leg and shiver, and I thought to myself... how interesting. How very, very interesting."

The part that made your face do things it didn't know it could do finally came. You glanced over at William just enough to side-eye him, with the dry expression of someone listening to a man explain how he "accidentally" invented trauma. He glanced back at you, watching your face contort, then looked back at the photo as if he was the normal one.

"So, I got him the plush, a smaller version of the real thing. I told him that it would protect him, keep him safe from whatever it was he thought was lurking in the dark. It had a voice box, one of those little devices that played recorded messages, but I had it modified. Made it so I could speak through it, whenever I wanted, from wherever I was."

You blinked. The kind of blink that suggested your brain had stepped outside for a moment to scream into a pillow. "Wait, what?"

"Shh," he shushed you, raising a finger, "Don't interrupt. This is where it gets fascinating." 

William continued, his voice taking on a strange, almost enthused quality, as if remembering a favorite story. "Evan would come to me often, crying about how Michael was scaring him again, how he couldn't sleep, how he was afraid of the noises in the house. And I'd just nod and listen, so sympathetic... on the outside. But I wouldn't put a stop on Michael's actions — I let it happen. Secretly, I had kept notes on all of it."

You shifted, your neck stiff, your whole expression now a blend of horror, confusion, and deeply repressed judgment.

"I would jot down how Evan responded, what triggered him, what didn't. Like a little experiment. He would scream and cry if you turned the lights off, so I figured, why not use that? So, I'd wait until he was alone, hiding under his blanket with the plush, and I would start talking to him and tell him there was nothing to be afraid of. Or sometimes, I would say the opposite. Something like, 'The shadows are moving,' or 'Do you hear that creak? That's something coming for you.'"

He didn't even blink. You, meanwhile, were stuck mid-expression. Your racing heart was trying to decide between calling the cops or throwing holy water, but neither could work now. 

You sat up in bed, your body tense. "Are you kidding me?" you snapped, "You conditioned and tortured your own kid like a lab rat, and now you're sitting here talking about him like he was a footnote in a research paper. Then you have the gall to pretend you cared—"

William interrupted you again by a sudden movement as he mirrored your posture, sitting up in the bed, leaning in closer. For the first time since this conversation had started, his attention was solely on you. He was still holding the photo album, but he didn't glance down at it. He seemed to forget it was even there. "There's so much you don't understand. So much you can't even begin to comprehend." he began. "You know about my experiments, don't you? The ones at the underground facility?"

You then nodded, warily. You knew about the facility, sure, but he had never told you much about what really went on down there. He had always brushed off your questions with vague, evasive answers, or he would change the subject altogether. You've only seen the testing of remnant on the deer, nothing else.

But now, he seemed ready to divulge more. You braced yourself.

"There also is a nearby chamber," he went on, his tone growing almost excited. "An illusionary testing chamber. I've been monitoring it for a while now, and I use it to study fear, genuine fear. Not that everyday nonsense you see on people's faces — I mean the kind of fear that reaches into a person's soul and tears it apart. I wanted to understand it, to understand how it worked, what made it tick, not just for fun, but for progress."

You stared at him. "What does that have to do with Evan?" you asked, even though you already likely knew the answer. You just needed to hear him say it... clearly, honestly, in his own words.

"To answer your question, I didn't just stop at psychological manipulation in my little experiments. I took Evan to the underground facility more than once, and the first time, I was cautious. He was asleep when I brought him there, drugged just enough to keep him from waking up too soon. I didn't want him conscious when we started the experiment because I needed him disoriented and confused. The setup was simple— A small bedroom, nothing too different from the one Evan had at home."

He continued, his voice flat but growing more animated as the details spilled out. "There are two hallways connected to the room, where the mannequins come from; they were designed to move and to make noise. And then there was the gas— It is based on the same principles as the 'fear toxin' you might have heard of. After I made sure everything was right, I went to my private room and started monitoring his reactions. The gas seeped into the room through hidden vents. When it's inhaled, it doesn't just make you see things: it makes you believe them. It induces intense and overwhelming fear in those exposed to it. To Evan, it affected his mind, causing him to hallucinate his worst fears - the animatronics."

He tasted the weight of his words before continuing.

"After the session was over, I let the gas dissipate, and Evan would eventually fall asleep from the exhaustion of it all. That is when I would take him back upstairs and put him back in his bed, let him sleep it off. He never remembered much in the morning, just fragments of nightmares that he couldn't quite piece together. But I remembered because I documented everything."

"... Did you hate your son?" The question slipped out from your mouth after William was done. 

His response came quickly, without hesitation. "No. I didn't feel anything towards him one way or the other. Hate requires energy, an investment of emotion that I never wasted on him." he replied evenly. 

You pressed on, your voice growing more forceful. "Then why? Why go through the motions? Why have you claimed to care about your children to everyone else, only to do something so... monstrous?"

"Simple. I needed someone to test on first before I could move forward with the real work. It had to be right, every detail, down to the smallest movement of the setup. After Evan was gone... Elizabeth wasn't far behind. Michael was the last choice. He lasted a while, but he was too old, and he couldn't give me what I needed for the next phase..." He trailed off, just for a second, but it was enough to catch your attention.

You could tell he was carefully crafting his next sentence. 

"I had to move on, to find someone else. A new subject. One that would fit the criteria." His gaze shifted slightly, studying you for a reaction, as though he were weighing whether you had caught on on what he meant. "Nothing you should worry about right now."

"You just spent ages speaking about the wildest things you did to your poor  child, now you want me to believe that this 'new subject' isn't worth my concern?" you asked, furrowing your eyebrows at his demeanor.

"I've told you enough for one night. You wanted to know more about my past, and I've given you more than anyone else has ever known. Now, let's change the subject." You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off once again with a slight, almost disinterested wave of his hand. 

"Since you're so eager to know more about me, why don't we move on to something more important? You mentioned earlier that I don't talk about my views on life, politics, religion... Maybe it is time I share some of those with you. Ask freely."

The sudden change in topic left you momentarily off-balance, but you could see in his expression that pushing the issue further would get you nowhere. With a frustrated sigh, you forced yourself to switch gears, to focus on what he was offering instead.

"Alright," you said, "I guess I'll start with politics. You've seen a lot, been through a lot more than me. So what do you think about... I don't know, the way things are right now? The government, society, everything. And while we're at it, what do you really think about religion?"

"I do not like the direction society is heading. The government has grown soft and I'm not one to trust it — never have been. We're living in a time where traditional values are being eroded, where the things that once held society together are being torn apart by so-called 'progress.' Take the family, for instance," he continued.

"There was a time when a family meant something. A man was the head of the household, a woman knew her place, and children were taught respect. Now, we have women who think they can do anything a man can do, who think they can lead, make decisions, and raise children without a father in the picture. Women were never meant to lead; they're too emotional & they lack the rationality, strength that men possess, and yet here we are, watching them get involved in politics and pretend they're just as capable."

William adjusted his posture on the bed, his frame relaxing into the pillows. The lines in his face softened just enough to suggest thoughtfulness, though his eyes remained alert, never fully relaxed. He then began talking about his faith.

"My parents were devout and believed in every word of the Bible as if it were etched there by the hand of God himself. They drilled it into me, beat it into me, that everything we did had to align with scripture. But even within the church, there's hypocrisy: People preach love and forgiveness while harboring hatred and resentment. I don't have time for that kind of contradiction. I believe in the parts of Christianity that teach discipline, that emphasize the importance of orders and control, but I won't be a hypocrite and pretend that I'm without sin. I know what I am."

"It's kind of funny," you then said, "listening to you talk about Christian values and traditional morals, considering, you know… you murdered children."

"And your point is?" He didn't bother to defend himself or offer any justifications.

"I just find it interesting, that's all. You go on about discipline, people being contradictory, and what people should be doing, but you don't even follow those rules yourself." You spoke, but the words felt useless the moment they left your mouth. Whatever point you were trying to make, it didn't matter anymore. You could see it in his face, in the flat look in his eyes. You let the rest of the sentence die in your throat. What was the point in explaining yourself to someone who clearly didn't care? 

Quietly, he said, "I follow a different set of rules. Because the rules were made for people who need them - sheep. The frightened, the aimless, the ones who spend their lives begging some silent sky for permission to exist."

He didn't look back at you when he added:

"Sin only matters to people who expect to be judged."

In his tone, it shown that he felt like a man letting you in on a secret you weren't quite worthy of. "I am the judgment. I'm what waits at the end of the story, after all the prayers and all the confessions. I replaced the rules. People like me... we don't live under God. We walk alongside him. And sometimes, when he isn’t watching…" He smiled faintly. "…we take his tools and do the job ourselves."

He didn't say it outright. You felt it anyway. He spoke like someone who didn’t just believe he was above morality.

He believed he had surpassed it.

"Now it's your turn. What about your views, then? I wonder what do you think about all this... the things I just talked about?"

The way he asked was like he was genuinely curious, but also like he was testing you. Testing the seams of your mind to see where it would give. 

You sighed and began speaking. "I think we're living in a time where everyone's terrified. Scared of what's coming, scared of what’s already here. And yeah, society's changing... Maybe for the better, maybe for worse, I don't know. But I think it's important and necessary." 

Your eyes went to his briefly, catching the way he seemed to be listening. Not passively, but like someone cataloguing informations. 

"You say women can't lead or whatever, but I think they can. I think anyone can. If they've got the guts and the smarts, doesn't matter if you're a man, a woman, whatever. We should all get the same chance to prove ourselves, to do something with our lives that's more than just fitting into some standard."

You paused, chewing on your next words for a moment.

"And religion? It never quite clicked. I see too much judgment and I don't want to live my life feeling guilty for every little thing. I believe in being kind, in helping people when you can, in doing right by those around you." You looked down at your hands, your voice quieter now. "... I mean, I do get why people cling to religion— it gives them something to hold onto when everything else is falling apart for them, a feeling of safety and comfort. But for me, it just felt hollow. Because why would a loving God create people only to condemn them for being who they are? Why would He allow so much suffering if He's supposed to be all-powerful?"

You shook your head slightly. "Part of me still holds on to those teachings and that fear, but another part of me just doesn't add up. Maybe faith isn't about having all the answers, just about learning to live with the questions." 

The next part felt heavier, closer to the skin. "I grew up in a place, one of those where everyone knows everyone, and they all have the same expectations for you. Get a job, settle down, start a family. But I never wanted any of that. I've always been different. I never really fit into the expectations of what a man is supposed to be. I've also always known I was gay, even before I had a name for it, but it wasn't something I could just admit to myself, let alone anyone else. My parents loved me, I know that. They did their best, tried to make me feel safe and accepted. But if they knew what I am now..."

You trailed off, staring instead at some point beyond the room, "They'd be disappointed, maybe even disgusted. I think about that sometimes, how I might've been a different person if I hadn't always felt like I had to hide. Not that they were bad people, they just wouldn't understand." You then out a bitter laugh that had been sitting in your lungs too long.

Then you spoke up again, "What I'm really wondering about so often, what were you dreaming about when you were younger? What did you want out of life? Did you always plan on being a murderer, or was that something that just... happened along the way?" you asked.

William let out a short, sharp breath that might have been a laugh if there was any humor in it. 

"I suppose you could say I had dreams, once. When I was young, before I learned how this world really worked. I used to sit in my room, dream about getting out of my childhood house, getting as far away from my parents as possible. But at the year being I knew there was nowhere for me to go, no one who would take me in. So I stayed, and I planned. I figured if I could just make it until I was old enough, I'd leave and never look back. I learned pretty quickly that no one was coming to save me- that if I wanted anything, I'd have to take it."

He stopped, not for effect but because he seemed to be trying to find the right words all along. "I grew up in Britain. I spent my childhood in a small town where nothing ever happened and nobody ever left. My father was violent, the kind who would smash a bottle over your head just to see how hard he could hit before you would pass out. He liked to take his belt to me when he was angry, which was most of the time. As for my mother, she was absent. She was barely there during the day. I suppose she cared for me in her own way, but I could never tell if it was out of love or fear. Most likely, it was the latter."

His expression hardened, and his eyes made no effort to hide the silent accusation. It was as if his next words were already forming around a personal betrayal some part of him had been quietly waiting for this, expecting it, but still clearly took to heart. 

"I also had a sister, Jane. She was older, and by the time I was old enough to understand anything, she was already gone. She stayed out of the house as much as she could and I don't think we spoke more than a handful of times growing up, and even those were mostly just pleasantries, the kind of meaningless chatter you would have with a neighbor or a stranger at a bus stop. She didn't matter to me."

You shifted closer, unsure if this was a mistake, but drawn to do it anyway. William didn't acknowledge your movement, at least not outwardly, but there was something in the way his shoulders tensed slightly that told you he noticed. 

"I left when I was around eighteen. I didn't leave a note and I didn't pack much, just put enough to get me to the airport. Bought a one-way ticket to the United States. I didn't even have a plan, just had a vague idea that I wanted something better than the life I've been having. I enrolled in a community college because I knew I needed some kind of degree if I was going to get anywhere. It was during those years that I met Henry."

You leaned in, genuinely interested in hearing more about how he met his business partner.

"We were both in the same program, and he was the opposite of me in a lot of ways. We started working on projects together, combining our skills, his talent for design and my knowledge of mechanics. Eventually, we came up with an idea that had the potential to be profitable. We envisioned a place that could bring joy to children, a family-friendly diner with animatronic characters that would entertain the kids while the parents got drunk on cheap beer. Henry was obsessed with the idea of creating something wholesome and something that would make the world a better place."

"What were your favorite subjects in college?" you then asked, very curious to hear about it. "What really grabbed your attention? What kind of projects did you work on?" 

"Physics interested me. It made sense to me, and so did psychology. I understand how people think, what drives them, how their minds could be shaped. As for projects, I've worked on a lot of prototypes during those years. Machines, mostly. I was always tinkering with something and trying to create mechanisms that could function on their own without the need for constant human intervention. One of the first things I built was a mechanical arm and it was enough to get me noticed. When I was close to your age, I got a degree in Mechanical Engineering. By the time I hit my early thirties, things were better. I was making decent money, had a decent place to live."

His gaze was glassy, like he was seeing it all unfold again.

"Then, one late night, Henry and I were sitting in this bar downtown. We were going over some plans for the diner over drinks. We had already hashed out most of the details... Henry would focus on Fredbear, the star attraction. That was his baby. And I would take charge of SpringBonnie. After the animatronics were done and the diner opened, we agreed that Henry would be the one handling the robots, while I handle the business and the marketing."

He glanced at you. "That's when Clara showed up. I could tell she was interested, and she was what I needed at the time... someone who could help me build the image of a successful man, a family man. We ended up in the back seat of my car that same night, and she got pregnant with Michael. He was an accident... but I knew how to handle it. I married her, we had the kid, and I used it all to build a life. The affairs came not long after we were married. Most of them were with strangers. They would start off interested, intrigued by me, but as soon as they found out I was married or that I was a father of three, they would vanish."

He sighed, "In the end, my life didn't exactly turn out like I might've imagined it as a child," he admitted, "But that doesn't mean I haven't achieved remarkable things. Far from it." 

He shifted the topic onto his work.

"SpringBonnie, for instance, was just a beginning, compared to what I've accomplished now, even if it's my favorite creation. Look at what I've created with the Funtime animatronics. These are state-of-the-art machines, my masterpieces. Every inch of them is designed with a purpose, one that goes far beyond entertaining children. They are equipped with advanced technology, internal sensors..." William said, turning to look at you in the eyes as he revealed another secret. 

"... Their primary function really sets them apart. Each one is designed to attract children, to draw them in with their bright colors, friendly faces, their voices. They are equipped with unique mechanisms that can trap and kill a child without leaving a trace. Funtime Freddy, for example, has a storage compartment in his chest. A kid gets too close, and he pulls the child inside. The compartment seals, and that's the end of it. No mess, no noise— just... gone."

Your mouth parted, but no sound came. It was as if the air had been yanked out of your lungs. Your brows lifted so high they wrinkled your forehead, your eyes glassy now, not from tears, but from sheer mental recoil. This wasn't much of a surprise either, but it shocked you how he was speaking about them as if he were talking about his life's greatest achievements. It was clear that, to him, they were. He was something born from ash and rot, put on the skin of a man and walked around in it for decades.

"…You say that like you just solved world hunger." 

"Shocked, aren't you?" William asked. He noticed the way your eyes had widened, the way your body had tensed as if preparing for something, though you weren't sure what. "You shouldn't be. After all, this is what I'm best at. Creating things, perfecting them until they do exactly what I want them to."

He leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed, "Those animatronic are my most important work. They're stored down in the underground facility at the moment, kept away from prying eyes. You could say they're also based off my family, though I'd hardly call them a tribute... more like a reflection, or maybe an improvement. Ballora was modeled after Clara. Her design is also particularly fascinating, as she is equipped with advanced sensors that allow her to detect movement with incredible precision. She can track a target in complete darkness by using sound and motion alone. Her movements are so fluid, so quiet, that you wouldn't even realize she was closing in on you until it was too late."

"But unlike Ballora," he then continued, "Foxy can adapt to a variety of environments. Michael loved Foxy when he was a kid... He was the only thing Michael was genuinely passionate about. I figured it was only fitting to base Funtime Foxy on him. He's fast, agile, and capable of mimicking voices. That's her best feature— voice mimicry. She can lure in his target by sounding like someone they trust. Not just a recording; it's an on-the-fly adaptation, responding to the target's reactions in real time."

Your brow twitched the moment he said it— "He's fast, agile… That's her best feature." 

"Hang on a second," You lifted a hand vaguely, like you were motioning to the very sentence still echoing in the room. "Are we talking about two different animatronics?" 

"He's both," he said, evenly. "Or neither, depending on how you see it." 

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

"Funtime Foxy was designed to adapt, to shift, to evolve based on the target's emotional vulnerabilities. Sometimes a boy trusts his older sister. Sometimes it's a father. A friend. A teacher. A classmate. It doesn’t matter. It's all algorithmic... Fluid. Pronouns are irrelevant to the outcome."

It was about access, about building something that could reach into a child's mind and make them walk, smiling, into a death trap.

Your expression shifted again, less confused now. More unsettled.

"And then there's Baby," he said, his voice dropping lower. "She's based off Elizabeth. She always wanted to be the center of attention, to be admired, adored — Baby was designed with that in mind. She's was the star of the show, the one that drew in the biggest crowds. But she is also the most dangerous. Her design is flawless, beautiful, alluring, but deadly. Just like Elizabeth in a way. Baby has a built-in storage tank, much like Freddy's compartment, but hers is much faster."

His mouth then curved into a semblance of a smile, something almost proud, suggesting, "Why don't you come with me to the facility again? You've been there before, but not like this. I could show you the animatronics up close, let you see the designs, the blueprints. I think it's time you understood the full extent."

It was already dark the next day by the time you found yourself outside William's house. Earlier, before you two left your place, he mentioned that he'd taken the day off, not just for himself, but for the both of you. A full day, cleared of obligations, responsibilities, everything. You had no choice but to follow his orders, then. You tried to mentally and psychically prepare for tonight. The air held a brittle chill, raw against your cheeks to the point it seemed to sink into your bones, your breath fogging the space between your lips and the world. You dragged your feet on purpose because of the way he'd spoken last night, that had left a coil of tension in your belly that no amount of pacing or reasoning could untangle.

His coat was slightly undone despite the bite in the air. You, on the other hand, shivered and drew your jacket tighter around yourself, your hands nearly numb from gripping the flashlight in your hand. He had given it to you singe William didn't want you wandering alone in the dark. He wanted you to be there with him. But you doubted you'd even need it. 

As you both made your way to his place, the streets were empty, save for a few stray cats and the occasional car passing by. He approached the main door, reached into his coat, and pulled out the keys. He fiddled with the lock, muttered something under his breath, and you watched the creases around his eyes. When the lock clicked, it felt too loud. The door opened and you two slipped inside, brushing past that invisible wall of memory and dust and time. He said nothing, just moved toward his office. You hesitated in the doorway, eyes tracing over the furniture out of habit. The living room looked like it had been paused mid-sentence. Everything draped in that pale layer of time. Even the air felt dry, like it had not been breathed in for years.

You followed him, the sound of your footsteps softer than his.

Then you reached his office. His keys jingled faintly as he slipped one into the upper lock, then another below it, then a third at the side (the last two hadn't even existed before...), an absurd number of reinforcements for a single office. Your fingers itched. You could almost feel the hum of thought beneath his skin.

He exhaled, shallow, then pushed the door. The office was swallowed in darkness until you instinctively flicked on your weak flashlight.

He moved straight for the back wall, his dress shoes whispering across the floorboards. There, slightly crooked on the plaster, was the old family photo. You'd studied every detail of that frame when you first saw it, and it still made something ache in you. You now knew what it covered. He reached up with two fingers and nudged the frame to the side. It needed to be just so. The mechanism only worked if it was exact.

You already knew about the mechanism... William had shown it to you once, so you just waited. William pressed the hidden button behind the frame with a soft click. The bookshelf sighed and slid aside like it was exhaling after holding its breath for too long. He stepped in first without looking at you, as if he already knew you would follow. And you did. 

You stepped in beside, him, the space large enough for the two of you. The doors closed with a metallic clang, and the elevator began its descent, the hum of the machinery vibrating under your feet. The air only became colder the deeper you went, the temperature dropping in a way that made you shiver. You wrapped your arms around yourself and tried to shake off the chill, but it was more than just the cold that was getting to you.

You tried to focus on anything but that feeling, counting your breaths, but your thoughts kept returning to that weird feeling. You finally spoke because you had to, because if you didn’t say something, you might start imagining whispers just beyond the reach of your hearing.

"How does everything down here survive?" you asked. The question had been on your mind for a while, and now it seemed like the right moment to ask. "I mean, with all this machinery... this depth. It must burn through power like mad."

William didn't turn to look at you as he responded, his voice now professional, a far cry from the unsettlingly calm tone he usually used. "I've already explained this to you." he said, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. "The facility has its own power source. We're not reliant on the grid, if that's what you're worried about. The energy here is self-sustaining. It's a system I've refined over the years, one that ensures no disruptions. Everything runs smoothly, efficiently. That's how I operate, after all."

You sighed, "Okay, damn, no need to flex. I was just asking because it feels like the air's thinning the lower we go. You sure your system includes oxygen?" 

"I assure you, the air is filtered and circulated at peak levels. If you're lightheaded, it's not due to a lack of oxygen." 

"Maybe next time build this with a damn space heater." 

"It'll warm up once we reach the bottom." 

You raised a brow. "Because hell is cozier?" 

He didn't answer. Instead, he lifted one hand, palm open, and gestured toward the metal wall. "You'll see."

The elevator then shuddered slightly as it came to a halt, the clang echoing in the space as the doors slid open. William stepped out first, the air from the hallway beyond rushing in to greet you like an unwelcome guest. You followed, your footsteps hesitant as you glanced around the hallway on the right, then to the left one, which you knew led to William's lab. The walls were lined with pipes and wires, the ceiling low enough to make you feel like you were entering some kind of industrial crypt.

He gestured towards the vent just ahead and your eyes followed the direction. "Through there," he said.

The vent in front of you was small, barely wide enough for one person to crawl through. You hesitated, staring at it with a mixture of reluctance and suspicion. You turned to look back at William and said, "You're serious with this?" you asked, your tone a mix of disbelief and sarcasm. "Is this just your way of scaring the shit out of me? Or are you just looking for an excuse to stare at my ass?"

"Why can't it be both?" he said, voice smooth like smoke curling from a cigarette, soaked in the quiet kind of filth that didn't need to be loud to hit deep. "I’m only a man... flesh, blood, appetite. Not made of stone. We're built to want."

You exhaled through your nose. "But we're also built to choose what kind of man we want to be. I don't treat want like an excuse."

Then you turned, crouched down in front of the vent, the cold metal biting into your palms as you positioned yourself to crawl through. You hesitated one last time, casting a quick glance back at the older man. 

"Stop stalling," he then snapped, his voice taking on that familiar, impatient tone. "The longer you wait, the longer this will take. Or do you need me to push you through?"

You shook your head quickly, muttering something about him being a dick under your breath as you started to crawl forward. Your thigh scorched in pain. You hissed through your teeth. The markings on it under your pants burned every time the fabric dragged across them, sticking to the cloth before peeling away again. 

The vent was narrow, forcing you to move slowly and awkwardly on your hands and knees. You knew what you were doing as you arched your back slightly — not just to ease your passage slightly through the cramped space; it was a subtle, teasing gesture aimed at the man behind you. 

"How's the view back there?" you asked, masking the pain you were feeling with humor. 

"You know exactly how it is." he replied, his tone laced with a hint of desire. "Keep moving."

You held back a retort, not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. You could hear the sound of his breathing behind you, steady and unbothered, unlike your own, which was growing more labored the deeper you went.

You huffed, struggling to maintain your pace in the uncomfortable position. "Seriously, why the hell did you design this bunker like this... Crawling through vents instead of walking through doors?" 

Before William could respond, a robotic female voice echoed through the vent, startling you. "Motion trigger — entryway vent." 

William then spoke. "The vents are a security measure, but they also serve to disorient anyone who's not supposed to be here. Doors are too predictable and too easy to navigate. This way, no one can just walk in." 

"Yeah, well, it's a pain in the ass," you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

Eventually, you saw the faint outline of light at the end of the vent, signaling that you were finally nearing the end of this path. You sped up slightly, eager to be out of the claustrophobic tunnel.

William's hand shot out, grabbing your ankle in a firm grip. "Slow down."

You froze, then continued down the path, slowing your pace. 

Soon enough, you reached the ene of the vent, and with a push, you managed to squeeze your way out, collapsing onto the cold floor below. You stayed there for a moment, catching your breath, your body aching from the effort. William emerged behind you, his movements smooth and unhurried, as if the crawl through the vent hadn't affected him at all.

William wiped his knees off, straightening up as you hauled yourself to your feet. He didn't bother to offer you a hand, as if daring you to linger too long in your own discomfort. You glanced around, trying to take in everything at once. 

The room was larger than you had expected, filled with control panels, buttons, & screens that blinked and hummed. Wires and cables snaked along the walls and ceiling, connecting everything together in a web of technology. There were two shock keypads, one to the left, and one to the right. 

Suddenly, he moved, his arm snaking around your shoulders in a way that made you tense up. "Welcome to Circus Baby's Entertainment and Rental!" he said, his tone light, almost as if he was giving a grand tour of some luxurious estate rather than a nightmarish underground facility filled with animatronics designed for death and entrapment. 

His tone lit up so suddenly, you flinched like someone had just popped a balloon next to your ear.

Afton gestured with his free hand to the room around you, his voice taking on a self-assured tone. "This is the central hub of the location. From here, you can monitor Ballora and Funtime Foxy. There are vents leading to every major area," William pointed them out one by one. "The Funtime Auditorium, where Funtime Foxy performs. The Ballora Gallery, where she dances. And Circus Control, the heart of the whole operation, where Baby resides." 

He walked over, letting his arm slip from your shoulders, his fingers reaching out and dancing over some of the controls, flipping a few switches and bringing several screens to life. Grainy, black-and-white feeds flickered on, showing various parts of the facility in real-time. "Look," he said as he pointed at one of the monitors. "That's Ballora's Gallery. Right now, she's in standby mode, but with the press of a button, I can bring her to life. She'll start her dance and her sensors would start tracking every movement in the room."

William's fingers moved over the buttons again, and you could see a slight twitch in his brow as he adjusted a knob, dimming the lights on one of the screens until the image was almost impossible to make out. His mouth was set in a hard line, and there was a coldness in his eyes, as if he was deciding whether to divulge another layer of his world or keep it hidden, locked behind his own self-interest. He shifted slightly, his slender form blocking your view from some of the monitors. 

"You know, I could go into detail about the others." he began again. "Funtime Freddy, for example. I mentioned his storage compartment, but that is just one aspect. He's also built with a secondary endoskeleton inside, in case someone tries to get too clever and tamper with him. And then there is some smaller robots," he continued, shifting his weight again, leaning against the control panel. "Like the Bidybabs and the Minireenas. They're smaller but just as deadly — designed to work together and to overwhelm, nimble and quick. Most people don't think much of them at first glance because they look like toys... But they have their own important roles."

He turned his head just slightly, not enough to meet your eyes —,but enough to make sure you were listening. "So then, tell me… out of all my magnificent creations, which one would you like to meet first? They all await you." 

He wasn't asking like it was a choice; it felt more like a test or a game.

You paused. The thought of choosing any of them, of getting close to any of those machines, made your legs shake. "What's, uh... what's the safest option?" you asked, your body tense with the fear of what he might suggest.

"Safe? That's an interesting word choice," he mused. "None of them are safe. But if you're asking which one is least likely to kill you outright..." He seemed to consider it for a moment, tapping a finger against his chin in mock thought. "Ballora," he said at last. "As long as you're quiet. She is blind and moves with the music. If you keep your steps light, stay out of her way... she might not notice you." 

It wasn't like you had a lot of options. Finally, you nodded, swallowing hard. "Fine. Let's get this over with."

William's lips curved into a smile, one that didn't reach his eyes.

He didn't say anything, just turned on his heel. William stopped in front of a panel near the entrance to the Ballora Gallery. Mounted on the panel were two buttons- one blue, one orange. "See these?" he asked without looking back at you, his tone almost patronizing, like he was explaining something to a child. "Top one is for the lights, the bottom is for the shocks." his hand hovered over them for a moment before he pressed a small, inconspicuous switch beneath them instead. There was a soft click, and the vent in front of you slid open.

William pointed to the newly opened vent and gave you a look that was both commanding and impatient, as if daring you to challenge him on what came next. "Get in,"

Your hesitation must've been obvious. 

You swallowed, then dropped to your knees to crawl through. Thankfully, it was short, just enough to make you feel cramped and uncomfortable before you reached the end. The vent spat you out onto a hard, cold floor. You stood up quickly, brushing dust from your clothes, and looked around. There were heavy curtains lining the walls, and in the center was Ballora's show stage. She was even more terrifying in person, her tall form clad in a tutu. Her eyes were closed as if she were lost in some eternal dance. 

You glanced back at the vent, expecting William to follow, but he didn't. Instead, as you looked up, you saw him behind the large, bulletproof window. "And you?" you asked quietly, "Aren't you coming in?"

William smiled again, but there was no reassurance in it. "Oh, no, I'll be watching. From here." He tapped the side of his head, as if to say he was always in control. "Come on then, love," William said, his voice slightly muffled by the thick glass, "Let's see if you can dance with the ballerina." 

Your eyes widened at his next words, "Ballora," he called out, his voice echoing in the space. "Show us a dance."

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, with a creak of metal joints, the animatronic began to move. She lifted her arms gracefully, her head tilting slightly as she began to twirl on the spot. The motion was fluid, almost hypnotic, the kind of dance that seemed to draw you in, inviting you to watch, to lose yourself in the rhythm. The music box activated, and the room filled with a melody. She glided smoothly as she twirled across the floor. Her eyes remained closed, but it was clear she wasn't moving aimlessly. 

"I've made them understand commands from my voice," he explained, "Makes things a lot easier because I don't have to fumble with remotes or buttons constantly. Just a word, and they know what to do. They respond only to me."

You bit back a curse, holding your breath as her body seemed to sway toward you, like she was preparing to welcome you into her deadly embrace.

"William, she's— she's coming this way," you whispered urgently. 

"Then don't make any noise," William's voice came. "Stay quiet, dear. I told you, she only follows the sound of movement. Keep quiet or Ballora will rip you apart before you even get a chance to learn anything."

Her head snapped to the left suddenly, then to the right. You stayed still, trying to make yourself as small as possible. "How long...?" 

"How long what?" William asked, his tone innocent, but you knew him better. He was enjoying this. "How long will she keep dancing? How long before she finds you? Before she—?" 

"Just... how long?" you repeated. 

"Depends," he said, "Could be minutes. Could be hours. All depends on how well you behave." You heard from behind you that he leaned closer to the glass, like a cat watching a mouse it had cornered. "Or maybe I'll just tell her to stop. Could do that… if you ask nicely."

Suddenly, a voice came from the ballerina. 

"Is someone there?" Ballora's voice echoed. "I can hear someone... creeping through my room." 

The words were soft, almost a whisper. 

Your eyes darted back to the glass, where William stood on the other side, watching with an expression that was impossible to read. "I needed a voice for Ballora," William then mentioned. "Clara's voice was fitting. Used to sing to Michael, back when he was small. It would quiet him down and help him sleep. She had this elegance, a way of speaking that fit the character... I asked her to record some lines, told her it was for a special project. Of course, she didn't know what I had in mind."

Of course. He used the voice from a woman who had gave birth to his children, the woman you had only heard about before she had been erased from the picture by William's own hand.

The realization hit you. 

"And now... she's in there?" you asked as quietly as possible, not daring to let your eyes leave Ballora as she continued to move, closer to where you stood.

William didn't answer your question this time, letting listen to her voice first. 

The ballerina started singing. 

"Why do you hide inside these walls..." Ballora spoke softly, "When there is music in my halls..." she said, her head tilting ever so slightly, as if she could sense you there. "All I see is an empty room... No more joy, an empty tomb..." 

The way she sang, the words she used, it was almost like she was... grieving. As if some lost part of herself was calling out, trying to make sense of something she couldn't fully remember.

"Why does she sound like she knows something?" you asked. 

"Oh, she's not conscious, if that's what you're asking. After I dealt with her, I realized there was still something I could use. Before the funeral... before I staged her so-called 'suicide,' I extracted Agony from her body." His eyes flicked to Ballora, then back to you. "Once the ceremony was over, I came here— to this bunker. It was quiet, untouched by the world. That's when I injected agony into Ballora and gave her form a purpose. Her body provided the structure, the template. But everything else, Clara's thoughts, her memories, everything that made her Clara, that's all gone now. She's just... Ballora."

You felt your pulse pounding in your ears.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You begged, "William, please— deactivate her," you begged, "I've seen enough, okay? I get it, I really do. You don't need to prove anything else to me." You glanced back at him through the glass, your eyes wide, pleading.

He obeyed, surprisingly. He gave a single, sharp command. "Ballora, deactivate."

The command was simple, direct, and immediate. Ballora froze mid-twirl, her joints locking into place. The music box wound down to silence, leaving you in a terrifyingly quiet room, the only sound your ragged breathing. You didn't wait for William's next instruction. You turned, almost stumbling as you rushed back down on all fours, going through the vent you came from. Your hands shook as you pulled yourself in. William didn't give you a moment to catch your breath the moment you stood up, instead he stepped forward, clicking the button to slam the vent door back shut behind you with a loud clang that made you jump. 

William was already moving, his hand flicking over a series of buttons on the control panel. "This isn't the only thing I need you to see." He pressed another button and a second vent cover slowly slid open. Another dark, narrow passageway.

You sighed, "Where does this one lead?"

"Circus Control," William responded, almost bored now. "That's where Baby is. Go on."

Well, another hell hole was coming up.

You and William went through the vent. The passage was just as cramped as the first one, forcing you to move slowly, your knees scraping against the unforgiving surface. When you finally emerged into Circus Control, you were greeted by the setting that matched the rest of the facility. He moved past you, his eyes scanning the equipment as if checking to make sure everything was in order.

He clicked a button which caused light to illuminate the room. You could barely make out her form behind the thick glass at first. He stepped closer to the window, his fingers tracing along the edge of the glass as he spoke, his tone becoming more intense, but not in the way of a grieving father. It was more like he was discussing a project that had gone wrong.

"Circus Baby's Pizza World. The opening was a spectacle, exactly as I intended. The entire place was modeled after an old-fashioned circus, but with all the modern amenities that would attract parents and their children. We had bright, colorful themes everywhere you looked— reds, yellows, blues, colors that show joy. The menu was simple; pizza, obviously. But we had cotton candy machines, popcorn stands, those massive pretzels that you could barely fit in your mouth, and other sugary things kids crave."

His gaze dropped, remembering the exact day. "Parents were practically throwing money at me; they thought I was a genius for designing these animatronics that could sing, dance, entertain, and keep their kids happy. The opening day was a special one— not just because it was the grand opening, but because it was also Elizabeth's birthday. She was excited, and all she could talk about was how the whole day was about her."

His fingers curled slowly into a fist, knuckles paling as tension coiled through his arm. It was like he was bracing himself, steadying the words he had been rehearsing in silence for far too long since he knew you. Whatever he was about to say, it wasn't just news. 

"Clara had spent the weekend working on that cake... She made sure every detail was perfect, the striped tents, the clown faces, the candy popcorn. All of it crafted down to the last sprinkle."

He paused, turning to look at Baby again. You listened carefully. 

"My masterpiece. The children were mesmerized by her. Elizabeth most of all... But she had been too curious. I warned her, I told her to stay away from Baby. I told her that the animatronics weren't toys, that they weren't meant for little girls to play with. But I'll admit, I wasn't watching her closely enough," he admitted, though his tone was devoid of any real remorse. "I was busy with the opening and with making sure everything was perfect. The crowds, the noise, the excitement were a distraction. And in that moment, she slipped away. The ice cream lure Baby was programmed to dispense was too much for Elizabeth to resist. And Baby... well, she did exactly what she was designed to do."

Your face shifted. Eyes wide, jaw clenched, something caught between horror and heartbreak. You didn't speak because you couldn't. The image he was painting was too vivid. A child drawn in by something as innocent as ice cream, only to be swallowed by something designed to kill. Your stomach turned. The idea of a little girl, his daughter, lured in like prey... it was vile. 

"Michael was supposed to be watching her while I was busy. I was dealing with the investors, and then I heard a nouse loud enough to cut through the chatter. But I ignored it, because at the moment... I thought it was just one of the animatronics acting up, something my employees could handle." He scoffed, "Unlike me, Michael ran towards the source. He heard Elizabeth's scream and was the first one to rush in the room. And what did he do? The idiot tried to rip Baby's stomach plate off, as if he could save her with his bare hands!" he barked, turning on you so suddenly it was like a switch had been flipped.

Your whole body reacted before your mind could catch up, shrinking slightly where you stood. It was the absolute horrifying way he looked at you now, like you were suddenly standing in Michael's place. 

Like you had dared to be that naive.

He stared at you for a moment too long. Then, just as fast as the fury came, it receded. He exhaled and turned his back to you again, as if trying to lock the rage back behind his teeth.

"He nearly ruined everything in his attempt to save her. The damage he caused... it took weeks to repair. I had to pull him off myself," William continued, his voice lowering as he recalled the scene. "He was hysterical, screaming at me, saying it was my fault, when in fact it was hers. She didn't listen, and she paid the price for her foolishness. A result of her own actions."

William stared at the motionless figure of Circus Baby again, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the machine, "Elizabeth is in there," he began. "Her consciousness... or what was left of it. I had to take away almost everything that made her her. Memories, emotions, all those little things that would complicate the programming. She knows who I am, though." he continued, his eyes still fixed on her.

"It's instinctual for her. Elizabeth doesn't understand the world around her anymore, but she understands that I am her father. She'll respond if I call her, answer questions, follow commands. But it's a reflex... There is no memory behind it. Just obedience."

William turned slowly, his eyes staring at you for a moment. "I need you to watch something, closely." He stepped closer to the thick pane of glass that separated you from the animatronic on the other side, the flickering lights from the control panels throwing reflections across his face. 

"Elizabeth," William then called out. "Elizabeth, can you hear me?" 

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, with a slow motion, she activated. 

Circus Baby turned her head toward the glass, her robotic eyes locking onto William with an almost human-like recognition. "Daddy?" The voice that came out was one from a child. "Daddy, I can hear you."

He shifted his weight, his frame moving closer to you, his hand resting possessively on your shoulder. "Do you see who's here with me?" he asked her. "This is my friend, Y/N."

"Friend... help Daddy? Why does he look... afraid?" she asked, her voice devoid of any real understanding. "Does he... does he play with me, too?"

She sounded completely dazed, like someone coming to after being pulled from a deep, suffocating sleep.

"I guess he could. Say hello," William instructed you, "Come on, be polite."

With a trembling breath, you forced a smile, though it was weak and faltered at the corners, betraying your anxiety. Raising a shaky hand, you gave a small, awkward wave to the robot that held Elizabeth's consciousness. "Uh, h-hi." you stammered. You had no idea how to address this thing. 

"Hello... Y/N. Are you going to stay and play with me? Daddy just said we can play together." 

The recognition in those eyes was unnerving, even more so because it was a child, or at least something that once was.

"Maybe another time," you replied, forcing the words out as calmly as you could manage. "I think your dad has other plans for us today..."

"Elizabeth," William's voice cut through right after you finished speaking. "Daddy has to return to work now. There is much to be done, but I'll come back soon. We'll play together another time." 

"Daddy... don't leave me here in the dark. It's... it's so cold. I don't like it when it's dark. Please, don't go..."

The pitiful sound of her voice tugged at something deep inside your aching heart. Your eyes watered before you even noticed. She was so young, you could hear it. Likely no older than five, struggling to form her words like she hadn't yet learned how to use them properly. Like her tongue was still clumsy in her mouth, like every sentence cost her something. All she wanted was light, warmth, someone. And her father, this man, was turning his back on her. 

"I—I'm sorry—" you suddenly started, your voice trembling as you took a small step toward the glass, hand lifting slightly as if you could reach her. "You don't have to be alone. I'll talk to you, I can..." 

But then you felt his hand. It clamped down on your arm with pressure. William leaned in close, his voice quiet in your ear. 

"Shut up."

You froze.

She was still watching you, confused, waiting. But William's grip didn't loosen. His message was clear: This was not your moment to speak.

And even though every part of you screamed to say something, you stayed silent.

"You know Daddy has important things to do. You'll be fine. Just close your eyes and sleep. I'll turn the lights on for you next time. You need to be good, understand?" William told her.

"No, Daddy, please!" she cried out, her voice cracking with what sounded like fear. It was real. "Don't leave me alone! I'll be so quiet, you won't even know I'm here."

"Sleep, Elizabeth," he commanded, "Now."

There was a moment of silence, and then, with a small, almost resigned whimper, Baby's eyes dimmed. Her head lowered, and she went still, the lights in her eyes flickering out as she powered down, leaving the room in silence. 

You frowned as you finally tore your gaze away from the glass and looked at William. "I know you said she's not really Elizabeth anymore, but... still. She was your daughter. You could've tried using a softer tone with her."

"Save your pity," he snapped, his voice growing harsher. "You can't reason with a machine. You can't comfort it. Trying to be gentle with something like her would be as pointless as trying to reason with a hammer." He stepped away from the glass, like he was done with this part of the facility, with this part of the conversation. 

"We're leaving this area. There's one more thing you need to see before we're done here." He motioned towards the vent leading back to the primary control module, not giving you a choice in the matter, as usual. 

With a heavy sigh, you crouched down, crawling back into the narrow vent. After a while, you reached the end, and with a bit of effort, you pulled yourself out into the room. You stood up, and turned to face William, who emerged from the vent. William led you toward the vent leading to the Funtime Auditorium. "Next, we'll be heading to my private office." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a device. "This is a flash beacon. We'll need this to navigate through the Funtime Auditorium. You're not allowed to use the flashlight. It'll be too risky, since Funtime Foxy is programmed to activate at sudden lights. Use it sparingly, just enough to make sure you don't trip over your own feet." He motioned for you to go first. 

You did as you were told, dropping down onto your knees and crawling into the short vent. When you were back on your feet, William led the way this time. You followed as closely as you could. Every now and then, you would press the button on the Flash Beacon, just for a split second to illuminate the path ahead. Until, finally, you saw a faint outline of a door ahead. William reached it first, producing a key from his pocket and sliding it into the lock. The door opened and you both stepped through.

The Private Office. 

There was a desk in front of you, cluttered with what looked like leftover debris from the facility's operations. A small fan whirred lazily, pushing the stagnant air around the space, and there were multiple security cameras. There were no windows, no natural light, just the constant hum of the machinery. What drew your attention was the Fredbear plush sitting right in the middle of the chaos. You recognized it as Evan's.

William turned his head slightly, glancing at the plush you just looked at before reaching out to grab it. 

He held it out for you to see more clearly. "This is Evan's plush, the one from the picture album. I'm sure you recognize it. Clara wanted to put it in some sort of memorial box after he died, something to remember. You know how women get, but I kept it for my research. After all, I couldn't exactly let her find out about the modified voice box inside it..." He turned the plush around, pointing to a small, nearly invisible seam at the back. "I cut it open right here, just enough to fit the thing in. Sealed it back up. Nice and neat."

He placed the Fredbear plush back down on the desk, right next to the fan. "The walkie-talkie I used to communicate with him is right here." He pointed to a small device sitting beside the plush.

Then, he reached out and squeezed the Fredbear plush's nose. A loud, high-pitched honk echoed through the room, and you flinched, your shoulders jerking back. William let out a breathy laugh. "You jump too easily, Y/N. You really need to work on that." Then, William's smile faded as he leaned against the desk, one hand resting on the edge. "This room is where I monitored all the experiments on Evan, and eventually Michael for a short period of time. The chamber I designed for them is deeper underground, but it is close, easily accessible from here."

His fingers then clicked some numbers on on the keypad, pressing a sequence of numbers that seemed to flow from his memory without hesitation. There was a soft beep, and the three static monitors on the desk worked, their grainy images shifting to show three different camera angles: a bedroom, a large bed, and a shadowy hallway. 

You leaned in, staring at the grainy cameras with furrowed eyebrows. He continued to speak. 

"The gas was designed to be discreet. It was practically invisible and doesn't have a visible color. It is a very fine mist, and it's almost imperceptible in the dark. The entire chamber was built to keep things subtle. It would seep slowly, until it filled the space completely. By the time you would realize something was wrong, it would be too late."

William's fingers brushed the edge of the desk again, as if considering something else. He then slid open a drawer and rifled through its contents, pushing aside papers and small parts until he found what he was looking for. A notebook. He flipped through the pages, and once he found the page he was searching for, he began reading out loud. 

"Subject's reactions to induced stimuli," he read, pausing just enough to let the words sink in your head.

"Test One: Initial exposure.

---

Subject displayed symptoms of fear and confusion. The heart rate spiked to 150 BPM within the first sixty seconds. There was an increase in vocal distress like whimpering and crying. The subject's calls for assistance were ignored to assess the progression of fear-induced hallucinations without external interference. The subject's resistance to the gas lasted approximately fifteen minutes before a full breakdown occurred. Physical symptoms included uncontrollable trembling, hyperventilation, and temporary loss of motor functions, particularly in the limbs. Subject attempted to flee, but coordination was compromised due to the hallucinogenic effects. The escape attempt was brief and unsuccessful. After the session was over: The next day, subject reported seeing 'monsters,' classic signs of paranoia combined with visual hallucinations. They were described as distorted versions of familiar characters, with exaggerated features designed to elicit maximum fear response. Notable was the subject's fixation on the teeth, 'sharp' and 'too many,' which corresponds with the design parameters input into the hallucination framework."

He let out a breath, as though his own words had exhausted him, but he wasn't tired. He was simply pausing, taking a moment to savor the tension in the room. He slammed the notebook shut, dropping it carelessly on the desk. "The first experiment," he said. "There were a lot of mistakes, a lot of room for refinement. Still, I got what I needed. Like I said, I used a hallucinogen, but it is made to trigger specific responses in the brain. Your brain doesn't need much convincing to create monsters out of shadows. The gas, when it enters the bloodstream through inhalation, targets certain neurotransmitters, specifically those tied to fear responses. Dopamine, norepinephrine, serotonin, all of those chemicals that dictate how your brain interprets threats. It also messes with the part of the brain responsible for visual and auditory stimuli."

"When the gas interacts with that little surge of fear, it enhances what's already there. The hallucinations aren't random, instead they're tailored to the individual." he said. "It reacts to the subconscious fears already present within the person. For Evan, it was the animatronics. He grew up around them, learned to fear them, and that fear became the framework for what he saw. The gas simply enhanced that."

"So... like you said yesterday, Evan wasn't your only test subject. You went onto Michael after The Bite. And when he got older, too aware... you moved on. Found someone else. I'm guessing it wasn't just a one-time deal since you're not exactly the type to throw away a perfectly good method after one run." 

You kept your tone casual, almost bored. There wasn't any shock left in you, not when it came to him. The man was a monster but that was just a fact yo had accepted. What was the point in getting worked up over it? Besides, William didn’t care about your feelings, so why pretend to care about his atrocities? You were just curious now, in the way someone might be curious about a car crash. 

"I guess what I'm asking is, how many times did you pull this before Evan? The kid died, and you just— what? Perfect the formula and then move on? Did you even bother trying it on yourself to see how much it screws with your head or do you just prefer staying on the outside of it? Figured I'd ask since you are in such a talkative mood."

"I didn't need to keep testing on every single child that came through, no. Once you have perfected a method, you can't just keep running experiments recklessly." he said. "Let's just say... I am getting enough data as time passes."

He slid the notebook back into the drawer. Without another word, he motioned for you to follow, leading you out of the Private Office and back toward the Funtime Auditorium. William didn't bother waiting for you to catch up. His strides were long. You had to speed up, just to keep in step with him. When you two got into the Primary Control Module, you went through the entryway vent. You saw just enough to see William's shoes scraping along the vent floor ahead of you. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you emerged into the elevator. The metal doors closed with a heavy thud behind you. 

William seemed almost at ease now, the earlier intensity in his gaze replaced with a calm, no longer unsettling. He leaned back against the wall, his eyes half shut as he reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. You watched as he pulled out a single cig with his teeth. He slipped it between his lips and dug into his pocket again, producing a lighter. With a flick, the flame flared up, briefly illuminating his face before it settled into a steady burn. He took a deep drag, his chest expanding as he inhaled, and for a moment, his eyes closed. Then he let out a long exhale. The smoke curled around his face, hanging in the air like a ghost, before dissipating into the atmosphere.

"Why did you keep this a secret from me for so long?" you asked. You were genuinely curious, though a part of you wondered if you'd regret asking. There were too many secrets in William's life.

William's eyes opened slowly, his gaze stern as he took another drag from his cigarette. He let the smoke linger in his lungs for a moment before exhaling through his nose. "There was no need to burden you with it," He flicked a bit of ash onto the floor, "What would you have done with that information, anyway?" 

"Would've made zero difference," you replied with an easy tone, masking the slight tremor in your voice. You leaned back against the cold metal wall, feeling the vibration of the elevator hum beneath your shoulder blades. "If you really wanted to keep me in the dark, you probably should've just stayed quiet about all this forever. It's not like I'm gonna report you to the authorities or anything. And it's not like I'd even know where to start if I wanted to."

William watched you through narrowed eyes, his lips curling slightly into what could've been amusement or maybe just contempt. It was always hard to tell with him. He never let you see more than he wanted you to. 

He then pushed himself off the wall, taking one last drag of the cigarette before carelessly flicking the butt to the floor and crushing it under his heel. The light died out instantly under the pressure. 

His arm moved, slipping around your waist, and then said, "Do you ever get tired of asking me questions that you know I won't answer?" he asked you, but you kept silent. He pressed himself closer to you, his body now almost flush against yours, your foreheads nearly touching. You pressed your hands against his chest to steady yourself, feeling him beneath his clothes. 

Then, without warning, his free hand slid down, brushing against the back of your pants. Your breath hitched as his fingers groped firmly, squeezing your ass with an unashamed sense of ownership. You leaned into it slightly, your hips subtly pressing back against his grip, seeking more even though you shouldn't. 

"I withheld some truths from you because not all were meant to be known. Tonight, I've already shared more than enough. Let silence hold the rest."

He was so close you could smell the smoke on his breath, mixed with the faint scent of metal of the elevator. You saw that his mouth twitched, and for a moment, you thought he might kiss you. But then, just as quickly as the moment had arrived, he pulled away, letting out a bored sigh. His hand slipped from your body, the intensity fading from his expression like he had grown tired of whatever amusement he had found in tormenting you. The lack of interest in his eyes was almost worse than the fear you had felt moments ago. 

The elevator then shuddered to a stop, and the doors slid open. Without waiting for you, William stepped out. You followed, feeling a strange mix of confusion, frustration, and a feeling you didn't want to examine too closely.

You were back at your place now, staring at the darkened room as your thoughts wandered. For once, William was resting deeply, the day's events pulling him into an uncharacteristically heavy slumber. Usually, he would wake up at the slightest sound, but tonight something had worn him down more than usual. You weren't sure if it was the relentless pacing through the facility, or the exertion of keeping up his mask, but whatever it was, he seemed exhausted, giving you a rare moment of peace. Your mind, however, was far from peaceful.

Today's events burned themselves into your brain. Circus Baby, especially. William said she didn't feel, didn't remember, but something in her voice, in the way she pleaded for the lights to stay on... Could a machine feel fear? Agony? Could something so far removed from life still hold a fragment, remnants of the person it used to be? You hated how much it got to you, how that small bit of pity twisted in your stomach. How it had almost slipped out, how you had almost said something to comfort her, even though you knew it would not have mattered. It was useless, just like William said. She was just a machine.

But it wasn't just the details, of Clara's last remains being inside ballora, or William's experiments with his son that haunted you. It was the way he had looked at you while telling the stories, like he was daring you to react, daring you to be horrified, to flinch. But somehow you couldn't.

Somewhere along the line, you learned to shut off that part of yourself around him, the part that screamed about how wrong it all was.

Art time :)

1. I genuinely have no idea what to caption this... (And yes, I know the chipped tooth is on the wrong side. I messed it up 💔) 

2. Springtrap again!

3. A little something for Pride Month… but hiding myself again because I'm a mystery.

Chapter Text

[Back in the early days, long before your name ever passed through William Afton's mouth —]

...there was just ambition, greed, and the genius shared among three men.

Edwin Murray, a contractor by title but an innovator in practice, was brought in by Fazbear Entertainment to lay the mechanical groundwork for the company's newest vision: springlock technology. They hired Edwin's company under strict legal bindings.

Edwin prototyped the suits, painstakingly, with sleepless nights and bleeding fingers. The springlock suits were Fredbear and Spring Bonnie, but only based on design documents already drafted. The character concepts belonged to Henry Emily and William Afton. Fiona, Edwin's wife, was involved as well, who designed the earliest iteration of Chica, but she didn't own the rights to her own work.  

Edwin's fatal mistake was assuming good intentions existed in business.  

When the Fazbear board reviewed MCM's contractual clauses, William helped craft new amendments: tighter delivery deadlines, mandatory design ownership clauses, and fine print that voided compensation if projects weren't finished. While Edwin buried himself in work, William sharpened his smile and quietly plucked Edwin's employees, one after another, offering promises, higher wages, freedom... lies, all of it. He drained MCM, and Henry, ever the passive partner, did nothing to stop him.

By the time Edwin realized what was happening, it was too late. The Fazbear Project was the only thread keeping MCM afloat.

When Fiona died, Edwin didn't just lose a wife. He lost the only collaborator who truly saw what he was trying to build. William saw the grief, and he shaped it into opportunity. One evening, Edwin's young son David was walking home. William's car came around the corner. No one saw the impact. No one pressed charges. Edwin's descent into despair and depression was accelerated, and the man eventually disappeared entirely, presumed dead... or missing.

What was left of him were fully owned by Fazbear Entertainment. And when Edwin vanished, there was no one left to challenge it.

Henry and William then pushed forward with the final versions of the main band: Freddy, Bonnie, Chica, and Foxy. Freddy was Henry's mascot, Bonnie was William's favorite. Fiona's Chica still bore her styling, and Foxy was Edwin's. A fragmented tribute to all of them, though none shared equal credit. William liked it that way. In his mind, those scraps of effort, those borrowed pieces of themselves, were always meant to be his. And in his mind, nothing Henry or Edwin ever did alone could hold a candle to what he had created through sheer force of will.

William could be brutal, manipulative, vindictive, but he got things done. Henry didn't have the stomach for confrontation, and William thrived on it. Their working relationship quickly skewed into something toxic. But Henry didn't stop William from cannibalizing Edwin's work force. He didn't protest when William redirected Fazbear Entertainment's funding away from MCM, killing Edwin's only active project mid-development, effectively bankrupting him.

Throughout late 1970s and into the early 1980s, internal operations were tightly controlled by Afton, a man known externally for innovation and charming snake oil salesmanship, but remembered internally for something far more sinister.

Complaints also detailed that William had personally installed unauthorized cameras. While no criminal charges were pursued at the time, this was documented unease over the extent of Afton's access. According to a former employee who chose to remain anonymous, a confrontation with William turned hostile after the man questioned the unauthorized surveillance cameras Afton had installed. When he refused to comply with Afton's instructions, Afton reportedly became verbally aggressive, warning him that if he "didn't want to end up blacklisted from children's entertainment," he would comply. Though no formal charges were filed at the time, possibly due to a lack of physical evidence or employee fear of retaliation, the psychological impact remains evident. The victim noted chronic anxiety and symptoms consistent with post-traumatic stress following his tenure at the diner.

Numerous documented testimonies, private logs, and reports, many buried under NDAs and lost paperwork, paint a pattern of consistent abuse, intimidation, and manipulation directed at the employees under his command.

William arrived at Henry's house the morning after Charlie died.

The rain continued pelting down, turning the world into a blur of gray. He had fucked over Henry in the worst way possible, betraying him... yet here he was, pretending to be the friend he could never really be. Henry seemed even more gaunt and hollow than usual, like a kicked puppy. Henry's hair was a mess, his clothes rumpled, and his eyes bloodshot from crying. William had to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

"William... I..." Henry's voice cracked as he spoke, barely holding back his tears. "I've lost everything. My wife left me, my son's a mess, and now Charlie... She was only three... I don't know how to go on. I feel so selfish, talking about my pain when I know you've been through so much too. You lost one of your own... how do you cope with that?" 

William paused, pretending to gather his thoughts. "It's not easy," he said finally, his voice steady. He felt annoyed at Henry's incessant crying, but he kept his tone gentle. "You have to take it one day at a time. Focus on the good memories, the happy times. It's what they would want."

"But I feel like I won't even be able to continue living on like this..." Henry's grief spilled over in a torrent of words. "She was so full of life, always smiling, always kind. She had dreams, Will... She wanted to make a difference in the world. And now she's gone, just like that. Taken from me. I-I don't know how I'm supposed to go on without her. Everything reminds me of her. Her room, her toys, her drawings... I feel like I'm suffocating, like there's this weight on my chest that I can't get rid of." Henry let out a shaky sigh. "I keep thinking about all the things she'll never get to do. I should've been there to protect her..." 

William put a reassuring hand on Henry's shoulder. "You're a good father, Hen," William said. "Please, don't blame yourself for this. We'll get through it together. The police will do everything they can to catch whoever did this."

Henry broke down completely, wrapping his arms around his best friend in a desperate hug. William stiffened, suppressing a shudder of disgust, but patted Henry's back. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Bill," he mumbled. "You've always been there for me. Thank you... for everything."

William pulled away slightly, his gaze meeting Henry's with warmth that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You don't have to thank me, Henry." he replied. "We're friends, aren't we? Friends help each other in times of need." With those words, William disentangled himself from Henry's embrace, his expression calm. "I should get going," he said. "But remember, if you ever need anything, I'm just a call away."

Henry nodded, his eyes still filled with tears. "Alright," he said softly. "See you soon, William."

As William left Henry's house, he couldn't help but feel relieved. Finally, he thought. He didn't have to deal with that annoying man and his constant whining. Henry's grief grated on his nerves, but he maintained his mask of sympathy, knowing it served his purposes well. He glanced back at Henry's house one last time, a small smirk curling the corners of his lips. He enjoyed the thought of Henry's suffering.

It was all going well by his plan.

You didn't reach out to Jeremy anymore. You didn't dare. The paper with Jeremy's number on it sat somewhere in your drawers, yet remained untouched. 

Work was torture. You barely managed to go to work. It was hard to keep up with your duties when every movement sent pain. You felt like a zombie.

The bus ride home was uneventful, as it always was. The hum of the engine filled your ears as you stared out the window, watching the world blur past in a dull haze of streetlights, cars, people and buildings. It was dark now, probably close to 8 p.m., and the place felt more subdued. Your body ached from the day's shift, every muscle stiff from hours of standing, walking, and dealing with people. You shifted in your seat, adjusting your bag on your lap. The bus wasn't crowded, just a handful of passengers scattered around. William would still be at your place for a few more hours, probably holed up in whatever corner he claimed this time. You knew he'd be gone by 11. 

The bus came to a stop. You stood, pulling your bag over your shoulder, and stepped out. You walked down the familiar path to your house. When you finally reached the door, everything was quiet. The door clicked shut behind you, in a way that felt too loud, and you tossed your keys on the table, slipping off your shoes before heading toward the bathroom. 

A shower sounded good, a way to wash off the day and maybe, for a little while, not think about everything. You undressed quickly, tossing your clothes onto the bathroom floor, eager for the hot water to wash away the exhaustion of the day. The mirror in front of you reflected back a body you have gotten used to but still found yourself examining, every curve and angle catching your eye.

You thought about how William's temper had continued flaring frequently, and you found yourself at the receiving end of his anger more often than how it was two years ago.

It was a strange transition, watching William return to the man he once was, the man you knew. It all came back as if it never left. You fell back into the rhythm of your daily life, the cycle of abuse and manipulation slowly enveloping you once again. This felt normal and it felt almost comforting in its familiarity. It was a terrifying realization that you were addicted to his abuse again. He would hit you, slap you, punch you. All he wanted was to use his strength against you. It was all about power for him, and you were his to control. You were his to break.

Every blow landed in places that wouldn't be visible to anyone else. Your arms, your back, your legs— he made sure the bruises were hidden under your clothes. He was careful to avoid your face often, making sure your outward appearance remained unscathed. 

Gradually, you realized that he was killing you, not physically (because you were immortal), but emotionally, draining your spirit bit by bit because of what he was doing. But you didn't care. You couldn't. Because you loved it. You loved him. Even if he hurt you, even if he abused you, you still needed him. The bruises and the cuts were a reminder of him, and you learned to love them. You learned to love your pain because it was a part of him.

It was a part of William. 

But it was still hard to face the marks on your body sometimes... even if you had learned to love them. 

With a sigh, you began to peel away the bandages from your thigh. Surprisingly, the wound had healed faster than expected, almost unnaturally so. The cuts on your stomach and chest showed signs of healing too, leaving behind lines that reminded you of an animal's attack. They didn't sting as much now, which was a relief. Maybe it was the remnant, you thought.

Turning your attention to the shower, the water drummed against your scars, a reminder of their presence. It wasn't painful anymore, just uncomfortable, a sensation you knew would fade with time. As you finished your shower and began to dry off, the familiar routine of preparing for bed took over. You dried your hair, brushed your teeth meticulously. Just as you were about to pull your underwear on, the door creaked open, and William entered the room.

Your first instinct was defense— you grabbed the towel and yanked it in front of yourself, pressing the fabric to you like a barrier. You tensed imperceptibly. You hated these moments, the unwelcome presence. Even if it was William himself, you wanted a moment of privacy sometime. "Jesus, William," you snapped, more out of surprise than anything else. "Do you not knock? Or are boundaries just not a thing with you?"

His gaze roamed like it always did, unapologetic, slow, and infuriatingly thorough. You could feel it settle on the curve of your shoulder, the faded bruises near your ribs, the cuts across your thigh and torso. Your skin prickled. 

He stepped inside the bathroom anyway, coming closer, almost lazily, "What, you're shy now?" he asked, as if you standing naked in front of him was just another casual moment between the two of you. His lips curled into a smirk as he added, "Didn't take you for the bashful type. Especially not with me. You're acting like a virgin—" He stopped just short of laughing, and you flinched like he'd raised a hand. "It's a little late for modesty, don't you think?"

His gaze wasn't hurried, it was slow, like he was taking in every inch of you with a kind of quiet appreciation, even though he had no right to. 

"Relax," he murmured, "I'm not planning anything... unless you are."

"That's not the point," you said, "I don't want to deal with this right now. I just got home, I'm tired, and I don't need you creeping in here like this. I want five fucking minutes to shower and not have you staring at me like I'm on display." Your voice was firm, and you stared directly at him, hoping he would take the hint.  

William didn't react with the anger you half-expected. Instead, his expression remained calm, and his tone shifted into something less mocking... "I understand. I really do. More than you probably think I could. I know why you're retreating... You've been hurt- more than once, more than anyone should be. And maybe part of you thinks it's safer that way. To keep distance. To stay quiet."

You turned to face him fully. 

"But listen to me."

A pause. Gentle, not dramatic. Just enough silence to make space for what followed.

"You don't need to go away from me." His presence didn't come with anger, abuse or manipulation this time. Instead, his voice carried that soft, soothing tone that had a way of unraveling your defenses. It was soft, reaching your ears like a gentle breeze on a stifling day. 

For a moment, you dared to believe his concern was genuine. It was easy to forget, in moments like this, the reality of his actions.

What a joke.

He tilted his head slightly, like he wanted to say something more, but didn't want to spook you yet. 

Your expression was no longer sharp, but tired. The fight had gone out of you, and all you felt now was exhaustion. He smiled at your obedience, but it wasn't the sadistic smirk you were used to. This smile seemed almost genuine, and for a short moment, you believed it reached his eyes. It disarmed you, made you question everything. 

He moved behind you, his hands resting on your shoulders as he guided you to face the mirror. Your eyes met his in the reflection, and in that moment it was just the two of you in that space. "See what I see. Those marks, they're a part of you now. A beautiful part." he told you. The way he spoke made it seem almost... convincing, so sincere. His hands moved from your shoulders to your upper arms, holding you in place.

You let go of the towel. It slipped from your fingers without resistance, landing at your feet like it no longer mattered. And it really didn't. Not here, not in this moment, not in front of him. You were already stripped of everything else. 

His hand moved. Cold fingertips brushed along your side. They traced the scars that ran across your skin like a secret language only he knew how to read. Your knees nearly gave under the pressure of your own need to be held. The sensation wasn't erotic. It was overwhelming. Like being seen in full light for the first time and not being turned away. You could feel the callouses scraping gently against you. 

You leaned back against him, felt the rough fabric of his tucked-in shirt, the buttons cool against your spine. The hair on his chest scratched faintly through the thin cotton as your skin met every surface of his clothing. Your ass pressed firmly to the front of his pants, your back flush to his chest. The way he stood so still made it worse, like he was letting you feel everything on purpose. You felt the cold zipper bite faintly at your skin as your hips shifted. He was all fabric and restraint. You were nothing but flesh. No space between you, no air. Just skin and cloth and heat. You could still smell the trace of your soap from where your skin touched his shirt, like you were staining him. Marking him back.

You wanted to drown in it. 

His long fingers rested over your stomach, barely grazing the skin there. You pressed into his palms, then slid your fingers over his knuckles. Your grip tightened before you could stop yourself. And then he answered by lacing his fingers with yours, slow, no resistance. You weren't sure who needed that more.

The entire scene unfolded in just a matter of few seconds, but to you, it stretched out endlessly. 

You frowned at yourself, shaking your head slightly. "But they look so... weird, all together in one place," you muttered, voice tinged with self-disgust. "Especially the scars on my chest and stomach. If anyone else saw them, they'd be horrified," The thought of outside judgment brought a lump to your throat.

Though his face remained calm, there was a sudden edge in his eyes now that made your stomach knot. It was as if his mask was slipping for a second. "You think they're weird because you've been conditioned to think that way," he said, his tone harsher now, and tightened his grip on you. "People are afraid of what they don't understand. But I understand what those marks mean."  

You then tried to pull away at his sudden sterner approach, but his grip only tightened further, making you wince. "William, please, I just need a moment," you pleaded, but he ignored your plea.

"Do you know why you need me?" he suddenly asked, his voice rising slightly, carrying that authoritative tone that demanded attention. He looked at you deep in the eyes. "It's because I see the real you. You're so used to being judged, to being misunderstood. But not by me. I know everything about you, about every mark, and I understand them. I understand you."

You struggled weakly in his grip, but then finally, you let out a frustrated sigh, ceasing your attempts to pull away. "Why am I still breathing? Why don't you use that knowledge to tear whatever's inside me out... then finish the job and kill me?" you asked, your tone carrying a blend of exasperation and genuine confusion. "Am I not just your latest experiment? Your little toy? Why haven't you just... gotten rid of me, if you hate me this much? If you don't like the real me?" 

He stopped fighting, too. The tension in his arms dropped, just slightly, like your question had knocked the wind out of him. His fingers loosened against your skin but didn't let go.

William paused for a long moment, as if thinking of what to say, even if it was brief. Then he answered, "That's a question with many answers, none of them simple. But why would I waste such a precious thing? Ending you would be the easiest thing in the world, but what would I gain from that? A dead test subject like you is of no use to me."

"You've seen the worst of what I am, and you're still here. There were countless opportunities for you to betray me. You haven't lost your mind. You are far more than a mere part of my experiments and far more than a simple diversion. To end you now would be, quite frankly, an act of wastefulness."

You locked eyes in the mirror again. 

"See... there is something deeply fascinating about you. You possess a rare quality, an awareness, if you will. You understand the intricacies of my mind in a way that no one else does. That is a rare thing, something I am not inclined to discard lightly."

William's hand, cold and firm from work, pressed against your thigh, where the scars of his name were a permanent reminder of his dominion over you. He dragged his fingertips along the raised edges, tracing each letter, like he was reacquainting himself with old handwriting, each scar etched by his own hands. 

His gaze bore into yours through the mirror, as if searching for the truth hidden behind your eyes. "You are the sole witness to my true nature. The only one person who can look beyond the mask I've made around others. You see the man beneath... And in that knowledge lies power. Our power. You know me, and in that knowing, you hold a part of me that no one else does. In turn, I know you, perhaps better than you know yourself. I keep you alive because I trust you in a way that I trust no other. You are the keeper of my secrets and the mirror in which I see my true self."

A heavy tremor moved through your chest. There was something in his tone that pulled you. It wasn't remorse because he wasn't built for that. But something adjacent. A sick kind of honesty. 

"In a world where I trust no one, you've given me a reason to trust you."

You stood there, frozen, trying to process William's words. You had never heard him speak like this before. It was too much, too intense, and part of you wondered if he actually meant any of it. He had to, right? Why else would he say it? But then again, you knew better than to fully trust anything he said. Still, the way he talked made it hard to think clearly. 

He continued, "I see the way you look at those scars I left. The way you trace them when you think I'm not watching. You hate them, sure. But there's more to it. A part of you relishes it. You like knowing I'm the one who put them there, don't you? Maybe not the pain itself, but what it represents. Ownership. Belonging, to me."

He paused to look at you, and he could see the way your eyes widened. "Don't lie to me. Not to yourself either. There's no shame in it."

"Yeah... you're right," you admitted. "Every time I look at them, I feel a rush. Like... I'm special because of you. But I hate that I've become someone who finds comfort in pain because it's the only way I know you're still here with me. I hate that I've come to rely on you for my sense of worth. I hate that I can't imagine my life without you, even though I know I should— I stay because a part of me needs you. You take advantage of it." you said, letting out a shaky breath.

"But more than anything, I hate that I can't truly hate you. No matter what you do, no matter how much you hurt me, I can't bring myself to feel that. And that terrifies me because it means you have all the power. It means you own me, body and soul." you admitted. "It feels like I'm suffocating. I'm scared all the time, scared of what you'll do, scared of what I might do."

You took in a deep, shuddering breath, before continuing, adopting a stronger tone. "But talking about it, saying it out loud, it's like a weight has been lifted off my chest. Even if it's just for a moment, it's refreshing."

At first, he just looked at you. Utterly still. As if your words had passed straight through him without landing. But the longer you stood there, you saw how the corners of his mouth twitched downward before pulling taut, how a tension crept into the lines of his face, as though every part of him was working overtime to not react. A nauseous twist formed in your guts. You had pulled open your ribcage and offered him the mess inside, and instead of laughing, he looked like he didn't know what to do with it.

You slowly turned to face him fully, still catching your breath from the intensity of everything that had just been said. Your eyes then darted to the floor for a moment, avoiding his gaze. You weren't ready to face the emptiness in his eyes just yet again. But then, almost against your will, your gaze wandered back up to his face. You studied the lines of his expression that barely changed but spoke volumes in their stillness.

You found yourself then looking at his lips, saw that small twitch of muscle again that suggested something like thoughtfulness.

"Do you ever… I mean, do you ever wonder if…" you hesitated, feeling the words on your tongue. Then, in a softer voice, "Do you ever wish you weren't like this? I mean, not just 'cause of what you do— 'cause of what we do. Because, like... this is not normal. Doesn't it make you feel wrong?" You knew well how society saw you. It wasn't just that you were gay; it was the nature of this sick relationship, whatever it could be called, that wasn't ever going to be understood by anyone on the outside.

You barely understood it yourself.

"There have been moments," he admitted, "fleeting moments, where I've thought about what it would be like to be different. To fit in with what people call 'normal.' But that's just not me." His voice was steady. "I realized long ago that pretending otherwise would be a waste of time. I am who I am. Because disgust is a transient feeling, it passes. I've learned to live with it."

Before you could second-guess himself, you leaned in just a little, enough for William to notice, but not enough to commit to anything outright. "Do you ever think about someone else? Like, when you're with me, do you wish it was someone else? Or is this... enough for you?"

"There was someone else. Years ago," he said at last, his tone flat but carrying a weight of bitterness. "I met him when I was just a little younger than you are now. It wasn't supposed to happen, not back then. We were building something together. But it happened, and we got close. I didn't know people like that existed; not for someone like me." He sighed, looking away for a few seconds, "It didn't stop there. Even after we got married, even after we both tried to move on, I could tell. The way he looked at me when no one else was around, the way he lingered just a bit too long. He felt it, too, but he buried it. He was always the moral one, always so damn righteous... But when it came down to it, he was a coward. I watched him build this perfect image of himself, this kind, gentle man. He wouldn't accept me. He wouldn't stand to look at me now, not after he felt deep inside what truly happened to Charlotte."  

The name hit you like a stone to the chest. Your mouth parted slightly, but nothing came out. 

He was with Henry?

His name sat in your mind like a weight that wouldn't lift. 

You stepped back slightly, the tile floor cold and solid under your feet, grounding you as your world shifted violently.

"And you," William said now, eyes on you again, "you reminded me of him. At first."  

You froze again.

"Your eyes. The way you speak. That stubborn little sense of morality you keep dragging through the dirt. You had his spirit, his fire."

You didn't know if you wanted to vomit, or run, or cry, or laugh. It all mixed into a nauseating swirl of disbelief and fear and something almost like grief. Like you had just buried a version of yourself that had no place in this house anymore.

He had loved someone.

He had killed for that love.

And now, he looked at you like you were the replacement that finally worked.

Then, William said something for final, and he hesitate this time. "There is no one else. I don't need anyone else."  

His eyes didn't have that cruel look they sometimes had when he was playing his mind games, but they were still hard, unreadable. Yet, for once, there was no mockery in them. No immediate sting. Just that empty look, like he was staring right through you and into something only he could see. 

Why couldn't you breathe properly?

"Don't look at me like that now." you suddenly said. You tore your eyes away from his face, but even as you looked away briefly, you could still feel the feeling of his stare lingering, burning into your bruised and scarred skin. 

"Like what?" William asked, almost like he didn't understand what you were saying. You could swear there was genuine confusion in the tone of his voice. "What exactly am I doing that bothers you so much? You think I'm acting strange because I haven't hit you tonight. Because I'm not snarling or dragging you to the floor by your fucking throat."  

"No. It's just... You're looking at me like I'm something else. Like I'm not me," you muttered, shaking your head as you took a half-step back from him. "You never look at me like that. Don't do it now. Look at me how you always do," you said, a little louder now. "I know what that look means. It's easier." 

You wanted him to react. You wanted the William you knew.

A part you hated was flattered. Or comforted. Or whatever the hell twisted name you could assign to being told you weren't disposable.

You were chosen.

He chose you.

William was silent for a few moments longer, so you continued.

"What the hell are you doing, man?" you then demanded, stepping forward now, closing the distance you had just tried to create. You met his stare head-on, refusing to back down even as your voice wavered. "Why do you always have to make everything so complicated? Why can't you just...—" You cut yourself off, biting your tongue because you knew the real question hiding under all that rage: Why can't you just be honest with me? "You're acting weird. You have been acting weird for a while, since..."

...since my confession.

He interrupted you before you could say what you wanted, "You're the one who keeps poking at something that doesn't need to be questioned." he said with a stern tone.

Before you could stop yourself, the question that had been poking at you in the back of your mind finally slipped free.

"Do you love me?"

You needed to know, and even if his answer destroyed you, at least you'd have some clarity. You immediately regretted asking, your stomach knotting as you watched his face.

That simple, almost instinctual movement- him avoiding your gaze, was noticeable. William didn't avoid eye contact though. Ever.

You stepped closer to him, closing the distance again, your body almost brushing his. "Look at me," you demanded, "Just… look at me and tell me that you don't feel something. Tell me you don't feel anything when we're like this. When you're with me." you told him. Then when he still didn't answer, you questioned, "You're supposed to yell at me. You're supposed to hurt me. That's what you do, right?" 

You grabbed his shirt, pressed your forehead against his chest.

"Why the hell aren't you doing anything...?"

Your hands were clenched into his shirt like you were trying to disappear into him. Like if you pressed hard enough, you'd find some version of him who could give you a real answer.

Then finally, quietly, he said it.

"I don't know."

You felt your throat burn before you realized you were crying. The tears soaked into the cotton of his shirt, right over his heart, if he even had one left to soak through. You hated how you leaned into him anyway. He let you cry. His arms stayed where they were, awkward but not cruel like they always were, as if unsure whether to hold you or let you come apart untouched. 

"I don't know," he repeated, almost under his breath, as if he was ashamed of it. "I look at you and I feel things I don't recognize. I feel things I thought I'd cut out years ago."  

It was the most honest thing he ever said to you.

"I could be doing so much more with my time, with everything that I've built... But I'm here, with you."

He didn't answer your question directly, but it was like he hinted at the answer you were hoping, looking for. 

His fingers moved again, brushing through your hair, knuckles dragging gently down your scalp. Then you felt his lips, barely there, pressed to the top of your head. Nothing more than a breath of contact. It made your throat tighten. It made you flinch like he'd struck you.

That single kiss felt like it carried every word he didn't know how to express or label, and it broke you completely. You sobbed into his chest like you were trying to hide the sound from the walls around you. He didn't say anything, but his breathing... Jesus, it was rough, like he was straining to keep it steady. Like your reaction was physically affecting him. 

You shifted, slowly dragging your head back from where it had rested on him. You looked up. Your face was red. Your eyes stung.

You kissed him.

And William kissed back, like a man who had been holding his breath for years and finally gave in to the need for air. All your pain, your fear, every fracture he'd carved into you — it didn't vanish, but it froze, suspended for this one awful, perfect second. His hands came up to you. One holding the side of your face, the other cradling the back of your head, threading into your hair like he needed to hold you there, keep you still, keep you his.

You didn't pull away until your lungs ached, and even then, it was only an inch. Your forehead stayed pressed to his, your noses brushing. And slowly, that pounding in your skull eased, not because the fear or grief had passed, but because you were tired of drowning in it.

You realized that you and William were similar, in some unexpected ways. William wanted immortality, because he was afraid of death. Death had always been a terrifying concept to you too, haunting you since childhood. You were terrified of dying and always dreamed of achieving immortality but it was never possible for you. William's experiments with remnant, as insane as they were, fascinated you. And the fact that he had injected you with it, wasting one of his syringes... Maybe it was to keep you alive in case you died. Did he care about you, deep down? The question repeated in your mind.

Your body was still shaking faintly. Nerves, trauma, whatever it was. You weren't crying anymore, but you felt like you could again, easy. You were always on the edge around him.

You whispered something so quiet you weren't even sure he heard it. "I think maybe that's why we understand each other... Because we both hate what we are. And we both keep going anyway." you said. "You're not the only one afraid of dying, you know."

There was no poetry in how you said it. No flowery metaphor. Just truth, like blood on tile.

His voice came low, kinda breathless. "Fear of death... is a natural instinct. It is what drives us to seek ways to extend our lives. We feel that fear so acutely that it consumes us. We know that every second is just ticking down to the moment when everything you are will simply, cease..." he explained. "That's why keeping you alive serves a purpose, too, because you understand that fear. And because I see in you the potential to grasp what I'm trying to achieve. We're not so different, you and I. We're obsessed with cheating death, driven by fear. That's what makes us the same," he whispered softly.

"... I didn't keep you alive out of kindness. There's no room for sentimentality here. But," he paused for another moment. "you're useful to me. I feel something for you... Something that keeps me tethered here when I should be collecting more bodies."

Without another word, William turned and left, the door closing behind him with a finality that left you alone with your thoughts. You felt like you were about to break down right now. You tried to hold back the tears that wanted to come again, tried to stay strong, but his words kept repeating in your head. 

Your knees felt weak. You sank to the cold floor, bare back against the wall. The lump in your throat grew, making it hard to breathe. You didn't want to cry once more, didn't want to give in to the manipulation you realized was happening, all over again. You knew he was an abuser, a manipulator, as he had broken you down, made you believe you needed him. Yet, he was right, you did understand him in a way no one else could. That realization made the tears finally fall. You wiped them away angrily, refusing to let him have that power over you. But it was hard.

You stared at the door, a symbol of free dom. It was a god, one that promised salvation but never opened its mouth to speak.

You could leave, but you knew you couldn't escape him, even if you wanted to.

Your souls were tangled, forever connected. 

Chapter Text

It felt like you were watching your life through a screen, slightly out of focus. You barely spoke for the next two days; the world had muffled itself. William didn't leave, but he didn't linger either. The days were thick constantly. His words, "I don't know," somehow felt more honest than any profession of love.

You hated how much you ached for him, how deeply you longed. 

You didn't handle rejection well. You never had. It was something you've never known how to cope with. You always needed to be needed, and now all you had was that one fucked-up middle answer.

You knew too much now. And none of it satisfied you anymore. It just made everything feel emptier. 

You wanted to stop feeling like a substitute for a man who had already died by time.

You wanted a name on his lips. Your name.

Not as a stand-in, not as a memory. But as yourself.

But all you had was silence. And your own hope, bleeding out slow, day by day.

Your lungs weren't taking in enough air, yet it wasn't panic. This was like your blood was running too fast, burning through you like acid. And when you pressed your hand to your chest, you could feel your heartbeat stuttering. Your pupils looked wrong, too: dilated, ringed with the strangest gray sheen, like you hadn't slept in days. But you had - you were sleeping too much, actually. 

You had to sit on the toilet just to breathe without passing out. 

You wrapped your fingers around the area William had injected with Remnant. You didn't remember it hurting this much before.

Maybe it was an infection? 

You pressed into the spot until you saw stars behind your eyes. You expected pus. Blood. Something. But nothing came out. Just that unbearable heat under the surface. 

But you didn't want to tell him. You didn't want to give him that satisfaction. The worst part was that you could feel it reacting. When he was in the same room with you, it got worse, rejecting Afton, like your own cells had learned what he was. The throbbing in your arm turned to stabbing. Sometimes your vision blurred at just the sound of his footsteps approaching the door.

You would feel nothing but the way your hand twitched violently in your lap, fingers curling and uncurling on their own, like your nerves were trying to flee. You were often scratching at the skin around the injection site, and your fingertips came away dark with dried blood more than once.

That word, "Remnant," still echoed like a curse in your head sometimes. It had sounded almost beautiful the first time he said it, like some sacred material that could rewrite what it meant to die.

You tried everything to stop the pain. Cold compresses. Ibuprofen. Even soaking it in the sink until your fingers went numb.

Nothing helped.

And yet, when you stepped outside for your shift at Freddy's, boarded the bus alone, it vanished like the symptoms had never been there to begin with. You felt like yourself again, or something close to it. But it came back every time you return ed home. 

Your thoughts were starting to warp, too, not just about him. About yourself.

You stood under the shower and scrubbed so hard at your arm untold your skin was irritated. You tried to throw up once, for real, thinking maybe you could force something out of your body. But nothing came up except a choking sound that made you double over.

You only realized how obvious it was when William stopped pretending not to notice.

The bedroom light was off when he came in, but the sound of the door closing behind him made your stomach turn colder. You were sitting on the edge of the bed with your legs pulled close, hunched over, arm cradled against your chest like it needed shielding. You had just gotten the bleeding to stop. A tissue laid balled on the nightstand like a piece of confession. You had been compulsively picking at the injection site because the pressure, heat, and muscle spasms from whatever was happening under the skin had grown unbearable, so much so that you were digging into the flesh around it, either consciously or during moments of disassociation. Your nerves were reacting violently, especially when William was near, and it had triggered this mix of desperation and self-mutilation. 

The floor creaked beneath his steps.

The silence dragged longer than it should have, as if he were giving you time to come up with a lie. Giving you the floor, the illusion of freedom. Time to squirm, to convince yourself that whatever excuse you cobbled together might be good enough to stand between you and whatever version of him had walked through that door. But deep down, you knew better. He wasn't granting you time; he was watching you waste it. 

You hadn't spoken yet because you didn't know what version of yourself you were supposed to present. And he hadn't spoken yet because he wanted to see which one you'd choose.

He closed the door behind him. You watched his silhouette move closer, but you couldn't look at him directly. 

"You've been hiding this from me," he then said, tone too flat to be called angry, but it wasn't calm either. It was that hard-edged voice he always used when he was being patient on purpose... Which, yeah, meant he wasn't. "You didn't tell me the injection site was reacting again. How long has it been hurting like this? You should have come to me the moment you felt the first symptom." 

You turned your face away from him, jaw locked tight. The muscles in your neck tensed as your gaze fixed stubbornly on the wall. You were holding your ground like a dog that had been beat too many times to flinch anymore. Because if you flinched, he'd win. If you turned toward him, it meant you were still hoping for comfort. 

William vent slightly, getting eye-level with you. He grabbdd your chin, forcing you to make eye contact with him.

"Say it." he said.

You shook your head, fast this time. "Please don't make me." 

"You gave up that privilege the moment you started carving yourself up in silence like some shameful little secret. I told you what would happen if you kept this from me." He released your chin, finally, but only so he could brush your hair back from your face. The gesture was disturbingly gentle, like a parent calming a hysterical child. "Now, go on."

You sighed.

It passed your lips like steam off a kettle left too long on the stove.

You forced the muscles in your face to relax. You couldn't look panicked, not now, not with his eyes pinned to yours like nails into soft flesh.

"I didn't think it was worth bothering you about," you said slowly, careful not to let your voice shaken. "It started feeling sore, but I figured it was just the weather. The cold's been messing with my joints lately.  And the scratching... look, that's not even because of this. I've got this... thing, always had it— Anxiety rash. You know how I get before shifts? I rub at stuff without realizing." 

"I've been having night terrors again, too, so I didn't want to burden you at night, especially consindering the fact you work late."

William's brow barely moved, but you knew better than to mistake his silence for acceptance. You couldn't tell if he was furious or entertained. Maybe both. 

"You're lying," he said, and the room dropped ten degrees.

You flinched.

"I know when you're lying. I taught you how to do it properly. So tell me," he said, "was that little speech for me, or for yourself?" 

He straightened up. "I've been patient. Watched you scratch that arm raw, while pretending you weren't bleeding through your shirts. And yet you want me to believe this is nothing more than nerves?" 

Your lips trembled before the apology ever made it to your mouth. "I'm sorry," and the moment the words came out, your body flinched like you had just said something dangerous. 

"I... I didn't want you to see how bad it was getting again. I thought if I ignored it long enough, it'd stop. You said before that Remnant would interact with my biology differently depending on my state, so I assumed... I don't know, maybe the heat or the muscle spasms were just part of that."

The pain in your arm suddenly kicked up again. You clutched at it, hissing between your teeth as your fingers found the tender skin. It was like the Remnant itself was reacting to your guilt. 

"I wasn't trying to hide it to manipulate you or— or sabotage anything. I swear. I just panicked!" you said in a rush, voice cracking. 

"I see," he said. "So, instead of informing me, you chose to spiral. You decided that your emotional discomfort was more important than the very real risk of cellular rejection and neurological degradation. That is, in essence, what you're telling me." 

"No, I'm just basing it on what happened last time," you said. "It healed, didn't it?"

"It didn't heal on its own. It healed because I was watching you. Because I checked the site every morning and made sure your circulation wasn't being compromised. I kept the bandages from rubbing against the site and adjusted your shirts so nothing would aggravate the skin." he said. 

You didn't respond this time. There wasn't anything to say that wouldn't be turned against you, dissected and pulled apart. 

Then, he commanded, "Take off your shirt."

You pulled the shirt over your head with stiff arms. You dropped it onto the floor in a heap without looking back up. His fingers ghosted over your forearm first, and then he took your wrist in hand, holding your arm to expose the damage fully. His fingers avoided the direct wound at first, touching everywhere but, as if confirming what was still intact before addressing what wasn't. Now he was tracing just beside the broken skin. "You were trying to reach something. Tell me," he said. "What are you feeling right now." 

"I feel like I'm splitting in two." 

"What do you mean by 'splitting'?" 

"Like, I'm not just me anymore. I don't know how to explain it. More accurately, I feel like two souls are trying to fight for space. Something else is clawing its way through my skin, and now it's reacting to you."

He was silent, lost in thought for a while. You watched him like a bug, waiting for him to finally speak. You weren't sure which answer would satisfy him, and you were terrified of what might happen if he didn't like what he found.

He then settled down beside you, as if he was about to share a secret.

Then, he spoke. "... I actually injected you with synthetic Remnant. That version is missing the full spiritual and consciousness component that natural Remnant would have, which is typically gathered from molten metal. I worked with what I had, just enough to try and replicate it artificially, at least until I can get my hands on the real thing and its properties. Traces of two... very distinct sources, which, in the end, formed something new for you. A form of Remnant that is unpredictable, and specifically unique to you, who received it."

"One source belonged to my son, Evan. His Agony came from his tears that had haunted his Fredbear plush. Cassidy's... hers was blood. Anger. Vengeance. Her soul refuses to rest unless I suffer, and his can't even have the chance to let go." he told you. "Agony itself haunts objects, clings to environments. But when it's paired with intent, with memory, identity, it becomes something else. You were the vessel where they met. When that energy is given a physical tether, like a host... it doesn't fade."

"The bulk of their spirits remained in the endoskeleton of Fredbear. You're not possessed, you are... tainted. A small fraction remains. I'd describe it like radiation after an explosion. Still deadly in small enough doses."

"It's like cancer; certainly not enough to overtake you fully, but enough to root into your nervous system. Hostile cells rewriting your own. So when your body is under stress, when I'm near, it reacted, because the Remnant has now recognized me."

You stared at him like he had grown a second face. 

"Then what the hell am I supposed to do now?" you snapped. Your voice cracked mid-sentence. "Sit here and rot while it eats me alive, but doesn't kill me? Hope it doesn't make me cut my own goddamn arm off in my sleep?" 

"Nothing," he said. "Let it run its course. Let me manage it. I don't know what triggered this yet, but pushing against it will only worsen the reaction. Guiding it—" He laughed under his breath, "That is where the discovery is. It's living Agony threaded through conscious material! It's evolving with you. Don't you see how valuable this is?" 

You stared at him, stunned, but he was already kinda energized like he'd just cracked open a new theory. You felt like he had just handed you your own death sentence and told you to make peace with it.

Your legs curled beneath you instinctively. You folded in on yourself slightly like a dying animal. Your body convulsed as you started hyperventilating, your lungs refusing to cooperate. You rocked forward and back. The sound coming from you was the sound of grief, deep and inconsolable, like you'd lost someone you loved violently and you had no words for the hole it left behind.

Maybe it was your own body. Maybe it was your sense of self. Maybe it was everything.

William said nothing in response. Just let you lean into him, let your breathing trip and stumble into his shoulder as your body came undone. 

The way your tears soaked through the stiff fabric of his dress shirt made you want to apologize again. But he beat you to it.

"... I'll adjust the pH balance around the site, slow down the reaction until it stabilizes, so Remnant just needs time to recalibrate. It'll learn to accept my proximity again. Avoiding me will only confuse the reaction."

There was something dark in how he said that. This wasn't treatment, but training. Like he was teaching your body to stop flinching from the hand that fed it poison. You nodded, because what else could you do? You were exhausted. Shaking. Filthy in a way that no water could ever scrub clean.

You sniffed, lips curling into something bitter. "You mean until it starts liking you again."

"Precisely."

You sighed.

"Rely on what I told you. Don't give it more reasons to reject me."Precisely

Your throat tightened. "You're going back to work, aren't you?" 

He nodded once, standing up and already reaching for his watch on the dresser.

"What if I need you while you're gone?" 

"Then you'll wait."Precisely he said, not unkindly, but without softness.

And that was it. 

You looked at the empty space where he'd just been. The pain in your arm flared again, but you didn't reach for it. You pressed your forehead to your knees and tried to focus on the sound of the ticking clock.

Every breath burned a little. Every inch of your skin felt like it didn't quite belong to you. There was this pressure inside your skull, swelling, pressing hard against your temples like it wanted to burst through.

But despite everything, you continued letting him tend to you. 

And, at some point, the "fever" had broken.

He started with the usual normal treatment, some kind of salve he had formulated himself. It sounded like bullshit until it worked. He also monitored you obsessively during the process & logged everything in his notebook.

"Your cells are still reacting to me," he said once during your treatment. "So I'll give them more of me. Flood the response until it stops seeing me as a threat." 

He forced your nervous system into submission. The truth was, his "guidance" didn't really work. It simply overwhelmed your system, until the Remnant stopped fighting, and so did you.

You didn't realize it was over until you stepped out of the shower and noticed your fingers weren't trembling even if he was nearby. 

The Remnant had stabilized, again. 

When you finally managed to sit up without nausea, you were relieved. 

But you still felt awful. 

You didn't realize you were staring. Not at anything in particular, just straight ahead, very unfocused. Your body was here, seated at the table, muscles sore yet stitched together with thin threads of survival instinct. But your head was somewhere else entirely.

You felt hollow and numb. Or maybe not; that would have been merciful. Maybe the opposite- you were so full of noise and tension and disgust and ache that you could hardly tell the difference anymore. You weren't sure if you were seconds from crying or seconds from laughing. Letting out that sick kind of laugh that people let out just before they go completely manic. You didn't know who you were anymore outside of how William touched you. He filled the spaces of your life so thoroughly that the shape of your own existence had warped around him. You were a shell, but a shell still capable of craving.

You wanted the version of him that held you afterward. You wanted that man, even though he didn't exist. You'd imagined him. Built him out of scraps and pieces and small gestures that meant nothing. And now you clung to that figment like it was your only fucking lifeline.

The rent had hit hard this month, and with your shifts cut short because of some electrical issue at the pizzeria yet again, you were only left to wasting your savings even more. 

Across from you, William sat in his usual chair, in a way like he never quite learned how to relax in another man's home. His sleeves were rolled up, arms scarred, veins prominent. 

Suddenly, you pushed your chair back without a word and stood. It screeched against the floor: loud, grating, enough to make his eyes flick up. You forced yourself upright, your palms flat on the table. 

"You think I don't see what you’re doing?" Your voice cracked, "You talked to me like you've already got me gutted and dissected, like I'm just some test case you keep around for fun. You wormed your way into my head, into my life, until there wasn't anything left that didn't have your fingerprints on it."

He set his fork down. Wiped his mouth with the edge of a napkin.

Then, without emotion, like he was discussing weather patterns, "You're sensitive lately." 

"And it is all your fault. You've been whispering in my head for days, and the tending you provided didn't help," you muttered. "Even when you're quiet, it's... still there." 

"I've done nothing of the sort." He gestured vaguely, nonchalantly. "You're unraveling all on your own. Outbursts are symptoms," he said, as if reading off a diagnosis sheet. "Pressure with nowhere to go. Poor coping mechanisms. And I've noticed the insomnia," he continued, "I'd be concerned if I didn't already know the root."

You stared at him in silence, shaking. 

"Sit down and relax for me."

The moment lingered, stretched. And like a fucking coward, you sat. Legs trembling, ass hitting the chair like you didn't even have control over it. You hated him. And worse, you hated how easily he could make your spine go soft with just a tone. You've already been in a vulnerable headspace, and now, all you wanted was William's approval, even if it meant being remade. That's the seed. Your submission was drenched in dread-tinged arousal.

He paused to sip from his glass. Then, casual as breathing, "I've been thinking," he said, "maybe it is time for the final procedure." 

He didn't elaborate. Just let the words hang between you like a noose swaying.

Your fingers dug into your thighs. "What does that mean?" you then asked. 

He tilted his head. "Curious little virus... You're smarter than that. I don't think I need to spell it out for you."

You sat there with your shoulders caved slightly inward like your body wanted to disappear inside itself, like it was ashamed of even existing. You were split in two- half of you thinking this was the part where you leave, stand up, make a choice for yourself. The other half was louder. That part wanted to be his again. Pretty. Something he could mold. 

You were exhausted with the pain, but worse than that, worse than the sleepless nights and phantom touches, was the fact that even now, after all the ways he'd broken you, you still wanted him to fix you. Like if he dug deep enough into your flesh, maybe he'd find something inside worth salvaging. Maybe he'd reshape you fully into something that didn't ache every time it was touched. 

You wanted him to fill the hollow spaces he made in you. To own the ruins.

You wanted to be remade in his image.

You lifted your head.

"…Then do it," you said. "Whatever it is you think'll fix me. If you really believe I'm that far gone, then stop dragging it out. Just… do it."

William's eyes didn't glitter; they gleamed with delight. Sadistic pleasure shown in them, like he had been waiting for this moment, this exact brand of ruin, and now that it was here, he could finally breathe. "So eager," he murmured, "So easy to shape. I was starting to wonder I had dulled the edge too much. But no… here you are." He leaned back in his chair like this was a casual conversation, like he wasn’t talking about rearranging your psyche from the inside out. "Now, let's make this simple, since you need instructions like my pet... Get on your knees, Doll."

You didn't hesitate. Your knees hit the kitchen tile. Hard.

He then stood up from the chair and stepped in front of you, one polished shoe between your thighs. His fingers hooked into his belt, but he didn't unbuckle it. 

He continued. "You're going to beg me. I want to hear desperation so real it sounds like prayer. I want to hear you spit your pride on the floor. I want you to know how disgusting you sound... and do it anyway."

You blinked fast, chest rising and falling.

"Please," you started, breath hitching, "please, I can't fucking take it anymore. I need you to tear it all out. Rip whatever's human in me to pieces and remake it with your hands. I'll do anything, I'll crawl for it, I'll take whatever you give me, I'll bite down on my own tongue if it means you'll keep going. I want to forget how to be anything but what you want. Just—please. Finish what you started. Make me stop hurting. Make me something you can use."

He tilted your face with his hand like he was inspecting meat at a butcher counter. His eyes gleamed, disgustingly proud.

"Such a good boy. What am I supposed to do with you...?"

Your spine snapped straight like a marionette on strings. The floor underneath you might as well have vanished.

His shoe nudged forward. The polished leather pressed up against your groin and rocked. Just once. Your hips jolted despite yourself, a reflexive twitch. He didn't even need to add pressure. The heat there was already unbearable. 

Then he offered it like it was dessert.

"Pills... or restraints?" 

You didn't hesitate. "Yes to both."

That surprised him. His brow lifted. His smirk widened slightly.

"Of course," he murmured. "Glutton. You have a hunger for extremes."

His fingers then moved, the tips pressing against your lips. You didn't get a warning; you just felt them slide between your lips, prying your mouth open. Your pupils were blown wide, staring up at him like some pathetic, eyes begging for touch, for pain. He twisted his hand just a little, curling his fingers to rake across your tongue like he was checking the texture of raw meat. Your tongue refused to lie still. It pushed back against his fingers, writhing, lapping, eager. It dragged across the calloused pads, tasting them. You sucked on him without being told, spit gathering in messy strings across your bottom lip. Every flex of your throat earned nothing from him but observation. You couldn't tell if he was impressed or just studying how much you could take before choking again.

Your breathing grew heavier, each inhale shorter and more desperate than the last. 

Then his free hand moved, digging into the pocket of his slacks, and pulled out a small glass vial. The sedative. 

He had one prepared. 

You moaned around his fingers, not from pain, but from that disgusting bloom of gratitude in your chest. Because this meant he was going to do it. He was going to fix you.

When he pulled his fingers from your mouth, a trail of spit followed, drooling freely down your chin and catching on your collarbone. 

William uncapped the vial and fished the tablet from inside with his thumb and forefinger. "Open," he said simply. And you did.

He slipped the pill past your tongue, pressed it down gently. You didn't even need to swallow; it slipped straight down your throat with the thick mess of saliva he already worked from you. 

Your chest heaved like you ran a mile on a broken leg.

He let your body absorb the drug and your shame in equal measure.

Your body rocked once, your spine unable to hold your weight, and then... 

Darkness folded over you, slow and complete.

Your brain floated in syrup. That was the first thing you registered. Just the sluggish, sticky glide of thought, like your skull had been stuffed full of cotton soaked in something too sweet. You felt weight on your body, though; like the entire world has been stacked on your chest, pressing down hard enough that your ribs didn't know whether to crack or simply give up.

Your eyelids feel stapled shut. When they finally peeled open, they did so with a sticky sort of resistance, the kind that made your lashes clump and your vision blur at the edges. 

You were almost naked, stripped down to your underwear. Your wrists were bound with leather, maybe, but you couldn't tell for sure. Ankles too, spread wide and fastened to the legs of the chair. The collar around your neck was the worst. Thick, high, bolted straight into the back of the chair like a brace. It forced your head forward just enough that you could see down your own torso, but not enough to see behind or to the sides. 

You were high.

Your bloodstream was full of warmth. The terror hadn't caught up to you, just the disjointed haze of realization.

You weren't sure if you were drooling or just couldn't remember how to close your mouth.

Then, steps. They didn't echo much; the floor was intentionally built to swallow sound. Left side. Your ear caught the sound before your eyes could process. William stepped into your frame of vision like he owned it, because he did.

He was wearing a white coat like this was a preformance. His hair, normally a little unkempt, was slicked back and perfect, controlled. 

The table beside him gleamed. His fingers moved next over the surgical tools laid out with exacting symmetry. He ran a hand slowly along the edge of each item like he was reacquainting himself with old friends. Then he reached for the camcorder instead. 

He clicked it on and a small red light flickered to life.

His voice, when it came, was even. Unfeeling.

"Subject is a biologically male adult, age twenty-seven. No notable chronic medical conditions beyond stress-induced insomnia and minor nutritional deficiencies. Physical trauma present— see: lacerations on upper left thigh, scars on the upper torso and abdomen. Healing noted, though scar tissue is expected. Response to sedation: favorable. Pupil dilation suggests arousal or fear response. It's difficult to isolate the difference in this case, given the Subject's increasing inability to distinguish pain from excitement."

You could barely follow the words because your pulse was thudding too loud in your ears, but you caught fragments. The way he referred to you like you weren't there consciously.

"Subject's libido remains intact despite emotional degradation. Fascinating correlation between shame and stimulus response. Subject also vocalized desire for surgical intervention— in his own words, quote: 'rip whatever's human in me to pieces and remake it with your hands.'"

He paused. Adjusted the camera.

"I intend to pursue a pseudo-lobotomy procedure, primarily targeting emotional response centers while preserving basic function, motor skills, and memory retention where relevant." 

You twitch. Try to move. Try to say something.

But he sees it.

Oh, he sees it.

"Awake, are we?" he murmurs.

He set the camcorder on a tripod, perfectly aligned, angled to catch your face. He smiled.

He stepped into the frame, glancing toward the lens only once before approaching you fully. William's hand drifted to the tray beside you, the motion too quiet to track with your blurry gaze. 

The next thing you knew, he was bringing a black sharpie to your head. "Right about… here," he said, drawing a slow curve on the side of your head. "So needy. If I rewired this, you'd cum when I told you to. The skull is thinner here, easier access to the prefrontal cortex, just under the bone. I'll scrape away the parts that resist."

He came into your view again, gaze steady.

"You are messy. Emotional. Burdened by grief, rage and longing. You are, as all men are, the sum of every external wound they pretend doesn't bleed. But I see them. All of them. And I intend to treat them." he told you. "You will become peace, silence. My perfect little anomaly. You're a special, one-of-a-kind oddity, strange yet utterly precious to me." 

You felt your throat tighten. You hated how good it felt to be spoken to like that.

You were entirely convinced you were being prepped for actual brain surgery now. 

"Of course," he murmured. "We'll start simple... We'll shave the head. Apply local anesthetic. Make the first incision. Then we'll peel back the layers and see what's underneath."

He leaned in, close to your ear.

"Stay very still, sweetheart. You wouldn't want me to slip. I speak, and you obey. Shiver and you surrender. I own the code of your body. I want to be the last thing your mind clings to as it dissolves."

He picked up the razor.

"Normally," he began, "this would be the nurse's task. Prep, shave, antiseptic swab. But I don't allow just anyone to touch my specimens."

William worked in silence. He parted what remained with a fine-toothed comb, brushing hair aside like he was prepping a corpse for burial. Then, a small patch- gone. The hair fell into your lap.

"Now, I shall repeat: hold still. Any twitch from you will force me to repeat the entire antiseptic process. And I hate inefficiency. After this, you will be ready for reprogramming."

You then felt a needle's punch. The anesthetic stung for all of a second before numbness bled outward under your scalp.

You twitched anyway. The collar didn't like that. Suddenly, a mechanism shot down: two clamps biting at your nipples. Your eyes flew wide as you let out a surprised shriek. Your dick responded, half-hard now, twitching like it was excited to be punished. It strained against the thin cotton of your boxers, the damp patch spreading where precum had already soaked through.

You were panting like an animal.

You've never felt so feral-induced in your life. 

Meanwhile, he was reaching for the scalpel, until the sound caught him - your sharp intake of breath. He was paused mid-air like a thought interrupted. His eyes flicked down. Then, he set the scalpel down.

"Well, would you look at that."

He knelt in front of you slowly, joints cracking as he settled between your splayed legs like a reverent act. One tug at the waistband and your boxers slid down to your ankles, limp against your skin, useless fabric forgotten like shame. You felt the room get colder against your now-exposed skin. You could feel yourself pulse in the air.

"Look at this thing." His fingers wrapped around the base. "The pathetic drip of someone who doesn't know how to function without a master. You're hard from my voice alone now, aren't you?" 

He cursed under his breath, then brought his face closer.

He pressed a finger under your cockhead, rubbing the drool of precum into your slit. Enough to make your breath catch, to make your hole clench on reflex. It was vile how much you felt from just that, how your muscles drew tight like they were ready to betray you.

The collar sensed the spike in your heart rate, in your arousal, and the punishment was instant: a vicious zap at your nipples, another at your inner thighs. Your entire body arched as the electricity spread outward in all directions. You screamed. And your cock, fucking traitorous, goddamn thing... twitched against your stomach like it was being fed by the agony.

His breathing was heavier now, not quite labored, but deeper. You could hear the way he inhaled, slow and controlled, then let it out through his nose, as if restraining something. He leaned in again. Pressed a soft kiss right on the tip like a mockery. Then licked the small hole, slow and deep, tongue pushing against it like he wanted to tongue-fuck your cockhead itself.

Your mouth droped open in a perfect little 'O' as your breath caught in your throat.

The collar flared again, this time stronger. A whine tore itself from your throat before you could even form a real sound.

You wanted to say something. Through the drugs, the pain, the nausea of being touched exactly where you couldn't handle it.

"W—William," you panted, your voice slurred. "Please... I need you, fuck..." You bucked your hips instinctively, but the bindings didn't let you move.

He didn't answer you. Just lowered his head and wrapped his mouth around your cock like it was a problem he intended to solve with his tongue alone.

You gasped loudly. Your legs tried to twitch, but the restraints didn't allow the satisfaction of movement.

His hands slid up, gripping your hips, holding you in place as he took you all the way in, his throat tightening around you briefly before pulling back, lips dragging along your length. You desperately wanted to thread your fingers into his graying hair, feel his coarse strands and notice the contrast - his mouth being nothing but hot, wet silk.

He was enjoying it, too. You could see it, clear and sharp despite your haze. 

You could feel years of experience in the way he moved, in the way he adjusted his jaw, in the way his tongue pressed into just the right spots. His thick eyebrows furrowed slightly as he focused, his hollowed cheeks emphasizing the sharp lines of his face. His fingers tightened their hold until it felt like he was trying to mold bruises into your fucking bones.

He milked tension from it. 

He kept going until you felt the air tighten in your lungs, and your eyes rolled hard enough to blur the ceiling. There was no point pretending you were anything but caught in it, hooked, shaking, practically drooling from every edge of sensation he layered into your skin. The collar and clamps triggered multiple times over and over.

It was painful, devastating, yet euphoric at the same time rolled into one. 

William then pulled back, spit trailing from his lips to your cock like glue. Your lungs heaved like they were being crushed from the inside out, still drunk on your overwhelming emotions. He stood up in a single motion.

You didn't have long to process; a sharp click came behind you. Every binding snapped loose. Wrists, ankles, the choking grip of the collar... all of it. Gone.

Relief never had a chance to land.

Because then his hand was on your throat, yanking you forward by it, dragging your limp, overstimulated body from the chair like it weighed nothing. The second your feet hit the floor, you were shoved. Your torso slammed down over the metal table that was positioned next to you. You groaned. It was cold against your skin, biting into your hipbones. You tried to catch yourself, but his palm flattened against the back of your neck, pinning you. 

He stepped behind you, feet bracketing yours. You didn't know when he freed himself, but you felt his cock slap against the cleft of your ass. You could exactly feel how much he missed you. You jolted as he spat down directly onto your hole, dehumanizing. But you were already so far gone your body clenched just from that.

The pill hadn't worn off yet, not entirely, and the anesthetic on your temple made it feel like half your head didn't belong to you. But you still knew what you wanted from the beginning. 

Him. 

You heard the soft click of the tripod shifting. He was adjusting the camera.

"Need to capture this part," he muttered. "We're well past the threshold now. Post-operative compliance test… sexual stress calibration."

His hands gripped your ass, thumbs prying just enough to expose you fully. The contact dragged a cry from your throat- half shock, half filthy need.

He pushed in the head, just a fraction, and your knees buckled even with the support of the table. Letting your skin memorize the shape of him. Your hole tried to resist the size, clenching hard around the pressure, but he didn't wait for it to ease. He pressed deeper, hips tilting, his breath rattling out through his nose like he was trying not to lose it too fast. 

"So tight," he breathed. "I'd say you were a virgin again, but even virgins don't suck cock through their ass the way you do. You're about to be filled with something even your rewired brain won't ever forget." 

You keened at the words. 

Just a breath of pressure, then a brutal stretch as his cock slid deep, inch after inch, stuffing into you. 

It was horrible how much that did to you. That shared, awful sound of relief that crawled out of both your chests together like something involuntary. It was like coming home to something you'd been forced to forget. It was the type of relief it felt like it had been killing him not to be here.

It had been such a long time. You couldn't tell anymore. Time bent around William like it was afraid of him. That emptiness shrieked to be filled. And now he was finally answering it.

Your bodies weren't separate anymore. This was the only state you were ever meant to exist in. 

He ground up against you until his pelvis kissed the meat of your ass and your hole clung to him like it was trying to swallow him whole. You felt every inch split you, no condom, no preparation beyond his spit and your pathetic eagerness. 

"I've been hard since the moment I saw you drop to your knees. Since you begged me to fix you. And now look at you. Slack-jawed, leaking, legs trembling and still waiting for me to ruin you."

You babbled some useless noise. Words were mud in your mouth. All you could feel was how deep he was. How full. The stretch burned in that addicting way that made your spine tremble. His cock punched your guts again and again, and your moans spilled out. Your legs shook violently when his cock nailed & bullied your prostate. He shifted behind you, gripping both your arms and yanking them behind your back, holding your wrists together in one of his large hands like he was restraining a prisoner mid-interrogation. 

Your ass was tilted up just right, the perfect angle for him to bury himself balls-deep every time, slam right right to the root. His thrusts were erratic, like instinct had now taken over and all that was left was the need to fuck, to own, to mark. 

"No more thinking. No more fear. Just obedience...for me... All for me. Don't forget that."

He was still ramming into you, like he was trying to pound his words into your brain through your spine.

"You're mine to calibrate. My stress relief. My perfect pet. This is therapy, my dear. I'm relieving your stress. Mine too..." 

He pressed his legs to yours, pinning you in place, grinding so deep you swore your guts rearranged around him. 

"Aaah...!" your noises spilled from you, sticky and slurred, helpless little mewls like you'd forgotten what language was.

You were burning, all over, but nothing hurt, not really. It was just pressure. Sweet pressure building and building behind your navel. 

The next moment, your arms were released. Your wrists fell limp. You barely had time to understand why, before he grabbed your jaw. Fingers clamping. Wrenching your face up and toward the camera, just enough so your dazed face could be caught on film.

"That's the look," he breathed against your ear. "That fucked-out stare. Say it, pretty thing. Say something for the tape. Show them what kind of filthy little degenerate you really are. If you can't speak clearly, maybe we did slice a bit too much."

You tried your best.

"I—I love the way you ruin me," you slurred, your words dissolving. "You fuh-fuck me like I'm just meat. I don't wanna think anymore… I want to be full, want you to keep me—ahh!—keep me full of you…" 

He suddenly hauled you upright, his hand under your chest. Your back arched as your spine met his chest, skin on clothes. You collapsed into him. His hand gripped your jaw, dragging your head back until your neck strained. Your legs were trembling too hard to hold weight, but it didn't matter. 

He caught your mouth in a kiss with a force that made your teeth knock, and you moaned into him. The taste of him was nicotine-stained like usual, and something else, like biting a gun barrel that still remembered how it had been used. You met every twist of his tongue with your own. You wanted him lodged in your throat, your lungs, your blood stream. 

You gasped. He groaned, like the sound you made satisfied something dark in him. He broke the kiss only when your lungs started spasming, not for mercy, but because your lips had gone slack and he was bored of waiting for you to come back into it.

You felt his hand then sneaking up your chest to paw at your nipples again. The clamps had been ripped away at some point, but the ghost of them throbbed, and his fingers rubbing the bruised peaks made your entire body jerk in protest.

You couldn't hold back anymore. It was a seizure, soul-emptying, body-jerking. You clenched down so tight like a fist, and it felt like it was trying to strangle him from the inside. You cried out, and your voice cracked open like your body had forgotten what control even meant. It felt like your body had never learned to finish before, and now it was trying to make up for years of silence.

The effect on him was instant.

His thrusts stayed hard but in consistent, yet full-bodied, all of his weight thrown behind it. He was getting close.

"This is how you make me feel. Like something rabid." He bit down on your shoulder, teeth dragging across the muscle.

He slammed deep. You felt him throb hard inside you, that heat flooding through in thick pulses. You heard the rush of his breath catching, stalling, then breaking into harsh panting and a soft grunt as he kept twitching inside you. Every pulse of his cock painted your guts as he finished.

His head dropped against your back, his breath heaving through his nose, hands sliding down your sides to cradle your body even as his cock stayed seated deep. 

Then, almost too quiet to hear, he muttered:

"…mine…" more emotion in it than you had ever heard. 

It sounded more like disbelief, like he still couldn't believe you let him do it.

Then slowly, he pulled out.

You whimpered from the loss of him. Your body shuddered, and you didn't realize how much tension was still trapped in your muscles until they gave out.

He turned to the camera. Clicked it off.

"…Session complete," he whispered, breathless. "Now, let's see which wires still need rerouting for tomorrow. If I get it right, you won't even remember your own name— only mine."

Art timeee

1. Springtrap :) 

2. Drew William and me… again. I'm still the secret, of course, but I had to show him off because I like how he turned out.