Chapter Text
A dull hum echoed softly through the stale air, accompanied by the faint flicker of fluorescent lights hanging overhead. The scent of dust and sterilized floor polish lingered like an afterthought, clinging to the sterile atmosphere of the room. The classroom was pristine in a way that felt... unnatural. The desks were too clean. The blackboard held no chalk marks. The windows were shut, blinds drawn, the sunlight reduced to golden slivers slicing through the silence.
Then—
A slow, ragged breath.
William Afton stirred.
His eyelids fluttered open with a groan, the purple of his suit darkened with creases and dust. He pushed himself up from the cold tile floor, palm brushing against the waxed surface. His head pounded dully behind his eyes like someone had tried to cram too many memories into a space that didn’t belong to them.
Where was he?
He took in the room with quick glances—twenty desks, classic layout, a long blackboard, a teacher’s podium. It was a school. No... more than that. He recognized it vaguely. A logo on the wall, gold and bold: Hope’s Peak Academy.
Afton’s lips curled.
“Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time…” he muttered. His voice was dry like a worn vinyl scratch—rough, cold, and chilling in its calm. He pulled himself up, brushing off the dust from his slacks, adjusting his tie, and straightening the lapel of his suit like it mattered. Always keep the appearance. Always stay sharp.
He realized he had a nametag on him which read, 'William Afton - Ultimate Animatronic Engineer'
There were other noises now. Shuffling. A soft hiss of motion behind him.
He wasn’t alone.
From the far corner of the classroom, a figure moved. A lanky, pale man with impossibly large teeth, sharp red eyes, and a crooked grin like a cut in the fabric of reality. The static of a radio signal buzzed faintly around him, like the room couldn’t decide what frequency he existed on.
He stood with that ever-present smile, dusting off his red pinstripe suit as though he’d just awoken from a pleasant nap, rather than a potential abduction.
“Well now,” Alastor chirped, his voice warbling like a 1940s broadcast, “this is quite the surprise! I was promised torment and chaos—not school desks."
“Better than a prison cell,” William replied coolly.
“Is it?” Alastor chuckled. “Time will tell. My name is Alastor The Radio Demon. However, the nametag apparently labels me as, 'The Ultimate Radio Host'.”
A heavy bang cut through their exchange—the classroom door slamming open like it had been kicked in. And indeed, it had.
An old man stormed in, eyes darting around like a caged animal, fists clenched. Dirty jeans, a stained white shirt, fury coiled around his stance like a predator ready to spring.
“Where the fuck am I?! Who drugged me?! HUH?!” he bellowed, spit flying. He looked at the two standing figures with immediate suspicion.
William held his ground. “Relax. We’re all in the same boat.”
The man sneered. “I hate boats.” He scanned them with narrowed eyes, then muttered, “You two better not be government. The name's Trevor Philips....Why the fuck does it say I'm the Ultimate Anarchist?.....Actually, that makes sense.”
Alastor’s laugh was light, melodic, and deeply unsettling. “I assure you, sir, I’m far worse.”
“Fuckin’ great.” Trevor rubbed at his temples. “This a psych ward or something?”
Before anyone could respond, another voice cut in. Low, composed, filled with a creeping sense of self-importance.
“I would suggest you refrain from shouting. It disrupts the sanctity of order.”
They turned to see the fourth figure. another old man but this one looked different as his hands behind his back, his judge’s robes surprisingly intact. His eyes—narrowed and condemning—swept across each of them with barely concealed disgust.
“Four sinners in a classroom. Poetic,” he said coldly. “Though I doubt this is the Lord’s punishment. No... this is man-made. Some trickery. Some trial.”
Trevor flipped him off without hesitation. "And who the fuck are you?"
"My name is Claude Frollo, The Ultimate Inquisitor. You best remember it boy."
William took a step forward, voice calm. “We’re missing context. No one remembers arriving. That alone is concerning. And this place... it’s too clean. Too staged. Like a set piece.”
“Then we’re being watched?” Frollo asked, frowning.
Alastor clapped his hands once. “Oh, splendid! A captive audience, perhaps?” He twirled in place, looking toward the corners of the ceiling. “Where are the cameras? Where’s the applause?”
Trevor kicked over a desk. “This better not be some Truman Show bull—”
“Gentlemen,” William said firmly, stepping forward. The others quieted—if only for a moment. “If someone’s orchestrated this, if we’ve been brought here... we need answers. We need to find out how many others are here and who exactly invited us.”
Frollo's hand tightened into a fist. “Whatever blasphemous force has gathered us… they will answer to judgment.”
“Hope’s Peak Academy,” Alastor mused, tapping his chin. “Now where have I heard that name before…?”
William didn’t answer. He already had his suspicions.
And as the first warning bell rang throughout the hallways—an old, echoing ding-dong that sounded far too rehearsed—he felt it in his gut.
This wasn’t a school. It was a stage.
And the show hadn’t even started yet.