Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

Chapter Text

ACT 1

PART 1

"There."

You slammed the last box down onto the kitchen table and looked around the new house. Stretching your back, you wandered over to the window, where the sun blazed down mercilessly. Deciding to move to Hurricane, Utah, for a fresh start, you’d brought your eight-year-old brother, James, along. He tugged at your shirt, his face flushed, eyes wide with that familiar mix of excitement and impatience that always made you smile.

"Amy, can we go outside? It's too hot!" he pleaded, bouncing on his toes.

Ever since the move, he’d been restless. You crouched to meet his eye level, offering a reassuring smile.

"James, we have to unpack first. I promise, once we're done, we can walk around town."

He groaned, flopping onto the floor and picking at his shoelaces. "That's not fair! I want to go now!"

Stepping outside, you shaded your eyes from the glaring sun and checked that the last of the boxes had been brought in. When you re-entered, you found James slumped in a defeated heap. You sighed and glanced at a framed photo sitting atop a box. It showed your old home, your family smiling together. The sight twisted your heart, and you carefully set it back down.

"I don't get it," James muttered. "We're in a new town, so why can't we go?"

Sighing again, you gave in. "Alright, alright. We'll go for a walk. But first, sunscreen. I don't want you getting burned."

He grinned, his whole face lighting up, and lunged at you for a tight hug.

"Thanks, Amy!"

You chuckled as he ransacked the bag of creams on the coffee table. Grabbing a bottle, he squeezed hard, slathering most of it all over his face. You laughed.

"Honestly! Come here, you goof."

Wiping off the excess, you dabbed some sunscreen onto your own face. After gearing up, you both headed outside, gazing around the neighborhood. Some lawns were pristine, others scruffier. As you wandered deeper into town, a gleaming purple car—a Chrysler New Yorker—caught your eye, parked neatly in front of a house. The wheels shone, the paint was immaculate, and the windows were spotless. It was unusual to see a purple car, and you couldn't help but stare.

"Amy, look! That car's so cool!" James exclaimed, pointing.

"Yeah, it is," you mused. "I wonder who owns it."

"I hope you get a cool car like that!" James said, running ahead.

You sighed wistfully, knowing it wasn't likely anytime soon.

Passing more houses, the streets around you widened, forming a small town center. Flyers taped to shop windows advertised a new place called Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, featuring four cartoon mascots: a bear, a rabbit, a chicken, and a fox.

"Amy, look!" James tugged your sleeve again, pointing excitedly.

Ahead stood a different building — Freddy Fazbear’s Family Diner — though this one only had two mascots: a yellow bear and a yellow rabbit. A crowd bustled inside, kids rushing toward an arcade area.

Crossing the road carefully, you both entered. A wall of smells hit you immediately — the acrid tang of cheap cheese, the greasy staleness of pizza, mixed with sticky-sweet cotton candy. Laughter and arcade machine beeps blended into a chaotic roar.

"Chaos," you thought grimly.

"Amy, look at those games!" James shouted. "Can I have a turn? Please?"

You handed him some change. "Go on, then."

You smiled as you watched him. He quickly beat a few game levels, other kids gathering around, impressed.

But the cheerful atmosphere broke when shrill sobs cut through the noise.

"No! Please, no!"

You spun around. An older boy was dragging a smaller child toward the animatronic stage. The younger boy sobbed, cheeks tear-streaked, thrashing in his captor's grip.

The older boy hoisted him toward the mechanical bear’s face.

"Haha! Look, here he is! Come on, Evan. Say something," the older boy jeered, his laughter slicing through the room.

The diner began to quiet. Parents and kids watched with growing unease.

Disgust knotted in your stomach.

A sharp, commanding voice broke through the tension:

"Put Evan down. Now."

An older man — almost the mirror image of the teenager — emerged from a side door, voice low and simmering with anger. The boy, Michael, paled instantly and released the younger child. Evan stumbled away, sobbing.

"Father, we were just messing around! I didn’t mean—"

"Enough," the man growled. "You're disturbing everyone. Leave. Now."

"But—"

"Now. Or else."

Hatred burned in the man's grey eyes. Michael muttered, "Oh, for fuck's sake," and stormed out, roughly shoulder-bumping a guest near the door on his way.

"My apologies, ladies and gentlemen. Please, enjoy your meal," the man said, his voice tight. You noticed the way he flexed his pale fingers, wringing them before smoothing them out again.

The chatter slowly returned, filling the awkward silence.

James's triumphant shout snapped you back to reality. "I won! I got first place!"

You ruffled his hair. "Well done, bud. How about pizza for dinner?"

"Yes, please!"

Laughing, you led him to the counter. As you were about to order, you caught sight of the man — the one who'd scolded Michael — emerging again from a 'Staff Only' door.

His steely gaze locked onto you and your brother.

"I hope you two are enjoying yourselves," he said, baring a smile that didn’t reach his cold, dead eyes.

"Yes, thank you," you answered, forcing a polite tone. You noted his nametag: William Afton.

As you waited for your order, you couldn’t shake the chill crawling up your spine. William’s stare lingered too long on James, predatory and calculating.

Trying to shrug it off, you ordered a cherry shake with two straws. James's face lit up, and you shared the drink at a booth.

"This is so good, Amy!" he said between noisy slurps.

"Glad you like it," you smiled. "Next time, we’ll get the mango one."

"Yeah!" he laughed.

You leaned back, trying to enjoy the moment, but when you glanced up, William’s gaze was still there—watching. He tilted his head slightly, as if sizing you both up, before disappearing into the diner’s darkened corridors.

Michael sat in silence in his cluttered bedroom, waiting for the inevitable.

Band posters plastered the walls. Rough doodles littered the desk. The trash bin overflowed with gum wrappers and torn-up sketches. The whole room was a fortress of chaos — and it still wasn’t enough to shield him.

It was only a matter of time before his father got home.

Groaning, Michael lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke curl around him like a comforting shroud. It was his only moment of peace, a brief escape from the chaos of his life. The cigarette packet was white and crumpled. William despised smoking — beat Michael for it constantly — despite his own drinking and worse habits. Another layer of hypocrisy. Another reason to hate him.

Michael scratched irritably at his messy mullet, letting some of the anger bleed out of him.

He was angry.

No — furious.

Forced to spend his whole summer break sweating at the diner, scraping plates for peanuts, while his friends hung out at the lake and threw parties — all because William was too cheap to hire real staff.

Still, there were a few upsides: free food, unlimited arcade games, and the only adult Michael had ever trusted — Henry Emily, William’s quieter, steadier business partner.

Michael smiled faintly, remembering better days — afternoons spent fixing projects in Henry's garage, the hum of cicadas thick in the heat, Ellie Emily bringing them cold lemonade in sweating glasses.

The memory slipped away as a knock startled him back to reality.

Michael quickly stubbed out his cigarette, heart pounding.

Downstairs, chaos erupted.

Shouting. A door slamming hard enough to rattle the floorboards. The clink of glass bottles — the unmistakable sound of William raiding the liquor cabinet.

Michael tensed.

Then Evan's small, broken sobs floated up the stairs.

"Leave me in peace, Evan. You look like a mess," William slurred.

Michael winced. He knew that voice too well.

They all did. When William drank, he got worse. Meaner. Quicker to hit. Harder to escape.

'Maybe...' Michael thought grimly, 'the bastard would just drink himself into a coma tonight.'

He didn’t let himself hope.

"Mikey?"

Michael shot up from his bed, nearly dropping his cigarette. Evan stood in the doorway, rubbing at his puffy eyes.

"Jesus, what the fuck do you want?" Michael snapped.

"Do I... look like a mess?" Evan mumbled, voice thick with tears.

Michael wanted to say no. He wanted Evan to feel better. But the old anger twisted in his gut — that bitter, ugly jealousy he couldn't shake. Evan got comfort when he cried. Michael got yelled at. Mocked. Hit. He knew it was wrong, but deep down, some part of him rejoiced seeing Evan hurt. It made the pain inside feel a little less lonely.

"Yeah," Michael said coldly. "You do. Now fuck off. I don't want Dad coming upstairs to give me hell."

Evan's eyes welled up completely. Without another word, he ran back to his room, sobbing.

Michael didn't care. He grabbed another cigarette, jammed it between his lips, and flicked the lighter several times before managing a shaky flame. Sucking in smoke, he pulled his headphones over his ears and drowned himself in blasting music.

He bent over his sketchpad, the sharp scratch of pencil against paper steadying him. His lines came out fast and angry, but they still had depth — shadows, shapes, characters with rough, beautiful edges. Art was one of the few things that made him feel like a person.

College had been full of teachers scolding him for tagging walls, for doodling during lectures, but also classmates who crowded around his work like he was some kind of celebrity. He smirked at the memory — especially at the girls who used to flirt with him — and pressed harder into the page.

He was so deep into the music and the drawing that he didn’t notice when the door slammed open.

"MICHAEL!"

The slap hit him before he even registered the scream. His head snapped to the side. The cigarette flew from his mouth. William towered over him, half-drunk bottle in hand.

"What the fuck, Dad!" Michael cried, clutching his burning cheek. He ripped his headphones off.

The bottle slammed onto the desk, exploding into shards. Glass rained onto the carpet.

"Don't you dare swear at me, boy," William snarled, grabbing Michael by the collar and shoving him back against the wall.

"Let go!" Michael shouted, trying to fight him off.

"You've been smoking?" William spat. He crushed the fallen cigarette under his boot, grinding it into the carpet.

Michael wiped his bleeding lip and snapped, "You’re one to fucking talk! You reek of whiskey!"

"You dare mock me?" William's grip tightened painfully. He seized Michael’s jaw, squeezing until Michael thought it might snap.

Michael shoved him away. "You're a fucking failure of a dad! No wonder Mum left! No wonder—"

He didn’t get to finish.

William threw him down hard.

The kicks came fast — vicious, unrelenting. Michael curled up, trying to shield his ribs, but it didn’t matter. His father yanked him up by the hair, jerking his head back so hard his scalp burned.

"You pathetic little shit!" William bellowed.

Michael tried to kick him, missed, and got slammed face-first into the desk.

Something cracked. His lip split wide open. Blood splattered the papers he'd been drawing on. He crumpled onto the dirty carpet, dazed, gasping. He could hear William’s breathing — heavy, furious.

"Next time you even think about backtalking me, you’ll regret it," William hissed.

Michael barely registered the bottle being yanked up again, shards crunching under boots as William stormed out, swearing to himself.

For a long time, Michael didn’t move. Blood trickled from the cuts on his arms, staining the floor. His lip throbbed. His ribs screamed. He just lay there, the taste of blood hot in his mouth.

"Ah, shit," he muttered weakly. "Fuck..."

"Mikey?"

Michael lifted his head. Evan was back, hovering nervously in the doorway.

"I'm... I'm sorry," Evan whispered.

Michael wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

"Yeah. Whatever," he croaked.

Evan hesitated. "Do you... want some ice? Or anything?"

Michael turned his head away, not trusting his voice.

"Yeah," he mumbled eventually. "Just... give me some time."

He buried his face in his arms and finally let the tears fall, shaking with silent sobs he couldn't hold back anymore.

PART 2

William Afton's strange behaviour still gnawed at you as you walked down the street, an involuntary shiver tracing your spine.

"Are you cold?" James asked, peering up at you with a concerned look. You shook your head and kept walking.

Once inside the house, a soft groan escaped your lips at the sight of the towering piles of boxes waiting to be unpacked. With a sigh, you dug out the old television, plugging it in to keep James entertained while you grabbed a pocket knife and started the tedious work. Slowly but steadily, you arranged the essentials, wiping down the counters with a rag soaked in disinfectant.

In the background, a soap opera buzzed from the TV. Passing through the living room, you caught James seated cross-legged in front of the screen, fully absorbed.

"I tell you, the baby isn't mine!"

"Count, I know it is! You're the only vampire I've ever loved! And the baby turns his bottles into powdered milk!"

You chuckled under your breath.

"It's called The Immortal and the Restless! It's a weird show!" James giggled.

"Seems like it," you said, ruffling his hair affectionately.

After another hour of grinding work, you managed to organise more than half of the boxes. Deciding to leave the rest for tomorrow, you yawned and collapsed onto the couch, pulling James into your lap.

"Are you tired?" you asked softly.

"A little," he mumbled.

You grabbed a blanket and laid down, letting James curl up next to you. The soft hum of the television filled the room.

"We need to turn it off. I don't like the sound," he yawned, fumbling for the remote. After switching it off, he wriggled back against you. It didn't take long before you both drifted into sleep, clinging to the comfort of each other.

Morning sunlight streamed through the blinds, waking you. Stretching, you noticed James on the floor, coloring intently in his book. He looked up with a bright smile.

"Morning!"

"Good morning! How'd you sleep?" you asked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

"Good! Though... I was a little uncomfortable," he admitted shyly.

You sighed. "Sorry, bud. I'll set up the beds today so you can sleep properly tonight."

You put a cassette in the player and sipped mug after mug of coffee as you screwed each bedframe together, threw the mattresses on, tucked in the sheets, and patted down the duvets. Plate after plate found a home in the cupboards, and clothes were finally stuffed neatly into the wardrobes.

When you placed the last item — a chipped photo frame — on the coffee table, you looked around.

Everything was finally finished.

Sweating from the work, you grabbed a quick shower, letting the hot water wash away the grime. Dressed in shorts, a tank top, and sandals, your hair fell loosely around your shoulders.

"James!" you called out.

He sprinted towards you, full of energy.

"Yeah?"

"I'm finally done! Do you want to go do something?"

He paused, thinking, then practically jumped in place.

"Let's go to the new diner! Freddy Fazbear's Pizza!"

You hesitated. "Are you sure? We could check out the shops instead—"

"Diner! Diner! Diner!" he chanted.

You sighed but gave in. After a quick freshen-up, you and James headed out, the sun still beating warmly above.

As you approached the diner, you immediately noticed a familiar purple car in the lot — and a dark red sports car parked next to it. In the red car, you spotted Michael Afton, casually smoking a cigarette. He looked you up and down, but you ignored him, pulling James toward the entrance.

The second you walked inside, the chaos of children's laughter and arcade machines hit you like a wall. James tugged at your hand, pointing eagerly to the arcades.

"One game," you said, handing him some cash. "We don't have much to spare. If you want to keep playing, I'll have to find a job soon."

He grinned and ran off.

You stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do — until you felt a looming presence behind you. You turned and nearly jumped out of your skin.

It was Michael.

"Did I scare you?" he smirked.

You stared at him coldly, noting the deep gash on his lip and the angry scratches on his arms.

"You'd think people would stay away from someone who shoves their own brother into an animatronic," you snapped.

His smirk faded into a thin, dangerous line. His blue eyes narrowed.

"You wanna say that again?" he spat.

You stepped closer, jabbing your finger into his chest. "I said, you'd think people would stay away from someone who shoves their brother—"

Before you could finish, Michael grabbed your shirt and yanked you toward him, his breath, a sickly mix of bubblegum and cigarette smoke, hot against your face.

"Get off me," you hissed, shoving at him.

Just then, James and another boy ran up.

"Amy! I made a new friend! His name's Evan! We played Phoenix together!"

Both boys glanced nervously at Michael, who shoved you away.

"That's cool, so what," he muttered.

Trying not to create more awkwardness, you sent the boys off to keep playing. They shrugged and ran.

Michael glared at you. "You're lucky they showed up. God knows what I would have done."

You narrowed your eyes, stepping right back into his space.

"Is violence your go-to tactic for everything? Maybe that explains the shit-show on your face."

Michael breathed heavily, fists clenching at his sides. For a moment, you thought he'd swing — but he dropped his arm, jaw tight.

"You know fuck-all about me," he muttered, but his voice wasn’t as sharp now. His hand unclenched, fingers twitching as if he were deciding whether to say something else.

You tilted your head, studying him. "Oh really?" you rebuked, your tone daring him to explain himself. "Who did that then?" You pointed at the gash on his lip, the bruises on his arms. "Your precious father? He seems to have a temper."

Michael's chest tightened, and for a second, he didn’t respond. His gaze dropped, his lips pressing into a thin line. But then his hand rose, and before you could say anything else, he grabbed you firmly by the shoulders. 

"Breathe a word about that, and I'll kill you myself."

You shoved him away, your breath quickening. "I wasn’t planning to, dumbass. So will you stop grabbing me?"

He let go and took a step back, a deep sigh escaping his lips. The tension hung there, but it was different now. You noticed how he didn’t immediately snap back or try to assert dominance. Instead, he just rubbed his face again, the exhaustion showing.

"Look, I didn’t mean to come off... fucking... whatever." He seemed to hesitate, eyes darting away from yours, almost as if he was searching for the right words. His shoulders sagged slightly. "It’s just... It’s not easy dealing with him."

His eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, there was something more than just anger or annoyance in them. There was a vulnerability, something unguarded. But then he blinked, and it was gone, replaced by the usual mask.

"You wouldn’t understand," he muttered. "So forget it."

But you could tell it was different now—his words were quieter, less combative. There was no immediate hostility, no more threats.

"Anyway," he continued, straightening up and giving a half-shrug, "what are you doing in a dump like this place?"

You raised an eyebrow, noticing how he seemed to be trying to deflect again, but it was almost like he was looking for a reason to keep the conversation going.

"Why do you care?"

"Just trying to make conversation." Michael’s voice was a little softer now, though his sarcasm still lingered. "You wouldn't believe it, but I do try sometimes."

You stared at him for a long moment, watching his almost vulnerable behavior. Then you shook your head. "My brother, James, wanted to come here. The diner, I mean."

Michael snorted, but it wasn’t as mocking this time. "Your brother seems to have a shit taste."

"Then what about yourself?" you spat, not ready to back down. "Doubt you'd be a guy to hang out and play kiddie games."

Michael sighed and leaned back, his eyes softening as he looked at you, but only for a moment. "Well, actually, my father owns this franchise. He and his friend, Henry, built the animatronics and designed this place," he explained, almost as if he was saying it for himself more than for you. "Very fancy stuff."

You glanced at the animatronics, but Michael’s words didn't feel as sharp now. He wasn’t bragging or trying to show off, just stating facts, and even that felt less cold than usual.

"He designed them?"

"Yeah." Michael fiddled with his gum packet, his eyes briefly flicking away from you. "Spring Bonnie, that piss-colored rabbit, is his favorite from the other diner. Everyone seems to love it." He sighed, opening the packet and popping a piece in his mouth. "Anyway, I’m stuck here. Babysitting my brother, keeping an eye on this shithole."

You let his words sink in. You thought of James and an idea struck you.

"Do you think I could work in either of them?" you asked, watching his face closely.

Michael stared at you for a long moment, his lips curling into a smirk. He laughed—louder than you expected—and you could feel the shift, the rawness in his laughter.

"Oh, fuck me," he said between chuckles. "You don’t want to work here."

"Why not?" you pressed, crossing your arms. "You got a secret to hide?"

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your forehead, but this time, there was no malice in it. "Trust me, this place is shit," he said, his voice low, more serious than before. "You’re better off working anywhere else."

You stood in silence, unsure of what to say, but Michael didn’t seem to expect a response. Instead, he leaned back and seemed to notice the shift too.

"So, what’s your name anyway?" he asked, looking at you with a faint, uncertain glimmer in his eyes.

"Amy," you replied, watching him closely.

He raised an eyebrow, his usual bravado returning, but there was still something different. "I like your name," he said quietly, almost like he meant it. "Mine’s Michael."

You snorted, feeling an odd tension between you two. "I know. Your father stated that clearly yesterday in public. Screamed it, practically."

"Fucking bastard," Michael muttered, shaking his head.

"Michael." You heard William’s voice before you saw him, standing just behind him, his presence a stark contrast to the awkward moment. With a terse tone, he asked Michael what he was doing.

"What does it look like I'm doing? Having a wank?" Michael muttered, rolling his eyes.

You barely suppressed a smirk as William's smile hardened into a glare.

"Refrain from using such language in front of a girl," William snarled. "I need you to come with me."

Michael groaned. "Yeah, yeah, you and your stupid office," he muttered, before turning to leave. He shot you a lazy salute, before later muttering something angrily to his father. Left alone, you caught James out of the corner of your eye — laughing with Evan, blissfully unaware. It warmed your heart to see him so happy.

The noise inside the diner grew louder, with kids running around, arcade machines blaring—when suddenly, the room fell into a hush as a woman's terrified scream pierced through the air.

"Where is my son? He's missing! Help! I can't find him!"

Some people looked at her, confused. Shocked. Some chairs scraped back. Other parents rose from their seats, calling out for their own children. Staff exchanged panicked glances.

And in the chaos, you spotted William Afton — quietly slipping into the back room alone, unseen by everyone but you.

In that moment, you knew.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Chapter Text

PART 1

It was chaos. People were panicking, Henry was calling the police, children were clinging to their parents—and the Aftons… where were they? You kept James close at your side, along with Evan, who was sobbing into your leg, his little hands gripping your thigh tightly.

"What’s happening?" James asked, his voice trembling. You wanted to explain—that five children were missing—but the words caught in your throat.

"James, we need to leave. It’s not safe here."

"But what about Evan? Where’s his family?" James asked, his wide eyes darting between you and Evan’s tear-streaked face.

You hesitated, heart aching. You couldn't leave Evan behind.

"Okay," you said firmly. "We’ll stick together. Let’s head outside."

As the wail of sirens grew louder, you scooped up both boys and made your way to the door, where a crowd had already gathered. Officers rushed into the diner, searching for the missing children. Michael and William were nowhere to be seen, a detail that sat uneasily in your gut.

Moments later, Michael stumbled out of the diner, his hair disheveled and a grimace twisting his face. He clutched his left side, wincing with every step.

"Michael! What happened?" you cried, rushing to him.

He leaned heavily against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. "It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it."

"What do you mean, it’s nothing? You’re hurt!"

Michael lit a cigarette with a shaking hand and took a long drag, his demeanor cold. "I said it doesn’t fucking matter. Just drop it."

Before you could argue, shouting erupted from the crowd. A distraught woman was screaming at a police officer.

"Sir! I know the owners are involved in my child’s disappearance!" Her voice cut through the noise like a blade.

The officer’s expression tightened. "Ma’am, are you accusing them of being involved?"

"Yes! Please, search every room in the diner!"

He sighed but complied, vanishing back into the building. Tension gripped the crowd like a vice. After what felt like an eternity, the officers returned. Two of them led William out in handcuffs, a cigarette dangling casually from his lips.

The lead officer addressed the crowd. "We conducted a thorough search and found no evidence linking Mr. Afton to the missing children. He’s being released. The investigation is ongoing."

Disappointment and anger rippled through the crowd. William's handcuffs were then removed and he shrugged off the officer’s apology, flicking his cigarette away with a casual air. Though the accusation had stung, he masked it behind a look of indifference.

"It’s no worries," he said smoothly. "I’m sorry for the incident at my diner. I hope the children are found soon."

His words sounded sincere, but his eyes were empty. The woman who had accused him cursed under her breath.

"You bastard," she spat. "I know one of you took my Shane."

William smiled, all false warmth. "Children go missing all the time. Maybe you should’ve kept a closer eye on him."

The woman fled in tears. You averted your gaze as William strolled to his car, pulling out another cigarette like nothing had happened.

"Do you think your father was involved?" you asked Michael cautiously.

Michael muttered, "Knowing him? Yeah. Probably."

The police soon instructed everyone to return home. You brought James back to your house, while Evan stayed with Michael. It would be a long time before you felt safe stepping into that diner again.

Later, Michael drove through streets bathed in the deep orange hues of sunset, the light casting warm glows inside the car. Evan’s sniffles grew louder, grating on Michael’s nerves.

"Evan, stop crying. Man up."

"I’m scared, Mike," Evan whimpered.

"Yeah, well, so am I. So just shut up, okay?"

Michael pressed harder on the gas, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel. Every movement sent sharp pain through his ribs. He didn’t know if they were broken—but the pain said something was definitely wrong. At a red light, he prodded the bruised, tender area, grimacing. His father’s anger had been sudden, vicious. One second, Michael had opened the door. The next, a wrench slammed into his side, William yelling at him to leave.

Michael gritted his teeth. Deep down, he suspected his father had something to do with the missing children, but there was no way to prove it. Not yet.

He pulled onto the lawn and parked sloppily. Both boys got out.

"Right," Michael said, unlocking the door. "Just go upstairs. Dad said he’s staying at the diner for a few more hours. Which probably means 'til midnight. Do your summer homework or whatever."

"Uhh, Mike?" Evan said hesitantly.

"What?" Michael snapped.

"I need help with my math homework."

Michael groaned but kicked off his shoes and followed Evan upstairs. Deep down, he didn’t really mind. Despite messing around in college, Michael had a sharp mind, especially for math and science—one of the few things William praised him for.

"You're just like me. Smart, and with the same looks."

Michael shoved the memory away. Every accolade seemed like a hidden accusation, as if the praise was meant to push him into the mold William wanted. His father’s approval and expectations were more about control than genuine pride. Michael shivered, and sat on Evan's desk, glancing at the first problem.

"Right, you’ve got one pizza. You cut it in half. How many pieces?"

"Uhh... two?" Evan guessed.

"Exactly. Now, if you split those pieces in half again, how many total?"

"Uhh..."

Michael sighed quietly and grabbed a sheet of paper. He quickly drew a lopsided pizza, complete with goofy pepperoni slices.

"Right. Here’s the shitty diner pizza," he said, deadpan.

Evan giggled, surprising Michael.

"Now cut it in half."

Evan drew a line down the middle.

"Good. Now cut it again."

Evan drew a horizontal line, and his eyes lit up. "Two plus two is four! Four slices!"

"Exactly, Ev! See? You're getting it." Michael smirked. "Next question."

They spent the next hour working through problems together. It had been so long since they'd spent time like this, and Michael was surprised to realize he missed it. His own jealousy had driven them apart, but Evan wasn’t so bad when you actually paid attention to him.

When they finally finished, Michael stretched and tossed the notebook into Evan’s bag.

"Alright, superstar, we’re done. What do you want to eat? Dad probably hasn’t restocked the fridge, but we can grab ice cream."

He yawned and glanced out the window—and spotted you walking toward the shops. He blinked, then grinned.

"Ice cream sounds good," Evan whispered hopefully. "Can we go?"

Without hesitation, Michael bolted downstairs, shoving on his trainers. "Yeah! Come on, Ev!"

He didn’t fully understand why he was so eager. He had been rude to you—but something about your resilience and calm under pressure stuck with him. He admired it.

"Hurry up, Ev!" he called.

Evan joined him, and together they jogged to the grocery store. Inside, Michael deliberately chose a different aisle than you, pretending to browse.

"Michael. Mike? Micha—"

"Shut up, Ev," Michael muttered.

In the frozen section, he spotted you picking out a box of ice pops. Acting casual, he walked you to you, leaned over and grabbed two vanilla ice cream cones—nearly brushing your hand. You startled when you noticed him.

"Oh! Sorry—Michael?"

He handed the cones to Evan and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "We meet again," he said, clearing his throat.

"I guess we’re both here for a treat," you said, giving a small nod.

"Yeah, uh..." Michael hesitated, feeling uncharacteristically nervous. "I wanted to apologize. For yesterday. I was kind of a dick."

You raised an eyebrow but smiled. "That’s okay. I don’t hold grudges."

"Cool," he mumbled, relieved.

Evan peeked out from behind him. "Hi."

"Hey, bud," you said warmly. "How’s it going?"

"G… good. It’s really hot today."

"Yeah, it is! But hey, you're gonna get some ice cream!"

Michael managed a faint smile. "Thought it might cheer him up. After... well, you know."

You nodded. "Yeah. I get it." You checked your watch. "I need to head back. Wouldn’t be surprised if James has already caused trouble."

Michael nodded, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

The three of you paid and stepped out into the golden afternoon, ice cream in hand.

"I’ll probably see you around," you said, waving. "See you!"

"Yeah," Michael said, returning the wave. "See you, Amy."

When he got home, Michael collapsed on the sofa, turned on the TV, and grinned when The Immortal and the Restless came on. It was a small comfort in an otherwise brutal day—and, he realized, so was seeing you.

PART 2

“Amy, can we pleeeaaase go to the diner?”

James had been begging all week, but you couldn’t shake the unease that place gave you. There was something about William Afton you didn’t trust.

“No, James,” you said firmly. “I’ve already told you. No.”

He pouted, then stomped off to his room, slamming the door behind him. You sighed and sank into the couch, picking up the crumpled newspaper to check the classifieds again.

Freddy Fazbear's Pizza! Staff wanted!  

Your heart sank.

Five children had vanished. Some of the staff had quit. Who in their right mind would apply now?

But then you looked at the bills scattered across the coffee table. The rent was due in a few weeks. Electricity, water, groceries. And James needed clothes. Comics. Pocket money.

You stared at the ad again. The pay was surprisingly decent. Just enough to help you stay afloat.

God help me.

You picked up the phone and dialed, silently praying it wouldn’t be William who answered.

“Hello! Henry Emily from Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. How can I help you?”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Hi, Mr. Emily. I saw your ad. For the staff opening.”

“Oh! Yes, we’re hiring for several positions,” he said cheerfully. “Are you interested?”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

“Great! Are you available now? We can chat in my office, and I’ll give you the full rundown of the job.”

You glanced at the clock. Still morning. “Yes, I’m free.”

“Lovely! And your name?”

“Amy.”

You heard him scribbling something down. “Got it! See you soon, Amy.”

“Thank you. See you soon.”

“Goodbye!” Click.

You walked down the hallway to James’s room and knocked gently.

“Go away!”

You leaned your head against the door, voice softer now. “James... I’ve got an interview. At the pizza place.”

There was a pause. “Wait, really? Freddy's pizza place?”

“Yes. I need you to be on your best behavior while I’m gone, okay? If I get the job, you can go there and play with Evan all summer.”

That got his attention.

“For real? I can go?”

“If I get the job,” you repeated. “So behave, alright? I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay!”

You grabbed your resume, shoved it into your bag, took one last deep breath, and headed out the door.

*

"Welcome!"

You shook Henry’s hand, comforted by the warmth of his greeting. He led you to a seat and took your resume, studying it with focus. With your experience as a waitress, a café barista, and some engineering studies before dropping out of college, you felt confident that starting from scratch wouldn’t be too difficult.

"I'm Henry Emily, one of the diner's owners. I'll ask you a few questions to get started."

"Sure."

As Henry asked his questions, you answered steadily, noticing his pleased expression with each response. When he finally set down his pen and grinned, your nerves eased.

"You're hired."

"Seriously? That's fantastic!" Relief spread across your face.

"Absolutely. You have the perfect qualifications for the job. Let me show you around."

You both stood up to begin the tour, but something caught your eye—a photo on Henry’s desk. It showed him with two children at the beach: a boy with sand in his hair and a girl laughing on her father’s shoulders. The warmth of the image made you smile.

"Oh..."

Henry’s smile faded into something more solemn. "Those are my children. Sammy and Charlotte. Well, Charlie, as she liked to be called."

"They look so happy. You must be a great dad. Do you spend much time with them?"

Henry's expression dimmed. "Charlie passed away a few months ago. She was murdered outside the diner."

You froze, a hand flying to your mouth.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Emily... I didn’t know."

"It’s alright. You couldn’t have," he said quietly. "I didn’t expect it either."

"Do you know who did it?" you asked, hesitant.

"No one knows." Pain deepened the lines around his eyes. "I've done everything I can, but the police have been no help."

A heavy silence lingered.

"I hope you find answers soon," you said gently.

"Me too, Amy." He offered a faint, tired smile. "But let’s continue with the tour."

You nodded, following him with a heaviness in your chest.

Henry showed you the diner: the staff room cluttered with lockers and a worn-out couch, the kitchen thick with the scent of grease and pizza dough, and the arcade lit with the flicker of beeping machines. The only space he didn’t show was the backroom.

Noticing your glance, he said, "That’s Mr. Afton’s domain—his office and workshop. You’ll need his permission to go in. He’s... particular about that."

You nodded, a chill brushing your spine. Then Henry brought you to the main attraction—the animatronics.

"Usually, we handle basic repairs, but you’re welcome to lend a hand if you’re interested."

Chica, Fredbear, and Bonnie performed a mechanical song and dance. Their stiff movements and plastic smiles made your skin crawl.

"Maybe another time," you said, trying to sound casual.

Henry chuckled and gave your shoulder an encouraging pat. "So, what do you think?"

"It seems... interesting." Your tone was careful. The place was rundown and tired, and you braced for a tough job, especially with the infamous other owner involved.

"Glad to hear it!" Henry beamed. "Oh, and don't forget—you’ll need to watch some training videos. Standard stuff."

A cough interrupted you both.

"Henry, who’s this?"

You turned. William Afton stood in the doorway, cigarette hanging from his lips. His sharp gaze met yours—and then widened slightly, as if in recognition.

"William! This is our new hire!" Henry said, upbeat, placing a hand on your shoulder.

"New hire?"

"Right. We put out a call. Daisy left this morning over some... concerns." Henry glanced at William’s scowl and smoothly changed the subject. "Anyway, we’re down to just Pete and John. They’re managing, but not exactly thrilled."

You stood stiffly. 

"I see," William muttered, eyeing you like a puzzle he didn’t trust. You forced a polite smile as he asked, "Where will she be working? Waitressing?"

"I thought she could start as a casual—maintenance and waiting tables. Her engineering background should help with repairs," Henry said.

William’s gaze narrowed. "We’ll see."

"I can handle basic repairs," you offered. "I’ve worked with limited machinery, not animatronics, but I’m a quick learner."

"And we're giving her the highest pay rate for now," Henry added.

William choked on his smoke. "What? For a newbie?"

Henry raised a hand. "It’s temporary. Just until we’re fully staffed."

"Foolish of you, Henry," William growled. "We're already bleeding money, and you’re tossing out premium wages like it's Christmas?" He exhaled smoke through his nose, casting a cold glance your way. "You can start now if you want. We’ve got customers waiting."

"Could I head home first? Just for an hour—to get things sorted?"

William looked annoyed, but Henry stepped in kindly. "Of course! You were meant to start tomorrow anyway, but you can start today if you'd prefer. Take your time. I’ll get your uniform ready."

You smiled at Henry gratefully. "Thank you. That’s really kind."

Then you turned and walked out of the diner, heart pounding, already unsure of what you were getting into.

"You got the job! You got the job!" James exclaimed, throwing his arms around you in excitement.

You hugged him back, a rush of relief and joy flooding your chest.

"Yes! Since I’ll be working a lot, we’ll be spending plenty of time at the diner."

"Yay!" James spun in delight. "That means I can play with Evan! And you can hang out with his older brother!"

Michael. You’d completely forgotten about him.

'Trust me, this place is shit. You're better off working in any other place than here.'

He wasn’t wrong, but you were in too deep to back out now.

"I guess so. And I’ll have to deal with his father being around," you muttered, pulling James into a comforting hug.

"Oh, yeah." James shrugged. "Should we head there now?"

You nodded. "Go on. I didn’t see Evan, but you can play with the other kids. Just don’t wander off."

"Got it. I promise," James said, gripping your hand. "I promise."

"Okay. Let’s go." You smiled.

"Here you go!" Henry handed you the uniform: a white blouse, a purple tie, and black slacks. "Typically, waitresses wear a black skirt, but since you'll be moving around a lot, I figured pants would be more practical."

"Thanks, Mr. Emily."

"Please, call me Henry."

"Thank you, Henry."

As you walked from Henry’s office to the staff room, your mind buzzed with thoughts of the job ahead. Steeling yourself, you stepped inside, the distant laughter muting once the door shut.

Just as you were about to put on your shirt, it slammed open. You jumped.

Michael walked in, yawning—and immediately froze. His eyes widened.

"Shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—" He slapped a hand over his eyes and stumbled back, fumbling for the door handle. Another mumbled apology later, he bolted out, his cheeks burning.

Outside, he leaned against the wall, groaning under his breath. "Just great." He shook his head, forcing on a casual expression.

Inside, you stood frozen, arms crossed over your chest as warmth crept across your face. After a moment, you shook off the embarrassment and finished dressing, tying your hair back with a sigh of relief that he hadn’t properly recognized you.

When you stepped out of the staff room, you spotted Michael chatting with James. He turned red again when he saw you, but quickly masked it, chewing gum like nothing had happened.

"Amy!" James waved. "That uniform is weird! Why is the tie purple?"

"Thanks for the confidence boost," you said, chuckling. "I’m not sure. Ask the guy who designed it."

"Because black and purple are my dad’s favorite colors," Michael muttered, walking up. His eyes flicked to the uniform, then back to you—realizing you’d taken the job. He sighed, clearly frustrated.

"Well, well. You’re as stubborn as I am."

"What do you mean?" you asked, patting James’s head.

"I warned you about this place. It’s tough. And honestly? Not worth it."

"It can’t be that bad."

"If Henry’s around, maybe not. But if my dad’s in charge..." He smirked. "You’re in for a real challenge." Then, his tone shifted—serious now. “The late hours, rude customers, and my dad’s... management style make it more trouble than it’s worth. Just keep your wits about you, okay? Don’t let any of it get to you."

You exchanged a sarcastic grin.

"Can’t wait."

PART 3

William knew no one had no idea what had really happened at Circus Baby's Pizza World, his third restaurant.

Elizabeth, his daughter, had died by his hand. The diner closed the very day Circus Baby's animatronic accidently killed her. William buried the machinery beneath his rental company, hiding the truth underground. He had warned Elizabeth. Told her not to go near it. But stubbornness ran in the family. And now she was gone.

His wife, Clara, couldn’t forgive him. He had lied, said she had gone missing. But it was the last straw. Devastated, she filed for divorce, leaving him with Evan and Michael. 

Charlotte—Charlie—was his first victim in Utah. Back when the family diner was thriving, when Henry’s eyes lit up at the mention of his daughter. William hated it. Hated how proud Henry was. Charlie this, Charlie that. The praise gnawed at him until it festered into something cruel.

Then came the chance. He found Charlie locked out of the diner one rainy night. No one around. No cameras. Just her and him. A knife hidden behind his back.

He struck without hesitation.

She bled to death alone in the rain. And just like that—she was gone. The storm washed the blood away. The town slept soundly. No one suspected a thing—not the police, not the townspeople, not even Henry. Not until the next day, when they couldn't figure out who had killed her. William stayed the night at Henry's house and listened to the man's sobs through the walls. 

That rush—he couldn’t let it go.

Charlie’s death became another gateway. He killed five more children at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, each murder more precise than the last. He lured them, mutilated them, and stuffed their bodies into the animatronic suits. The space was just right. Just big enough to contain their silence.

And he got away with it.

For now.

Then he saw you. Talking to Michael and your sweet, sweet brother. Such innocence. How he longed to drive a blade through your brother’s skull and watch the light leave his eyes. To hear the wet gurgle of his last breath.

But not yet.

You were always watching. Always close.

Patience was everything. He’d learned that. He could wait. And when the moment came—when you let your guard down, even for a second—he’d be there.

Waiting.

"I told you this job sucked."

“For the last time, Michael, I know it does. But it pays well. Well, for now,” you spat, scrubbing the sticky floor where someone had spilled their drink. Meanwhile, Michael lounged in a chair, lazily swinging back and forth like he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Okay, well…”

“Well, what? Help me out here,” you scowled. “That would be nice.”

“No can do, doll. I’m the top maintenance guy, remember? I fix animatronics.”

You let out a loud “Pfft.”

“Do you call all girls doll?”

He shrugged. “Meh. Only a select few. You’re one of them.” A cheeky grin crept across his face.

“You—and the hot babes from my Playboy magazine.”

You snorted so hard mucus shot out your nose, and you wiped it off with your arm in embarrassment. Michael chuckled.

“Hmmm. Not cute.”

“Fuck off, Afton. Can you pass me a tissue?”

He tossed you the box. You plucked one and cleaned yourself up as Michael leaned forward, propping his cheek against his fist.

“Y’know, I think Emily knew what he was doing. Those slacks fit you very well.”

You stood up straight.

“Excuse me?”

He burst out laughing, ears twitching with each chuckle.

“I’m kidding! Don’t hurt me! Just saying, the uniform looks nice.”

You backed down, sticking your tongue out instead.

“Right. Got it. You pervert.”

“Rude,” he teased. “Should I report you already?”

You flipped him off and got back to scrubbing while he continued to watch.

“That should do it!” you said, standing.

Michael leaned over with a smirk.

“Nah. Think you missed a spot, love.”

You groaned and started punching his shoulder while he howled with laughter.

“God, Afton, you’re such a pain in the ass!”

Still laughing, he suddenly caught your wrist mid-swing. His grip wasn’t hard, just enough to stop you. You froze, eyes widening.

“Yeah, I know I’m a pain in the ass,” he said quietly, eyes locking with yours. “But I’m not the cruel type.”

He gently let go of your arm. Your cheeks flushed as he watched you carefully. But before either of you could speak again, footsteps thundered down the hall.

“Mike! Amy! Evan won for the first time!”

James and Evan came sprinting over, beaming.

“That’s brilliant, Evan!” you said, grinning.

“Cool stuff, Ev! Though I bet you can’t beat my high score,” Michael smirked, ruffling his brother’s hair.

“Oh yeah? C’mon, Ev, let’s prove him wrong!” James whooped, and the pair raced off toward the arcade. Michael chuckled at their energy.

“So, does this confidence run in your family?”

“Confidence? Yeah. We take after our fath—” You stopped yourself. It slipped out. Michael tilted his head.

“Your father?”

You bit your lip.

“Yeah… our father. He’s… not here. He passed away almost a year ago.”

Michael stepped closer and pulled you into a gentle hug. His warmth surprised you, but you didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice low and sincere.

“It’s fine. I look after James now. I’m capable enough,” you replied with a small, sad shrug.

“What about your mom? Or is she...?”

“She left us after Dad died. So I moved here to start fresh.”

Michael looked toward the arcade, where your brother was still laughing, full of life.

“You’re brave, you know that?” he said, turning back to you. “Getting a job, paying bills, raising a kid on your own… That’s not easy.”

“It’s fine, really. But thank you. That means a lot,” you said, smiling gently.

He smiled back, then reached into his pocket for a notepad. Tearing off a page, he scribbled something down.

“Here. My number.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” He handed it to you, and you tucked it away.

Your eyes met.

“Thank you,” you said.

William observed from a distance, his eyes narrowing as he watched you and Michael. The shared smiles, the easy laughter—it all only deepened the resentment bubbling inside him.

"Hey, William?"

He turned at the sound of Henry's voice, his face unreadable.

"Mmm?"

"Sammy’s not feeling well. Do you mind if I check on him? I’ll be back soon."

William nodded curtly. "Do what you need. I'll handle the finances." He turned toward his office, the weight of his thoughts settling back in.

Henry trailed a few steps behind. "What do you think of the new girl?"

William’s response was dismissive, his tone flat. "Give her a week. I doubt she’ll stick around. But she’s not complaining yet."

Henry’s voice carried a note of optimism. "I think she’ll get the hang of it. Might even blossom into the job."

"If you say so." William’s disinterest was palpable. "I won’t be in tomorrow morning. Need to talk to Clara."

Henry smiled, his expression warm but filled with a subtle concern. "Of course, Will. But don’t stay away too long, alright?"

A small, knowing smirk curled at the corner of William's lips as he turned to face Henry. He spoke in a low, deliberate tone. "You know I always come back."

Henry faltered for a moment, his smile waning as he gave a small, uncertain nod. He turned and walked toward the door, leaving William to settle into his chair.

The sound of Henry’s footsteps fading into the distance was replaced by the rustle of the finance book as William opened it, his mind already drifting away from the conversation.

The Afton household was quiet as Michael and Evan arrived home. Michael had bought some cheap groceries, and they shared a meal while watching TV.

"James is a good friend," Evan said quietly, tucking into his gravy.

"Yeah, he's sparky. Like his sister," Michael replied, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

"Do you like Amy?"

"I— hey! I barely know her! Don't make assumptions!" Michael spluttered, his blush creeping up his neck.

"Oh, okay. James told me to ask," Evan said innocently.

"Did he now?"

The pair continued eating and laughing, until a loud bang from the front door silenced them.

"Evan? Michael?"

William was back home, and he sounded angry.

"Here, Dad," Michael said, gripping his fork tightly.

"I need a word with you, boy. Evan, finish and go upstairs." Evan quickly finished his plate and trotted upstairs in silence.

"What’s up, Dad?" Michael asked, trying to steady his voice. He placed his cutlery on the table and stood up. "Everything okay?"

"So, enjoying our new little friend from the diner, hmm?"

Michael rolled his eyes. "Dad, it's not what you think."

William slapped him. Michael's cheek burned as he gritted his teeth. "It's not what you think."

William grabbed him by the collar. "Not what I think? I saw you eyeing her like a dog. Christ!"

"So what? I can look at anyone I want! I’m a goddamn adult!" Michael yelled, anger and embarrassment rising in him.

His father snarled. "Not if I gouge those eyes out. You good-for-nothing mongrel."

Michael lifted his hands in defiance. "What's your problem, Dad? Henry told me to help her!"

"And I want you to stop!" William spat, voice venomous.

"Why! Why should I? She's just a friend, for God's sake!" Michael tried to push past him.

William’s grip tightened on Michael’s clothes. "I said, stop!" He shoved Michael back, sending him stumbling. "She needs to fucking learn things by herself and not get distracted!"

"Don’t get distracted? You're mad, you are! I can’t even talk to a girl without you getting all stroppy about it," Michael snapped. "What, jealous that you can't find a woman yourself?"

William ignored him and walked into the kitchen. The clinking of a beer bottle filled the silence. Michael cursed under his breath, shooting a glare at his father’s back. He didn’t care how tense things were; he was still going to talk to you.

"Oh, and Michael..." William’s voice cut through the quiet as he reappeared in the doorway, bottle in hand. "It's Evan's birthday soon." He paused, his tone darkening. "And speaking of Evan, why does he keep going to the other diner? I thought I made it clear that he wasn’t allowed in there. No one is, apart from you."

Michael leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression defiant. "How would I know?" he scoffed. "The last time I took Evan there was when you told me to." He mimicked William's voice in a mocking imitation. "'Take him and look after him, Michael.' Isn’t that what you said?" His voice hardened. "So don’t blame me or Evan for whatever he’s doing there. That’s on you."

William’s grip tightened around the bottle. "When I said I wanted you to take him and look after him, I didn’t mean shove your brother into Freddy, you cunt!"

He took a step forward, raising his hand as if to strike Michael. But then something flickered in his eyes—a brief hesitation. His hand lowered, and instead, he rested it heavily on Michael’s shoulder.

"Actually..." His lips curled into a faint smirk, his voice taking on a cold, calculated edge. "Perhaps taking Evan to the diner isn’t such a bad idea."

Michael blinked, confusion washing over him. "What? What are you talking about? One minute you're screaming at me because I took him, and now you want me to?"

William’s eyes gleamed as he muttered under his breath, almost as if piecing together his thoughts. "He’s... soft. A crybaby. Always has been."

Michael scoffed. "No shit. He’s seven. Of course, he’s a crybaby."

William glared at him. "Are you trying to be smart with me? I want him to man up," he snapped, his voice dripping with contempt. His tone shifted darker, heavier. "Weakness disgusts me, Michael. And that little boy? He’s weak. He always has been."

The room felt suffocating. Michael could almost taste the bitter air between them. 

"Take him to the diner," William continued, his voice low and commanding. "Scare him. Make him stronger. If you do this, Michael, I’ll be proud of you. Very proud."

Michael let out a bitter laugh, almost choking on it. "You... what? Are you hearing yourself? You want me to scare him? And you think that’s going to make him stronger?"

William leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "Oh, but it will. You remember your last birthday, don’t you?"

Michael stiffened, his fists clenching at his sides.

"Remember how Evan ruined it? How your friends laughed at you?" William’s smile was cruel, his words cutting deeper. "And what about your mother? Always coddling Evan. Always ignoring you. Evan gets the praise, the attention—for what? He’s nothing, Michael. He’s weak. And yet he’s still ahead of you."

The words hit hard, not because they were entirely untrue, but because they unearthed old wounds Michael thought he’d buried. The sting of being overlooked. The sting of feeling invisible in his own home.

"Think of it as payback," William said, his voice low. "For everything he’s done. For every time you’ve been pushed aside for him. You want my respect? Earn it. Prove you’re better than him."

The anger churning inside Michael felt hot and raw, a blend of confusion and bitterness. He hated his father, but somewhere deep inside, a part of him craved the approval William dangled in front of him.

Prove you’re better than him. Better than him. Better than Evan.

"Remember, son," William added, his voice soft, but laced with malice. "I’ll be proud. Very proud."

PART 4

After leaving the diner, Henry parked his car outside the garage and walked into his modest home. The house was quiet, save for the faint sounds of sniffling and coughing coming from the living room.

"Hey, Sammy. How are you feeling?" Henry asked, placing his hand on his son’s forehead.

"B-Bad," Sammy sniffed, his voice weak. "I feel awful."

"I’ll get you some more medicine," Henry said, moving toward the kitchen. He grabbed a handful of antibiotics and a glass of water. "Here you go, kiddo."

Sammy grimaced as he swallowed the pills, the taste lingering unpleasantly, but he didn't complain.

"So, Dad, how’s work going?"

Henry scratched his head. "Not great. Since those kids went missing, business at the diner has slowed down. But we’ve got a new staff member. Not sure how long she’ll stick around, though." Sammy wrapped the fresh blanket around himself, shivering slightly.

"It’s a shame. You and Uncle Will made some awesome animatronics. How did you guys meet?" Sammy asked, his voice muffled by the blanket.

"At college. Those were some complicated times," Henry replied, his smile distant. "Anyway, I need to get back to work before William catches me slacking off." He made a slicing motion across his neck, signaling the need to hurry.

"Oh, right. See you later, Dad. Can you turn on the TV?"

"Sure thing. But remember to rest up!" Henry said with a gentle admonishment as he flicked on the TV.

"Okay, I promise. See you soon, Dad."

"See you, kiddo."

Henry trudged back to his car, the weight of the day pressing down on him. As he started the engine, his thoughts drifted back to the day he first met William.

The day Henry decided to move out of his home and into a new apartment with a classmate from his engineering course was a big one.

"Hey, Henry! Wait up!" Ellie, Henry’s close friend and future wife, called out as he carried boxes to his car. He turned and smiled.

"Yeah? What’s up?"

"You’re moving in with that William guy, right? Some of my friends say he’s intimidating."

Henry shrugged, his smile unshaken. "Yeah, as long as the rent’s good, I can handle anything. Creeps, psycho killers—you know, the usual."

Ellie laughed softly, but there was a flicker of concern in her eyes. "If you ever need someone to talk to, give me a call." She handed him a note with her new phone number neatly written on it.

"Thanks, Ellie!" He gave her a quick hug before getting into his car. She stood watching as he drove off toward his new place.

"Good luck, Henry. You’re going to need it," she murmured under her breath, a mix of worry and fondness in her tone.

*

William was engrossed in flipping through documents and photos about his new roommate, Henry Emily.

"High achiever, aren't you, Emily?" William smirked, studying a photo of Henry holding a trophy. Several other photos showcased Henry with friends and academic achievements. As William thumbed through a high school yearbook, the doorbell suddenly rang, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"Hm?"

Peering through the peephole, William saw Henry standing outside. A sinister grin tugged at his lips as he rasped, "Henry."

He quickly shoved the documents and photos into a drawer, slamming it shut. With practiced composure, William opened the door, which creaked ominously. Henry stood on the doorstep, taking in the sight of a tall, lanky man in a dark purple shirt and black slacks. William’s gaze was predatory as he sized him up.

"Um, hey! I’m Henry. Nice to meet you!" Henry extended his hand, but William ignored the gesture, turning away.

"Your room’s on the right." Without waiting for a response, William slammed the door shut, leaving Henry standing there, confused and slightly put off.

"Never mind then," Henry muttered under his breath.

He shrugged it off and began unpacking. As he organized his room, placing books on shelves, hanging posters, and stacking files on his desk, a sense of accomplishment settled over him. Satisfied with his progress, he sat down to work. He put on his glasses, cracked his knuckles, and murmured, "Alright, let’s get to work!"

As the afternoon faded into evening, Henry worked diligently. Unbeknownst to him, William had quietly slipped into the room, his shadow stretching ominously across the soft glow of Henry’s desk lamp. Henry hummed contentedly, lost in his work. Suddenly, William slammed his hand down on the desk, making Henry jump.

"Jesus! You scared me!" Henry yelped.

William leaned in, inspecting Henry’s work. His eyes narrowed before widening with interest. The desk was cluttered with complex diagrams, showcasing intricate machinery and futuristic designs.

"This kind of work isn’t typical for college students," William remarked, his tone almost accusatory. "Henry Emily, are you hiding something?"

Flaring up, Henry instinctively covered his work with his hand. "Hey, knock it off!"

William’s gaze remained steady, though his demeanor didn’t shift. He began to circle the room, scrutinizing every corner.

"Nice room," William said casually, as if nothing was amiss. "Mind if I take a look around?"

Without waiting for a response, William wandered through the dorm, taking in Henry's possessions. "So, Henry Emily. That’s your name," he mused, studying books on the shelves. "I see you’re an engineering student. Quite a bit of reading material here. I assume it's all necessary for your major?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess so," Henry replied, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

"I imagine you spend a lot of time in the lab, then?"

"Yeah, I’m there twice a week," Henry said, his voice uncertain.

William’s eyes landed on a photo frame on the bedside table. He picked it up, revealing an image of Henry with Ellie and friends at a party. He couldn’t help but notice Ellie’s blonde curls, her bright smile, and the arm she had draped around Henry.

"Who’s this?" William asked, his voice laced with curiosity.

"Just a few close friends," Henry explained, trying to downplay it. "We’ve known each other since middle school."

William's lips curled into a sinister smile. "Isn’t that nice?" He crossed his arms and fixed Henry with an unwavering gaze. "Well, the room looks good. And you seem alright. I think we’ll get along just fine." He took a step back, glancing around the room. "You know me already, but let’s do proper introductions." William extended his hand to Henry. "William Afton. Perhaps you’ve heard of me, or seen my name around. I don’t usually put myself out there unless it’s necessary."

Henry’s anxiety surged as Ellie’s warning echoed in his mind, but he forced himself to shake William’s hand.

"I don’t mind how you know," William continued, his voice smooth. "But rest assured, we’re going to be friends. Good friends."

"Really? That’s reassuring," Henry said, exhaling a shaky breath. This guy is... so weird, he thought. Clearing his throat, he added, "You do engineering too, right?"

"Yes. Done business. Now doing engineering. I’m passionate about both," William replied, pointing at a blueprint on Henry’s desk. "I have a lot of respect for this kind of work," he said, his smirk never faltering. Heading toward the door, he glanced back over his shoulder. "I’ll see you in class tomorrow, Emily. Have a good night."

"Night, Afton," Henry muttered, his voice a little more strained than he intended.

The door clicked shut behind William, his satisfied smirk lingering in Henry's mind. He was certain that he and Henry would become the best of friends—whether Henry realized it or not.

Henry parked his car in the lot, his hands sweating as he turned off the engine. He exhaled a tired breath before walking inside. As he entered, he saw you, focused and efficient, serving customers their orders with a practiced ease.

He made his way to his office, and as he entered, his eyes immediately landed on the picture frame on his desk. The weight of grief hit him like a physical blow. Without a word, he sank into his chair, burying his face in his hands. The tears came quietly at first, but soon they slipped down his cheeks, and he began to sob.

Chapter Text

PART 1

“Boo!”

Evan shrieked and ran off crying as Michael jumped out from behind the TV, a fox mask covering half his face. It was his prized possession—one their father had given him. The success of the diner had led to a flood of character merchandise, and each of the Afton children owned a set. But Michael’s favorite had always been Foxy the Pirate Fox. He wore the mask proudly, like a badge of honor.

Michael collapsed onto the sofa, chuckling to himself as Evan’s muffled sobs echoed from upstairs. He lit a cigarette, the flame flickering as smoke curled from his lips. He should’ve felt indifferent. But instead, satisfaction spread through his chest like warmth from a fire.

“I’ll be proud. Very proud…” His father's words echoed in his mind.

Evan’s birthday was in five days—and Michael was going to make sure it was a day he’d never forget.

“Hey, loser!” Michael yelled through clenched teeth, the cigarette now hanging from his mouth. He bounded up the stairs and barged into Evan’s room. Before the younger boy could react, Michael slammed the door shut and locked it from the outside.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Let me out, please!”

Michael snorted, amused. The pounding continued, growing weaker as Evan’s fists lost strength.

“Please, Michael, let me out!”

His voice cracked—raw, desperate. Still, no answer came.

Evan slumped to the floor, curling into himself as tears streamed silently down his cheeks.

Downstairs, Michael smiled to himself, slipped on his denim jacket, and walked out the door.

William parked his purple car outside his ex-wife’s house and stepped out, cigarette already between his fingers. Flowers climbed over the small gates and curled around the doorway like an afterthought. He lit another cigarette with a flick of his lighter, exhaling slowly before rapping smartly on the door.

Come on, you stupid bitch, he thought.

After a few moments, the door unlocked. Clara stepped out. Like William, she was thin, with large blue eyes and pale pink lips that barely moved when she spoke.

“William.”

“Clara.”

She stepped aside to let him in, and he walked past her, immediately noticing the photo frames. All of them—from his home, now displayed on her walls. His mood soured. She’d taken everything. Everything but the brats.

Clara sat delicately at the kitchen table, crossing one leg over the other. William grabbed a chair and propped his shoe on the seat. Her subtle frown didn’t go unnoticed.

“How’s everything?” she asked, tapping her nails against the wood.

“Shit,” he muttered flatly.

She said nothing, rising to her feet. His eyes followed her every move.

“Would you like a drink? Tea, perhaps?”

“Clara, look at me.” He sneered. “You think tea’s going to fix this?”

“I was just offering,” she replied softly. She was used to his temper, but it still unsettled her. Fishing for safer ground, she tried a change of subject. “Evan’s birthday is coming up, right?”

“Mm.”

“Where are you going to celebrate it?”

“I haven’t given it much thought,” he said, rocking the chair with his foot.

“He’s your son, Wi—”

“Oh, shut up! He’s yours too. All three of them!” he snapped, kicking the chair over with a loud crack.

Clara exhaled, but her eyes didn’t flinch. “Just two now,” she said, voice calm but cutting. “Don’t forget Elizabeth’s disappearance. Or maybe that’s something you’d rather not remember?”

He clenched his jaw. The girl's name was enough to make him hiss inside like a scalded cat.

“Whatever,” he growled. “You’ve still got two kids. And you only see them once a fucking month.” He threw his cigarette on the floor and ground it under his heel.

“You won custody.”

“I lost everything! Half the damn furniture in this place is from my paycheck!” He swung his fist, but Clara dodged, only to slam her hip into the counter.

Still glaring, she said coolly, “You have money. I don’t.”

“Then get a fucking job. You think Henry’s wife is sitting at home doing nothing? You think she steals his money? I don’t think so.”

Silence. It stretched thick and heavy.

“Why are you even here, William?” she asked, voice drained. “You know why I left. What do you want now?”

He stared, expression cold and distant. What did he want? A pathetic excuse came to mind—I miss you. He snorted. No, not that.

Then it clicked.

“I need a present. From you. For Evan.”

“Now?”

“Not now. Just have something ready when I come back this week.”

Clara nodded slowly. “Alright. I’ll try to find something sweet. I don’t want to give him any nightmares.”

Her eyes softened as they studied his face and tired eyes. Despite everything, she still felt that pull of care.

“Will... just don’t overwork yourself.”

He didn’t answer. He simply turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

By the time he pulled into the diner lot, something had shifted. His mind sparked with inspiration. A grin crept onto his face.

He knew exactly what to do.

"That’ll be four dollars," you said, glancing at the customer. Henry was holed up in his office, and thankfully, William was gone for the morning. As the stranger handed over the cash, something struck you: none of the Afton kids were here. Did William take them out for a while?

"Hey, Amy. I can take over if you’d like."

You turned at the voice — Pete, the main cashier. You shrugged.

"Sure."

You didn’t mind Pete much, even if his greasy brown hair looked like it hadn’t seen shampoo in days. He had a bad habit of yawning constantly and picking at his skin, but at least he was dependable. Shifting aside, you grabbed the cleaning gear and started scrubbing down the counters and tables, glancing occasionally at James.

He sat quietly at a nearby table, his eyes locked on the animatronics as they danced in sync.

You made your way over.

"Hey, bud. How are you?"

"Meh. Evan isn’t here today."

"Aww. I’m sure he’ll come tomorrow," you said gently, kneeling to meet his eye level.

Suddenly, a loud bang made both of you flinch. William had returned — the door slammed open as he stormed in, a crazed smile plastered across his face. He didn’t say a word as he marched straight to his office and kicked the door shut behind him, locking it.

You sighed and stood. "Well. Guess I better get to work."

"Yeah. Can I get some pizza for midday?"

You chuckled. One of the perks of working here? Free meals. Meant you didn’t have to dip into your own pocket to feed James.

"Sure. Let me make some." You leaned the mop against the wall and headed into the kitchen to start on lunch.

In his dimly lit office, William’s eyes scanned the blueprints laid out before him. Sketches of various Fredbear-inspired designs were scribbled across the pages—grotesque grins, sharp metal teeth, glowing eyes, and claws that looked capable of reaching out and grabbing a child from under the bed.

He chuckled softly.

His gaze settled on one drawing in particular—his personal favorite: Nightmare Freddy. It was perfect. The ultimate tool to blur the line between dream and reality for his son. A walking terror pulled from the dark corners of a child’s mind.

All he had to do now was build it.

Luckily, the equipment he needed was already set up at home. With a swift motion, he rolled the blueprint up, leaned back in his chair, and smirked.

But there was more he could do—more ways to elevate the fear.

He recalled the secret underground facility, the one where prototypes like Circus Baby were stored. It would serve perfectly. With a few adjustments, he could install cameras and monitor Evan every night, unseen. Every twitch. Every cry. 

William tapped his fingers on the desk, his mind racing with possibilities.

Sound illusion discs?

His smirk deepened. A high-pitched frequency, barely audible, could warp Evan’s perception—subtle enough to make him question what was real. A whisper here. A creak there. Just enough to chip away at his sense of safety.

Sleep deprivation would handle the rest.

From midnight to six in the morning. The perfect time frame. The witching hours.

He grinned. Yes. This could work.

But he had a deadline. The animatronic had to be completed before Evan’s birthday. Before it was too late.

William stood, rolling his sleeves up with determined precision.

This was going to be unforgettable.

PART 2

Everything was ready.

The moment William stepped through the front door after work, he barked at Evan to leave. The boy tried to explain—something about Michael locking him in again—but William didn’t care. He waved him off, tone cold and distracted, already consumed by the steps of his plan.

While Evan lingered outside, William worked swiftly. Cameras were installed, wires snaked behind the walls, and illusion discs were placed with calculated precision. Building the animatronic had been easier than expected. By eleven-thirty, William was gone—heading for the secret facility, the hidden place where monsters waited in the dark.

He flicked on the monitors.

There was Evan, curled under the covers, fast asleep. The screen crackled faintly, distorting his small, quiet figure—but William could still see everything. He leaned forward in anticipation, eyes sharp.

Three minutes...

Two minutes...

One.

Midnight.

Let the nightmare begin.

NIGHT 1

Thump.

Evan jolted awake, heart hammering in his chest. The room was pitch black, heavier somehow—like the darkness was alive, breathing around him.

Something was in the house.

He strained to listen. Silence.

His shaking hand reached for the flashlight. Cold metal. His only weapon.

Click.

The beam sliced through the dark—and his breath caught.

A monstrous version of Fredbear stood in the doorway. Its hulking frame glistened in the shadows, unmoving, watching.

Evan slammed the door shut, tears stinging his eyes. His breathing grew ragged as he backed away, stumbling toward the other door.

He opened it.

Nothing.

Breathe... Breathe...

Laughter. Low, warped, mechanical.

He turned to the bed—expecting a shadow, a claw, something.

Still nothing.

This can’t be real... Why can I see these things? Dad? Michael?

But Michael had been cruel lately, worse than ever. The taunting. The traps. The way he’d locked Evan in earlier... And Dad? He didn’t want to disturb him—not again.

Evan inched toward the right door, hand trembling mid-air, but couldn’t bring himself to open it. Instead, he slid down to the floor and cried quietly in the corner. His plush toys sat huddled close—his only friends.

A torn fox. Headless. Michael’s handiwork.

The others still wore their button smiles.

Help me, Evan mouthed. But no one came.

Back in the flickering light of the underground office, William watched.

His laughter echoed quietly, cold and metallic like the hum of the machines around him. The screens bathed his face in ghostly light, sharp shadows etched into every line.

Perfect.

This had gone exactly as planned. Evan’s fear—his raw, helpless fear—was the perfect canvas. William had always known the boy’s weak spots. Fredbear. Spring Bonnie. His own home. He’d weaponized them all.

Leaning back in his chair, William pulled out a beer from beneath the desk and twisted it open with a satisfied hiss. He took a slow drink, letting the image of Evan crying in the corner linger in his mind.

This was control. This was power.

The thrill was almost as intoxicating as the old days—the real power, the kind he hadn’t felt since...

But then—doubt.

A whisper of hesitation crept into his mind. He hadn’t meant for this to go too far. Evan was supposed to be scared, not harmed.

Not killed.

The animatronic was strong. Strong enough to crush. Tear. Break. And if Evan made a wrong move...

William’s smirk faltered, just slightly.

But no. He had to see this through. This was how he’d teach the boy. This was how he’d make him strong.

The weak couldn’t survive the world.

And William Afton didn’t raise weak sons.

Throughout the day, Michael wandered around town, drifting from place to place until night had fully set in. Cold and tired, he clung to his denim jacket, wishing he wasn’t alone. He thought about you. Something about the thought of seeing you tomorrow made him feel less hollow. You were working at the diner, and he’d decided—he’d go there as much as possible. But why? Why was he so eager to see you?

Eventually, he stumbled upon a bench and sat down. The night sky had turned a faint blue, stars still glimmering overhead as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon. Closing his eyes, he let himself drift off.

*

"Hey, hey! Wake up!"

Someone was shaking his shoulder. Groggily, Michael opened his eyes to see you standing over him. He jumped slightly. You were already in your uniform, concern written all over your face.

"Ah—Amy? What time is it?" he asked with a yawn, rubbing his eyes.

"Almost eight. I’ve gotta head to the hardware store to buy a wrench. What are you doing out here? Don’t tell me your dad kicked you out."

"No, nothing like that. I was just wandering around. Got tired, I guess." He stretched and yawned again. "Also, why the wrench? You finally fixing some busted animatronics?"

You rolled your eyes. "Shut up. Mr. Emily told me to get it—he couldn’t find his."

Michael chuckled. "That’s rare. Henry usually knows where he keeps all his shit." You held out your hand, and Michael took it, pulling himself up from the bench. "You know, I like wandering at night. You should try it sometime."

"I do," you replied. "Just not alone. Especially not in a new town."

He nudged you playfully. "Come with me next time. I promise—no biting."

You smiled despite yourself. "Tonight? Fine. Deal." Together, you walked to the hardware store.

While you searched for the wrench, Michael wandered to a display of chains and wires, playfully wrapping one around his wrist.

"Michael, seriously?" you said, raising a brow.

He flashed a grin. "What? Chains are in. I'm just... experimenting."

You stifled a laugh. The cashier looked at both of you with a deadpan stare.

“Teens,” she muttered under her breath as she rang you up.

The moment you stepped outside, the two of you burst into laughter, barely holding it together as you headed back to the diner.

* 

As you entered, you spotted Henry sitting with James at a booth.

“Alright kiddo, which hand’s the coin in?”

“The left! The left!” James giggled, pointing at the fist.

Henry opened it—there it was. “Clever kid!” he smiled.

"Amy!" James beamed, waving. You bent down to hug him.

“Hey there! Looks like you two are having fun,” you said warmly, before turning to Henry. “Here’s the wrench you asked for.”

Henry sighed with relief. “Thank you. I tore this place apart looking for it. I thought maybe William borrowed it—but who knows.”

Michael leaned against a chair. “Speaking of him, have you seen my dad?”

“He should be here soon. Hopefully with Evan, so James has someone to play with.”

Michael stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Need help with anything today?”

“One of the arcade cabinets is acting up. Either of you want to take a look?”

“I’ll do it!” you jumped in before Michael could respond.

“Enthusiastic. I like it,” Henry grinned.

Michael smirked. “She’ll probably make it worse.”

You elbowed him. Henry chuckled.

Just then, the front door opened—and William entered, dragging Evan by the hand. The boy looked exhausted, his eyes wide and distant. You watched William briefly—his scowl, his tight grip on Evan’s wrist—then turned your attention to the child.

“Hey, Evan. Are you alright?” you asked softly, crouching beside him.

Evan rubbed at his eyes. “I had a really bad nightmare…”

“That’s awful. Want to talk about it?”

William made a dismissive sound and disappeared into his office.

“It was Fredbear. But he wasn’t normal—he had claws and teeth and... he was chasing me.”

Your heart clenched. You opened your arms, and Evan fell into them.

“It’s okay. It was just a dream,” you whispered, wiping a tear from his cheek.

“But I heard him. In the house,” he said. “I saw him.”

James came bouncing over. “Let’s play another game, Evan! Amy, can we get slushies?”

“Sure,” you smiled. “Let’s all go have some fun, yeah?”

Evan gave a tiny nod, holding his plushie close.

"You two are really nice," he mumbled. "Nicer than Dad. Or Michael."

You paused for a moment, your chest tightening. You always assumed William was harsh—but Michael, too?

You looked back at him. He was staring at Evan, his expression unreadable.

*

Later, with the wrench in hand, you focused on fixing the arcade cabinet, humming softly, lost in concentration. Behind you, Evan and James laughed, their slushie cups in hand. 

As you worked, a shadow loomed over you.

“Sorry to startle you, Amy.”

You turned—William. His smile was sharp and empty.

“Mind stepping into my office? Just a quick chat,” he said, resting a firm hand on your shoulder.

You stiffened. “Sure.”

“Nothing to worry about,” he said, eyes cold. “I just want to talk.”

You nodded, trying to keep your voice even. “Alright.”

As you followed him to the office, you became all too aware of the height difference—of how heavy his presence felt.

He opened the door with one hand, then gestured toward it.

“After you.”

*

“So, tell me. How are you finding the job?” William asked, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. You sat gingerly in the chair, visibly nervous. Inside, he relished your vulnerability.

“It’s good. I can’t really complain,” you replied, trying to sound relaxed.

William’s eyes gleamed with a mix of curiosity and something darker. “Care for a drink?” He extended the bottle toward you.

You shook your head politely. “No, thank you.” Drinking on the job?

He chuckled, taking a slow sip before setting his glass down with a hollow clink. “Suit yourself,” he shrugged. “Though, my father would’ve liked you. Never had much patience for drinkers.”

You managed a small smile, avoiding his gaze. His intense stare made you feel like an exhibit under scrutiny.

William sighed, breaking the silence. “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you? Are you always like this?”

You gave a small nod. “Sometimes.”

He hummed, leaning back slightly. “It’s a nice change from my children. They never stop talking. Always whining about something. Evan, for instance. Or Michael—he’s even worse.” His tone was casual, but there was an edge to it, like he was testing you.

You hesitated, then spoke up. “Evan mentioned having a really bad nightmare. I’d be scared too, if I were his age.”

“I see. Did he tell you what it was about?”

You crossed your legs. “He mentioned Fredbear. Said he looked scarier in the dream.”

William’s smile tightened, thin and forced. “Children do have the most vivid imaginations, don’t they?”

“I suppose,” you said, watching him carefully. “Nightmares often reflect inner fears. Is something troubling Evan?”

William leaned back, mildly impressed with your perceptiveness. “Not that I’m aware of,” he said, though you suspected otherwise. He took another sip, his eyes never leaving yours.

“So,” he continued, “tell me a bit about yourself, Amy.”

“Like what?” you asked, keeping your tone neutral.

He rested his chin on his fist, watching you. “Oh, anything. I haven’t seen you around before, so I’m guessing you moved here recently?”

“Yes, from Washington. I was looking for a fresh start.”

“Washington?” he echoed. “That’s quite a journey for an eighteen-year-old with a seven-year-old sibling.”

You corrected him automatically. “Eight years old. And yes, it was a long trip, but James is no trouble.”

William raised an eyebrow. “You’re quite young to be taking on that kind of responsibility. Shouldn’t you be in college?”

“College wasn’t for me,” you said, not entirely truthfully. “James is a good sibling. He’s not a burden.”

“I see. Sounds like you care for him a lot.”

“A lot,” you affirmed.

William’s smirk barely twitched. The thought of causing you distress clearly intrigued him.

“That’s admirable. I almost envy you. Being an only child, I missed out on all that. It’s both a blessing and a curse.” He paused, letting the words hang before casually reaching for a file. “And speaking of academics...” He placed your file on the desk. “Straight A’s in engineering, pre-college. Impressive. Shame you had to drop out. You could’ve been something even bigger.”

“Thank you,” you said with a nod. “I’ve heard you built the animatronics yourself. They’re impressive.”

“Flattery will get you far,” William said, though his tone was dismissive. “Michael could use some of that drive. He’s always messing around with his friends instead of focusing.”

“Well, let’s hope he improves,” you said cautiously.

He nodded, finishing his drink. Then, as if on a whim, “Where’s your family, if you don’t mind me asking?”

You swallowed. “My father passed away, and my mother is... I’m not sure where she is.”

“Lost contact with her?” he pressed, tone casual, gaze intense. “None?”

“None. Maybe it’s for the best,” you said, voice faltering slightly.

William’s expression softened—just for a moment. “Mm. I’m sorry to hear about your father. Mine passed a few years ago as well.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Afton.”

He waved it off. “No need. My relationship with him was... complicated.” His lips tightened into a grimace, and silence fell between you.

Clearing his throat, William finally said, “Well, this has been an interesting conversation. I should let you get back to work.”

“Of course, Mr. Afton.”

“Please, call me William.”

“William.”

He watched as you stood and left. When the door clicked shut, his smirk widened. He slid your file back in front of him and clicked his pen.

Name: Amy [X]
Age: 18
Origin: Washington
Family: Father deceased. Mother—whereabouts unknown. No contact.
Siblings: One. James, age 8. Under Amy’s care.
Academic Record: High achiever. Engineering. Dropped out.

William poured another glass of whiskey, mind already churning with the new information.

Michael watched as you finished fixing the arcade machine. When you powered it up, the screen lit up with cheerful music, and you couldn’t help but cheer.

“You actually fixed it,” Michael said, his tone a mix of genuine amusement and mild surprise. He stepped closer, placing a hand on the buttons.

“Yeah, I guess I didn’t break it any more than it already was,” you replied with a playful grin, referencing his earlier joke.

“Seems so. Uh, you wanna take a break?”

The sudden suggestion threw you off a little. You looked up at Michael with a slight frown, unsure. “Sure, I guess?”

He led you behind the building, where he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. You leaned against the cold brick wall, folding your arms. “Don’t you think you should quit?”

Michael exhaled a cloud of smoke, his gaze drifting away. “No.” He noted your expression and sighed. “I’m working on it. Look, have you seen the amount of gum I chew? It’s practically a meal replacement.”

“Mm, I believe you,” you said, rolling your eyes with a small smile as the smoke curled around you both.

After a moment of quiet, Michael shifted his stance and glanced at you again, his expression more serious. “Um, Amy?”

“Yeah?”

He hesitated before leaning in slightly, his breath warm against your face. “Do… do you like anyone?”

You met his gaze, a flutter of nerves rushing through you. “I, uh, not really. I liked someone once, but it didn’t work out. I’m still figuring things out.”

Michael’s expression softened, a mixture of relief and contemplation in his eyes. “So, you’re single then. That’s… good to know.” A hint of vulnerability slipped into his voice. “I’m still trying to figure things out too. I guess I’m just interested in getting to know you better.”

Your surprise was clear, and you blinked, trying to process his words. “So you… like me? That’s kind of sudden. Do you always move this fast?”

Michael chuckled, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Well, maybe. But I haven’t made any big decisions yet. You’re interesting and fun to be around.”

You laughed softly, nudging his arm playfully. “Is this your usual approach? Getting to know someone by hitting on them?”

He grinned wider, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Only if they’re worth it. And you seem to be.”

You glanced away, then back at him, bashfully. “You know, you can be a bit of a jerk sometimes, but you’re not bad. I think people might misunderstand you.”

Michael scratched the back of his neck, his gaze drifting as he processed your words. A quiet moment passed, and he seemed lost in thought.

“Yeah, maybe... Sometimes I guess I come off the wrong way.” He let out a soft chuckle, almost to himself. “But… thanks for saying that.” He exhaled, his posture loosening as he shifted his weight. With a more relaxed tone, he added, “I didn’t mean to make it weird. I just… I don’t know, enjoy talking to you.”

He gave a small shrug, then shoved his left hand into his pocket. “We should head inside before my dad starts getting suspicious, though.”

Chapter Text

PART 1

You and Michael walked back into the diner, the low hum of activity buzzing quietly around you. As you adjusted your uniform, your shoulder brushed against someone — William.

He raised an eyebrow, jaw tight and lips drawn in a thin, unimpressed line. His eyes briefly flicked to Michael.

“Michael, I need you in the back with the animatronics,” he said, voice clipped and devoid of warmth.

Michael sighed, barely disguising the irritation in his tone. “Can’t Henry handle it? He’s usually the one messing with wires.”

William’s stare sharpened. “Henry’s at home with Samuel. You’re up.”

Michael knew better than to push it. With a resigned nod, he muttered, “Alright, alright,” and started for the back office. As he passed you, he glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll catch you later.”

You offered a faint, sympathetic wave as the door shut behind him — just in time for a sudden bang to echo across the diner.

You turned with a jolt to see Pete sprawled across the floor, having tripped over a chair.

“Ow,” he groaned, rubbing his shin.

“Are you okay?” you asked, hurrying over.

“Yeah, yeah. Just my usual grace,” Pete replied with a sheepish grin as you helped him to his feet. “I’m heading out now, but — hey, you want the cashier shift tomorrow or…?”

You hesitated. The thought of standing behind that counter again made your skin crawl. “Uh, I think Mr. Emily wants me to keep fixing the arcade machines,” you offered, a little too quickly.

Pete raised a brow but didn’t press it. “Alright, suit yourself. See you tomorrow.”

“See you, Pete,” you said, watching him limp slightly as he made his way out the door.

With the diner quieter now, you grabbed a broom and began sweeping, the soft, rhythmic sound of bristles scraping tile filling the space. Crumbs, lint, and forgotten bits of paper gathered into neat piles — but the unease in your chest was harder to tidy away.

“Michael.”

The two men sat across from each other, the air between them thick with unspoken hatred.

“What?” Michael snapped, the fear in his eyes barely masked by defiance. “What’s your problem now, huh?”

William rose slowly. Michael flinched, bracing for a slap, but it didn’t come.

Instead, William grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the wall. The chair toppled over with a crash.

“Michael,” William repeated, voice low, almost calm.

His grip tightened. Michael clawed at his father’s hands, panic rising in his chest as air became scarce. William only smiled — a slow, sadistic smile — watching as Michael’s eyes began to roll back.

“Do you remember what happened last time?” he murmured, pressing a hand against Michael’s ribs, right where the bruise still throbbed.

Michael, choking, gathered enough strength to spit in his father's face.

William flinched slightly. Then his face twisted in disgust. “You insolent little shit.”

He wiped the spit away with the back of his hand, then drove his fist into Michael’s gut. Michael collapsed, gasping, curling in on himself on the floor.

Without pause, William pulled out a pocket knife. The metallic click echoed in the office as he flipped the blade open.

He knelt, pressing the cold edge to Michael’s neck.

“D-Dad, please don’t,” Michael whispered, trembling.

William leaned in, voice like poison. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t hurt me.”

The blade pushed harder, drawing a thin line of blood.

“Oh, I won’t hurt you. I’ll hurt your little friend instead.” His grin widened. “I wonder what sound she’ll make when I cut her.”

He tilted the knife upward, forcing Michael’s chin back.

“Don’t you fucking dare—” Michael’s words caught as the blade nicked deeper.

William’s expression didn’t change. “If I catch you two flirting at work again, you know what I’ll do. And you know I mean it.”

His eyes bored into his son's, watching Michael nod in fear.

Click. The knife folded shut. William tucked it away and motioned for his son to get up.

Michael, trembling and rubbing his sore neck, forced himself to his feet.

William leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on the desk, and lit a cigarette. Smoke curled lazily in the dim light.

“But keep up the good work scaring Evan,” he said with a hint of malicious satisfaction. He then replaced his dry humour with a snarl. “Now get out of my damn office.”

Michael staggered to his feet, clutching his ribs. He didn’t look back. His face, pale and tight with pain, twisted with shame. He slammed the diner doors open and disappeared.

“Look, Dad,” Sammy said, tugging at Henry’s sleeve.

They were out walking — a gentle stroll, meant to help Sammy recover. But what stopped them in their tracks wasn’t the fresh air.

A rabbit lay twitching in the grass, blood matting its fur. Its legs spasmed weakly — it was dying, but not fast enough.

Henry’s heart twisted.

“Don’t look, Sammy.”

He crouched beside it, jaw clenched. He reached for a nearby rock — heavy, smooth, final.

With a breath held tight in his chest, Henry took the rabbit’s hind legs and brought the stone down. Hard.

It was over in one hit.

Blood splattered onto the earth. Henry wiped his hands against his trousers, eyes lingering on the limp body.

“Is it over?” Sammy whispered.

Henry nodded. “Yeah. It’s over.”

They stood in silence.

“Have you ever killed a rabbit before?” Sammy asked.

“First time today,” Henry said, his voice low. "I hate killing animals."

Sammy frowned. “William has, though, right? When he was a kid?”

“Yeah. I think he hunted with his father.” Henry stared off into the trees.

“His dad was a farmer, right?”

“Yeah…” Henry’s voice trailed off. A memory flickered — something from college. Something about William. Something that still made his skin crawl.

Both best friends strolled across the campus on a bright spring afternoon, their day’s classes behind them. William, as usual, had a cigarette between his fingers, puffing out smoke in lazy circles, while Henry admired the blooming scenery.

Henry’s gaze landed on something half-hidden in the bushes. He tugged at William’s sleeve.

“Hey, Will. What’s that?”

They approached the spot and discovered the carcass of a dead fox. Its bloated stomach and the rancid smell suggested it had been lying there for days.

William stared at it with unsettling fascination, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Fascinating,” he murmured.

Henry frowned at him. “Will?”

“It’s ironic, really,” William said, eyes gleaming with a peculiar interest. “The rabbit is usually the prey of the fox. But here we are. Dead fox. I’m guessing some disease got it.”

Henry raised an eyebrow, unnerved by William’s morbid curiosity.

“You into dead animals or something?”

William shrugged, taking another drag from his cigarette.

“When I was a kid, my old man used to drag me out hunting. Said it’d make me tough.” His tone turned dry. “Those were some fun times.”

“I didn’t know you hunted.”

“Now you do.”

William’s gaze lingered on the fox, his mind drifting.

“My father always said I was like prey. And he—he was the predator. It was his favourite metaphor. In the animal kingdom, survival depends on one choice: feed or flee.” His smirk widened, but his eyes were cold. “I’ve been watching that game my whole life.”

A shadow crossed his face—an old memory stirring beneath the surface.

“C’mon, we haven’t got all day!”

Oliver Afton’s northern voice cut through the morning fog like a whip. He and William trudged through the woods, rifles in hand—a father-son ritual neither of them enjoyed. Their years on the farm, before the move to the city, were marked by these outings: tense, wordless, and full of silent loathing. William’s mother insisted they spend time together. She thought it would help.

It didn’t.

William spotted a hare. Its fur was soft, golden in the sunlight. He raised his rifle with practiced calm.

“Easy now. Don’t scare it,” Oliver muttered.

Crack. A branch snapped beneath William’s foot. The hare bolted.

“You fucking sod,” Oliver snapped. “What’re you waiting for? We’re not leaving till you shoot it.” He swatted the back of William’s head. “Go on. After it!”

William rolled his eyes and stalked off, pushing through the underbrush. The hare darted under a bush, then froze by a tree.

He took aim. Held his breath. Squeezed the trigger.

BANG.

Leaves and dirt flew. William approached the twitching body. Blood soaked into the soil, and the hare’s shattered torso convulsed in slow, agonizing spasms. Its eyes rolled wildly.

He watched.

He liked it.

“Did you get it?” Oliver’s voice rang out.

“Yeah,” William replied. “It’s not dead, though.”

Oliver crouched beside the animal, poking it with a thick stick. “You nearly blew it apart. It’s suffering. Kill it.”

William didn’t move. His voice was calm.

“No. I want it to suffer.”

Oliver stared at him. “What on earth did you just say?”

William turned to him, unblinking.

“If I were in its place, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to bleed out. Let it suffer.”

Oliver’s jaw clenched. “Well, you don’t know that. None of us do.” He puffed on his pipe, smoke curling in the cold air. “For pity's sake, Will. Just end it. We need to get back.”

William stepped closer to the hare. He grabbed it, the warm, wet body, staining his hands and crawling under his fingernails. In one swift, cruel motion, he snapped its neck.

He dropped the body and turned to his father, a thin, bitter smile on his face.

Oliver studied him—something unreadable behind his hard eyes.

Uncomfortable silence hung between them.

William’s smirk faded.

“Done. Let’s go.”

PART 2

You finished your shift at the diner and walked home with James, the cool shade offering welcome relief from the day’s heat. The moment you saw your couch, you collapsed onto it with a satisfied sigh, loosening your purple tie to ease the pressure around your neck.

A tangle of emotions settled in your chest—happiness tinged with uncertainty. Michael’s admission had caught you off guard, and you were still trying to make sense of what it all meant. From the kitchen, you heard the sound of running water—likely James grabbing a drink.

“Amy, what’s for dinner?” he called. "Amy?"

“Uhh... there’s some veggies that need boiling,” you replied, already standing up. “Let me check.”

As you reached into your pocket, your fingers brushed against a folded note—Michael’s. You pulled it out, smiling softly at the sight of his handwriting, before tucking it back in and heading into the kitchen, where James was already rummaging through the fridge.

“What’s that you’re smiling about?” he asked, eyeing you curiously.

“Hm? Oh, nothing. Just thinking,” you said, brushing it off as you started pulling out ingredients for a stew. Before long, the two of you were peeling, chopping, and boiling in companionable silence.

While the stew simmered, you slipped upstairs and retrieved your contact book. You hesitated for a moment, then carefully wrote down Michael’s number. You considered calling him but decided against it—for now.

After dinner, with the dishes done and the kitchen quiet again, you noticed James rubbing his eyes.

“Amy, I’m sleepy. I wanna go to bed,” he mumbled, resting his head against your stomach. You smiled. He was clearly wiped out from all the playing he’d done with Evan earlier.

“Alright, bud. Let’s get you to bed.” You scooped him up and carried him to his room, tucking him in and closing the curtains.

“Good night!”

“Night, sis,” he murmured, already half-asleep.

You stretched your back as you left his room and wandered into your own. The contact book sat haphazardly on your dresser. After a pause, you bit your nail, debating. Then, on impulse, you picked up the phone and dialed Michael’s number, nerves fluttering in your chest. It rang several times, and just as the answering machine picked up, you sighed—disappointed.

Then the phone rang.

Startled, you grabbed the receiver, heart suddenly pounding.

“Hello?”

“Uh, who is this?” Michael’s voice sounded strained, raw.

“Hey, Michael. It’s me! Amy.”

“Amy, I—uh, can I come over tonight? Please?” His voice cracked, thick with desperation.

Your stomach dropped. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I don’t wanna stay at home right now. My father… he was fucking awful at the diner, and I just—I need some space,” he said, his voice breaking.

You felt sorry for him. “Of course. Yeah. Come over.”

You gave him your address, repeating it to be sure he got it right.

“See you,” he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

You hung up the phone, your mind racing.

*

The first thing Michael did when you opened the door was pull you into a tight hug. He clung to you like his life depended on it. You gently led him inside and guided him to the couch, where he collapsed, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook as he cried.

“Hey, hey… what’s wrong? What happened?” you asked softly, sitting beside him and wrapping your arms around him. You gently guided his head beneath your chin, holding him close and rubbing slow, soothing circles on his back. “Take your time,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the worry tightening your chest.

After a few moments, his breathing slowed, and he found the strength to speak.

“It’s better if I just show you.”

“Show me what—” you started, but your words caught in your throat as he lifted his shirt.

Your breath hitched. His torso was covered in bruises—patches of dark purples, sickly yellows, and blotchy reds.

“Oh my God… Michael.” You covered your mouth, horror written across your face. “What the hell happened to you?”

“My father,” he said quietly. “He was pissed. He always is. This time... God, who fucking knows why.” He looked away. “This was my punishment.”

Without thinking, you got up and grabbed some ice from the freezer, wrapping it in a clean cloth. Sitting back down, you carefully pressed it to his bruises. He flinched at the cold, but then sighed in relief as the numbness dulled the pain.

“You can’t go back there,” you said, your voice firm but gentle. You looked into his eyes, searching for some trace of hope.

“I don’t have a choice,” he murmured. “I have to be at the diner.”

“Wait… he did this at the diner?”

Michael nodded, voice hoarse. “He’ll do it anywhere. As long as there’s a door to shut between us, he doesn’t care.”

As he shifted, you noticed a cut on his upper arm.

“Did William do that?” you asked, pointing to it.

“No, that one was me. Tried to jump a fence—didn’t go well.” He gave a weak laugh. “But earlier today... he held a knife to my neck. Is there a mark?”

You leaned in. There was a faint line, just visible beneath his jaw.

“A little,” you said, biting your lip. He reached up and traced the spot with a finger, almost absentmindedly.

“Please don’t worry. If I can just get a good night’s sleep, I’ll be okay.”

Your heart broke for him. “Have you eaten today?”

He gave a small, dry laugh. “Not really. Dad hasn’t restocked the fridge in weeks. I’ve been living off cheap ready meals… and cigarettes.”

You rose without a word and went to the kitchen, making him a quick ham and cheese sandwich and pouring a glass of water. When you returned, you placed them on the coffee table in front of him. He immediately began to eat, clearly starving.

“Sorry,” he said between bites, noticing your gaze.

“It’s fine,” you assured him. “You’re hungry. Do you want an ice pop when you’re done?”

He looked sheepish but nodded. “Sure. Sorry for eating your food.”

“Michael,” you said gently, “you haven’t eaten properly in ages. You don’t have to be sorry. I want you to stay well and healthy, okay?”

You sat beside him as he drained the last of the water. He glanced at you, hesitating.

“Can I… stay here tonight?”

“Of course,” you said without pause. “It’s safer here. You’re welcome anytime.”

A visible wave of relief washed over him.

“I’ll sleep on the couch, right?” He gestured toward it, then cheekily pointed upward. “Or maybe… your room?”

You gave a short, amused scoff. “Pfft. Don’t push your luck.”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Kidding. Kidding.”

“Well,” you said, standing up, “it’s up to you. Couch is fine, but if you’d rather come upstairs, you can.”

His expression shifted, surprised. “Wait… seriously? I can come up with you?”

You nodded. “Sure. But nothing weird, got it?”

“Got it,” he said, quickly, almost nervously. The two of you stood, and you gathered his empty plate and glass, rinsing them in the sink. Then you grabbed an ice pop from the freezer and handed it to him as you led the way upstairs.

*

You placed a finger to your lips as you passed James’s room. Michael caught on quickly, treading quietly over the gray carpet. Once inside your room, his gaze drifted to the photos on the wall—most of them of you and James, arms wrapped around each other in various snapshots of joy. On the far left hung a polaroid: you, James, and an older man, all beaming at the camera.

“My father,” you said with a soft smile. “He was the best dad in the world.”

A brief silence lingered.

“He passed away, right?” Michael asked gently.

“Yeah.”

Michael stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on top of your head. “I bet he really was the best. I know he would’ve been proud of you.”

You turned in his arms, looking up with a faint smile. “He loved us both so much.”

Michael let go and sank onto your bed, running a hand over the soft fabric. “I just wish… I could be proud in my father’s eyes.”

You sat beside him and gently cupped his face. “I’m sure your father loves you. He just doesn’t know how to show it—not in a healthy way. But even if he doesn’t… I’m proud of you. You’re perfect exactly as you are.”

Tears welled in his eyes. You wiped them away softly with your thumbs.

“Don’t ever think you’re not good enough,” you murmured. “Ever.”

He gave a small nod, visibly comforted.

“I’m going to change out of this sweaty uniform,” you said, getting up. “Be back in a minute.”

“Okay.”

You stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Warm water cascaded over your skin, steam rising in soft curls. The scent of your soap filled the air—clean, familiar, calming. After drying off, you slipped into your light summer pajamas. A gentle breeze floated in from the open window, carrying the distant song of crickets.

Gathering your uniform, you headed downstairs and tossed it into the washer. The low hum of the cycle filled the quiet house as you leaned against the kitchen counter, eyes drifting toward the night outside. The sun had vanished entirely, leaving the sky painted in deep purples and fading blues.

With a tired sigh, you made your way back upstairs, padding softly down the dim hallway. You knocked gently at your bedroom door before pushing it open.

Michael was already sprawled across your bed, shirtless, arms tucked behind his head. He glanced over and grinned, clearly making no effort to move.

You rolled your eyes, unable to suppress a smirk. “Nothing weird, or I’ll kick you out.”

Michael raised his hands in mock surrender. “Scout’s honor.”

Shaking your head, you climbed into bed beside him. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he shifted to make room for you. Silence settled around you both, soft and safe, your breathing syncing in the stillness. It wasn’t long before you both drifted off to sleep.

NIGHT 2

Run.

Open the door.

Flashlight.

Nothing.

Back again.

Other door.

Listen.

Stillness.

Open it.

Evan had the night memorized like a mantra—his rigid pattern of survival. As midnight crept closer, he lay wide awake, heart racing, every muscle tense. The eerie hum in his room had returned.

He wasn’t safe.

Not yet.

Breathe... Breathe...

No more time.

He had to survive.

PART 3

"Evan."

Evan whimpered, hiding under his bedsheets. William had returned from the secret location the previous night and discovered that Michael still hadn't come home. The house was eerily quiet as he entered, the smell of alcohol clinging to him—both from the beer bottle in his hand and his breath.

"Evan, come out," William called, his voice heavy with frustration. "I know you're under there."

Scared, Evan peeked his head out from under the covers, watching his father sway slightly. William’s gaze was intense, searching for answers.

"Where is your brother? I took you home yesterday afternoon and went back to work. I’m here again—and Michael still isn’t back. Has he told you where he’s gone?"

Evan shook his head, his voice barely audible. "No."

"Are you sure?" William's tone sharpened, the alcohol amplifying his irritation.

"I’m sure, Dad," Evan squeaked.

William sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "Well, whatever. The moment he comes home, I’ll have a word with him."

"Umm..."

"What?" William asked, impatient.

Evan huddled into his duvet like a bird nesting for safety. "Why do I keep having these nightmares? They scare me a lot."

William turned to face him, sitting on the edge of the bed. His demeanor shifted from anger to something resembling concern—but it was thin, performative.

"You worry too much. Your mind never gets a chance to rest," he said.

"B—"

"Enough, Evan. We’re going to the diner today. Get ready."

Evan nodded quietly and scrambled out of bed.

Michael woke to early sunlight streaming through the blinds. He turned over and saw you sleeping peacefully, your hair tousled and your cheeks flushed with warmth.

You looked adorable.

Yawning, he stretched and climbed out of bed. Determined to be useful, he padded downstairs. The washing machine had finished its cycle, so he pulled out your wet uniform. You didn’t have a tumble dryer, so he took it outside and hung it on the line, hoping the sun would do the rest.

Back inside, he rummaged through your cupboards and found a tin of coffee. He preferred tea, but this would do. After brewing a cup and grimacing at the bitter taste, he added milk and a few teaspoons of sugar, and gave it a stir. Not bad.

"You're Evan's brother."

Michael spun around to see James standing there in jeans and an orange shirt, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Oh. Yeah," Michael said, caught off guard. He’d forgotten James was in the house.

"What are you doing here?" James asked, his tone suspicious.

"Uh, I spent time with your sister yesterday. We had a chat and stuff."

James frowned, glancing toward the living room. "You didn’t sleep downstairs. The sofa hasn’t been touched. Where did you sleep?"

Michael’s brain scrambled. "Look, I slept upstairs. On the floor. Carpet."

James raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but didn’t push it. "Okay. Well, Amy needs to wake up. I want to go to the diner to play with Evan."

Michael chuckled. "I can wake her if you want."

"Please do," James said, popping some slices of bread into the toaster.

Michael went back upstairs and gently pushed your bedroom door open. You were still asleep, your expression peaceful. He smiled softly and leaned in to shake your shoulder.

"Amy."

You opened one eye and smiled when you saw his messy hair. "Morning. Did you sleep well?" you asked, stretching.

"Morning. And yeah. I’ve been sent by your brother to wake you up," he said, chuckling.

You snorted and glanced at the clock. "Oh, shit! I left my uniform in the washing machine—it’s not going to dry in time!"

"Don’t worry. I already took it out and hung it up. It might not be fully dry, but I can grab you another uniform at the diner."

"Really?" you asked, sitting up.

Michael nodded. "Yeah. That way you’ll have a backup if one gets messy."

"True. Gimme a few minutes to get ready? Could you wait downstairs?"

"Not a problem."

You groaned softly as you got up and headed to the bathroom to brush your teeth and freshen up. Afterward, you pulled on a skirt, a top, and a denim jacket, then grabbed your shoes and headed downstairs.

Michael was chatting with James.

"You’re British? I knew you sounded different!" James said.

"Hey, squirt, don’t be mean. I sound awesome, okay?" Michael replied.

"Pfft. British people do weird stuff like eat beans on toast."

"Oi! Don’t insult our culinary traditions! Beans on toast is a classic," Michael said, giving him a mock swat. James ducked, laughing. "Besides, you guys eat biscuits and gravy. Now that’s weird."

"What’s beans on toast?" you asked as you dropped your shoes by the door.

"Well... beans. On toast," Michael said with a smirk. "It's in the name."

You rolled your eyes with a laugh. "Is it good?"

"Obviously. Any British breakfast is just—" he kissed his fingertips with a flourish. "We can make it one day. Doesn’t take much."

"Sounds good," you said, grabbing a mug and finishing the leftover coffee. You wiped your mouth. "Come on, we can always grab more at the diner."

The three of you headed out, James running ahead while you and Michael stayed behind, chatting softly as the morning brightened around you.

*

Evan sat at the table, idly picking at his nails. The moment he spotted Michael entering, he jumped up and bolted without a word.

You blinked, puzzled, then turned to Michael with a questioning look. He just shrugged, feigning innocence.

Raising an eyebrow, you decided not to push it. “Hey, where are the spare uniforms kept?”

“I’ll get them for you,” he said, already heading toward Mr. Emily’s office. He knocked and waited. Muffled voices filtered through the door before it opened—William stepped out, Henry just behind him.

“Mich—”

“Michael! How can we help you?” Henry cut William off, his voice bright and disarming.

Michael smiled slightly. “Hey Henry. I need a couple of spare uniforms for Amy. She only has one, and it’d help to have a backup or two.”

“Of course,” Henry said kindly, slipping back into the office.

As soon as Henry disappeared, William’s face darkened.

“Where were you last night?” he hissed.

Michael held his gaze. “None of your business.”

William stepped forward, menace radiating off him. Michael could feel the tension like static in the air. His father looked one second away from lashing out.

Michael exhaled. “I was at a friend’s house. Is that a crime now?”

“Yes,” William spat. “You’re supposed to be home watching your brother.”

Michael let out a bitter laugh. “What—for you to yell at both of us instead of just one? He’s already scared out of his mind. Of the animatronics. Of me.”

William grabbed Michael by the front of his shirt, yanking him forward. “I decide what’s best for him. Do you understand? If you’re not home tonight—”

“I will be,” Michael cut in, brushing his father’s hands off. “Relax. I’ll be there. Promise.”

William straightened, jaw tight, just as Henry returned, holding two neatly folded uniforms.

“Here you go, Mike,” he said warmly.

“Thanks, Henry. Appreciate it.”

“No problem, kiddo,” Henry replied with a smile.

Michael turned and walked back toward the dining area, where you were chatting with James. As soon as you saw him, you stood up with relief.

“Thank you! I’ll go change and get started.”

“Cool,” Michael said, grinning. “I’ll try not to walk in on you this time.”

You rolled your eyes and gave him a playful punch on the arm before hurrying off. James snickered.

“Michael and Amy, sitting in a tree—”

“Can it, squirt,” Michael said, smirking as James ran off giggling, probably in search of Evan.

Clara Afton had just finished picking out Evan’s present—a soft, lime-green dinosaur plushie. She tucked it into a gift bag and headed home. Once settled in, she dialed the number for the diner.

The line clicked. William’s voice came through, clipped and overly rehearsed.

"Hello, thank you for calling Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. William Afton speaking. How can I help?"

"Will, it’s me. Clara."

There was a pause, followed by a sigh and the sound of a chair creaking. His tone dropped into a sharp snap. “What?”

“I’ve got a present for Evan. Should I bring it by the diner, or do you want to pick it up?”

“I’ll pick it up later. What is it?”

“A dinosaur plushie.”

William groaned. “Doesn’t he already have a hundred of those damn things?”

Clara smiled faintly despite herself. “Will. I’m sure he’ll love it.”

“Mmm.” William propped his foot up on the desk, eyeing the scuffed shine on his shoes. “I just want him to grow up.”

“He’s seven,” Clara said gently. “He’ll be eight soon. You can’t expect him to mature overnight.”

“And you can’t expect him to grow up at all if you keep coddling him,” William snapped. “Look at me. Tough love made me grow up.”

Silence lingered for a beat. Clara’s voice dropped, soft but firm. “Will... the way your parents raised you was very strict.”

William knew she was right. He always did. But the words tasted bitter, and pride was a harder pill to swallow.

“Say what you want,” he muttered. “Anyway, what time? During my break?”

“Yeah. That works. See you soon.”

“Bye.”

The line went dead. William set the phone down with a dull click and pinched the bridge of his nose. A familiar pulse of irritation pounded behind his eyes. He picked up his pen, returning to the finances scattered across his desk, muttering to himself as the numbers blurred.

“Boo!”

“Stop it, Mikey!” Evan cried, bolting away from his older brother. While James had gone to the restroom, Michael had seized the opportunity to sneak up and give Evan a good scare.

“Come on, I’m just joking around!” Michael called after him, but Evan didn’t stop.

“Go away! You’re scaring me!”

Michael sighed, realizing he might have pushed Evan's limit a bit. He watched as his younger brother vanish into the back hallway, probably crawling under a table or hiding behind storage bins like he always did when frightened. With a bored grunt, Michael dropped into a chair at one of the tables, fiddling with a crumpled napkin.

His eyes drifted to you—busy talking with a parent near the counter. His mood soured. While his friends were off skating or hanging out, he was stuck here all summer, breathing in grease and kids’ birthday cake fumes.

Trying to distract himself, Michael pulled out his notepad and pen. Across from him, a little girl was about to dig into a plate of limp, greasy chips. Inspiration struck. He started doodling, exaggerating the chips until they looked like rubbery worms, then gave the girl a comically huge mouth, dripping with cartoonish drool.

He snorted to himself, adding wild, scribbled hair to the girl.

“Michael, what on earth are you drawing?” your voice suddenly broke his concentration.

He grinned, spinning the notepad around. “Just a little something for the archives.”

You squinted. “Wait—is that that girl over there?”

“Yup. Thinking about adding a ketchup bottle with ‘expired’ on the label.”

“Michael, eww!” You laughed despite yourself, wrinkling your nose.

“Art imitates life,” he said with mock seriousness, sketching dripping red goo from the bottle. He wrote EXPIRED in bold, uneven letters.

You gave him a playful shove. “I’m not going to lie. You actually draw pretty well.”

Michael shrugged like it was no big deal. “It’s just a hobby.”

Before he could add another gross detail, a voice called out: “Excuse me, miss! Can we get a refill?”

You gave him a quick smile. “Duty calls,” you said, walking away.

Michael watched you go, then glanced back at his sketch. He let out a small laugh and kept doodling, the faint trace of a smile still tugging at his lips. 

William pressed hard on the gas as he drove to Clara’s house, cigarette dangling from his lips. He wasn’t looking forward to the visit. He never did. And today was no exception.

When he pulled up to the curb, he noticed Clara already standing outside, waiting. That irritated him more than it should have. He parked, stepped out, and took one last drag before flicking the cigarette onto the asphalt.

“Got it?” he asked flatly.

Clara nodded and handed him a small bag containing the dinosaur plushie. He raised an eyebrow when she also held out a card.

“I’ll give them to him... in a few days,” he muttered, tucking both under his arm.

Clara watched his face carefully. “You’re looking... slightly better,” she offered gently.

“Thanks,” he replied without emotion. “Haven’t been sleeping much, though.”

Silence crept in, settling heavily between them.

William shifted his weight and glanced back toward his car. “Anyway. I’ll be heading home. Then back to the diner.”

“Take care, William,” Clara said, her voice tinged with something—nostalgia, maybe, or disappointment.

“Yeah. You too.”

Without another word, he slid back into the driver’s seat, tossing the plushie and card carelessly onto the passenger side. As he drove off, the quiet discomfort from their brief exchange clung to him like smoke.

After another hour of being bored, Michael couldn’t stand being in the diner any longer. It all felt suffocating. He glanced around, making sure no one was watching, then quietly slipped out the back door. The summer sun beat down on his back as he stepped into the alley.

His mind buzzed with thoughts of home. A shower. A nap. 

“Anything to get away from him. Anything to get away from that place,” Michael muttered, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. His steps were quick and determined, each one putting distance between him and the diner.

But a thought crept in, uninvited. William’s rule: Do not leave the diner until I tell you to do so.

Michael squared his shoulders and forced it away. "Fuck it. He's gonna be mad anyway. I don’t care." 

The house loomed in the distance, a familiar sight despite the memories it held. Michael picked up his pace, eager to get inside and out of the sun. 

He reached the front door and pushed it open. Quiet. Finally. The kind of quiet he’d been craving all day. He made a beeline for the bathroom, already picturing the cool water washing the diner grime from his skin.

The door locked behind him. Clothes hit the tile. The water ran.

“Michael?”

Evan’s voice trembled as he searched the crowded diner, his small frame lost in a sea of noisy families. James was off talking to Sammy, and Henry had told Evan to play for a while—but now he felt completely alone. So alone, he was prepared to find his brother, regardless of what had happened earlier.

“Michael?” he called again, barely a whisper as fear gripped him.

The stage lights flickered, casting eerie shadows over the animatronics. Their lifeless eyes seemed to follow him. Last night’s nightmare surged forward in his mind, and panic overtook him. He bolted under the nearest table, yanking the cloth down to hide.

Curled into a ball, Evan sobbed quietly. The clatter of plates, the shrieks of children—it was all too loud. Too much. His heart pounded. The world felt enormous.

Then—shoes. A pair of them, stopping just outside the tablecloth.

Evan held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

The cloth lifted slightly. A gentle, familiar voice followed.

“Hey, bud. What’s wrong? Why are you hiding under there?”

Evan peeked out and saw you crouching beside the table, concern softening your features. His tear-streaked cheeks and trembling lip made you want to scoop him up.

“Michael left me,” he stammered. “I’m scared of the animatronics—all of them. The nightmare… it made it worse.”

You sighed softly, heart aching. “They are a bit scary, aren’t they?” you said, offering him your hand. “But you’re safe now. How about we go find James and Sammy? They’re just over there—you can play until Michael comes back.”

Evan hesitated, then nodded. His small hand slipped into yours. You gently pulled him out from under the table, brushing crumbs from his clothes.

“There we go,” you smiled, straightening his shirt. “All tidy now.”

Without warning, Evan threw his arms around you, burying his face into your shoulder. “You’re like a second mother to me,” he whispered.

His words melted your heart, and you hugged him close.

“I’m always here for you, Evan,” you whispered back, carrying him over to where James and Sammy were playing. "Always."

The boys looked up and waved, smiling wide. Evan gave a small, grateful thank you before joining them, the fear slowly fading from his eyes.

William pulled up to the house, parking with the precision he applied to everything else. The moment he stepped inside, he heard it: the faint hiss of running water.

His ears sharpened. Someone was home. That wasn’t part of the plan.

His brow furrowed. Silently, he climbed the stairs, each step ghosting over the wood. He stopped outside the bathroom. Steam curled under the door.

“Who’s there?” His voice cut through the silence—sharp, cold, commanding.

The water shut off.

A beat of silence.

Then: “It’s me. Michael.”

William’s jaw clenched. He leaned toward the door, his tone darkening. “What are you doing at home, Michael?”

Michael’s heart thudded in his chest. “Uhh…”

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Shit.

PART 4

Michael froze, heart pounding in his chest. "Just taking a shower, Dad. I stink," he called out, trying to keep his voice steady. The thought of facing his father with nothing but a towel made his stomach churn. He held his breath, waiting.

William stood on the other side of the door, jaw clenched. He considered pushing further—but let it go, the tension in his shoulders still coiled tight.

"Whatever," he muttered, voice sharp. "Remember what I said. I want you home tonight."

"Alright, Dad," Michael replied, the relief in his voice barely covering the bitterness. 

William lingered a second longer before turning away. His footsteps thudded down the hall. In his room, he shoved the plushie and card under the bed with a rough, dismissive motion. Then he stomped back downstairs and out the door.

Michael let out a long, shaky exhale as it slammed shut. He leaned against the cold tile, the tension finally starting to drain. He turned the water back on, stepping under the spray again.

"Fucking bastard," he muttered, scrubbing his hair with renewed force.

You continued working in the restaurant, keeping an eye on the younger boys as they played. Sammy, bright and full of energy, was a natural friend to James and Evan. You chuckled to yourself as they ran wild among the other children. Henry, ever cheerful, was joking with nearby parents—a stark contrast to William’s brooding presence. How those two had become friends remained a mystery to you.

As the afternoon sun dipped lower, signaling the end of your shift, you gathered your things, ready to take James home. Michael was nowhere to be seen, which struck you as odd. He usually wasn’t one to disappear without a word.

“Amy.”

William Afton’s deep voice pulled you from your thoughts. He had emerged from his office, his expression as stern as ever.

“Yeah?” you replied, instinctively placing a protective hand on James’ shoulder.

“I’m staying in the office tonight. I’ve got work to do,” William muttered, his tone clipped. “Michael’s not here, so could you take Evan home? If you know where it is.”

You hesitated, the weight of responsibility settling on your shoulders. You had a rough idea of where the house was. William noticed your pause and rolled his eyes impatiently.

“Please? I was going to ask Henry, but he’s probably gone home already.”

“Sure, I can do that,” you finally agreed.

“I appreciate it,” William said curtly before disappearing back into his office.

Evan, who had been quietly sucking his thumb, looked up at you with wide, anxious eyes. You bent down to his level, offering a gentle smile.

“Hey, I’m going to take you home.”

“Michael left me,” he whispered, gripping your hand tightly.

“I know. But don’t worry—I’ll get you home safe.”

“Th-thank you,” he stammered, his small voice full of gratitude.

With both boys in tow, you stepped out of the musty diner into the crisp evening air, breathing deeply. The three of you began the walk to the Afton house, playing a game of ‘I Spy’ to pass the time.

“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with C,” James announced, his voice full of mischief, clearly enjoying himself.

“Car?” you guessed, glancing around.

“Nope! Try again!”

“Cloud?” Evan whispered, still shy, pointing upward.

“Yup!” James grinned, pleased that his brother had guessed it.

“Huh, where?” you asked, scanning the sky. A small tuft of white floated gently above, serene against the backdrop of the fading day.

As you continued walking, the familiar outline of William’s house came into view, looming in the middle of the street. You felt a slight unease as you turned to Evan and spoke softly. “Is the door unlocked? Your dad didn't give me the key.”

“No. Dad always locks it,” he replied, his grip on your hand tightening just a little.

Your footsteps echoed faintly as you approached the door. With a deep breath, you knocked, shifting from one foot to the other. Hopefully Michael was inside and that the wait wouldn’t stretch on too long. You glanced down at the boys, offering a small, reassuring smile.

Michael lay on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

The warmth of the shower had done wonders, easing the bruises across his ribs. He absently traced the faint lines where the worst of the pain had faded, the ghost of discomfort lingering just beneath the skin.

Knock knock.

The sound yanked him from his daze. Curious, he padded over to Evan’s room and glanced out the window.

You stood on the street with Evan and James, and at the sight, Michael winced. Slight guilt gnawed at his gut—he’d left Evan behind at the diner. 

He took a steadying breath and headed downstairs, unlocking the door and pulling it open.

“Uhh…” he started, awkwardly.

“Michael? You didn’t come back to the diner. Your father asked me to bring Evan home,” you said, nodding to the younger boy who clung to your side.

“Sorry. Lost track of time,” Michael muttered, stepping aside so Evan could slip past him.

“Bye, Evan!” James called cheerfully, waving. Evan lit up and waved back before heading inside.

“Thanks for bringing him back,” Michael added, rubbing the back of his neck. “I appreciate it.”

You chuckled softly. “That’s what your dad said.”

Michael’s face paled at the comparison of his father. He offered a tight smile, his discomfort hard to hide. “Mm.”

“Come on, bud,” you said, turning to James, who eagerly grabbed your hand. Together, the two of you walked away, leaving Michael framed in the doorway, watching until your footsteps disappeared into the dusk. He shut the door slowly, the bittersweet silence settling around him like dust.

“Hey, Will, how’s Clara?”

William looked up from his desk. Henry was leaning casually against the doorframe, having dropped by after spending the afternoon at the other diner. William placed his pen down and laced his fingers under his chin, expression unreadable.

“She seems to be doing okay,” he said flatly. “How’s Ellie?”

The question seemed genuine, though his voice remained cool.

Henry’s face brightened. “She’s great. We’re actually thinking about taking a little holiday.”

William’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Mm.”

His mind drifted. The mention of Henry’s happy, enduring relationship struck a nerve—Clara had been gone for years now. What had started warm between them had soured into silence.

“You know,” Henry was saying, “Ellie and I have been talking about Cancun. Just to get away for a bit…”

William tuned him out, sinking into the static of memory. He thought of early days with Clara—before the bitterness, before the resentment. Before everything collapsed. Henry’s voice faded into background noise, like a radio on in another room.

“Henry!”

Ellie’s voice rang out as she ran into his arms, embracing him with genuine delight.

William stood nearby, cigarette dangling from his lips, watching with distant disinterest—or maybe mild irritation.

“Hey, Ellie! How are you?” Henry beamed, squeezing her in return.

“Great! How’s college treating you?” she asked, her eyes gleaming. "Still tinkering away with metals?"

He gave a laugh. “It’s good! Worth the classes and hassle!” Henry turned slightly. “And hey—this is William.”

Ellie looked to William and offered a polite, cautious smile.

He noted it immediately and exhaled before extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ellie. It's a pleasure.”

She shook it firmly, noting the unexpected strength in his grip. “Nice to meet you too.” Her gaze briefly lingered on his black outfit—unusual, but it suited him more than she expected. In fact, he didn't seem as bad as the rumours made him out to be. 

“So,” William said with a smirk, tinged in sarcasm, “you’re the Ellie that Henry won’t stop talking about?”

Ellie blinked, caught off guard. “Henry! You’ve been talking about me?” She laughed, mock-scandalized.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Henry chuckled, nudging her playfully.

Ellie leaned in, resting against him. Her voice turned teasing. “Well, if that’s the case, we should all go out sometime. It’ll be fun!”

“The three of us?” Henry asked, looking at William. William gave a half-hearted shrug—it didn’t matter to him either way.

“Obviously, silly! We're all going!” Ellie said brightly, nudging them both with a grin. "Honestly, Henry, I thought you would have known me by now!"

Despite himself, William’s tension eased. Her energy was infectious, and even he couldn’t deny the warmth it brought. 

He glanced at Henry, who chuckled nervously. William’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Sure. Why not?”

*

"Ellie, I see you’ve brought guests," Clara remarked, seated at a café table with a glass of water in one hand and a book in the other. Her high cheekbones and long strawberry-pink hair framed a delicate, thoughtful face. Her eyes flicked between Henry and William, noting the contrast between them. William would’ve described her hair color as “ginger” and left it at that, but subtlety wasn’t exactly his thing at times.

"Hey, Clara! Brought company of our favorite! Henry, and this here is William," Ellie chirped, gesturing to each man in turn.

Clara set her book down and offered Henry a polite smile before her gaze settled on William. There was something about his presence—composed yet unreadable—that intrigued her. William, noticing her interest, decided to make an impression.

"William Afton," he said smoothly, extending his hand. Clara shook it, her eyes reflecting a quiet curiosity laced with admiration.

"So, what’s everyone having?" Ellie asked as she took a seat.

"I’ll have a coffee," Henry said cheerfully.

"Coffee for me too," Clara added, raising her glass slightly in acknowledgment.

"And you, Will?" Ellie turned to him.

"Any chance they’ve got tea? Black preferably." William asked.

"Tea? I’ll check," Ellie said with a nod, heading inside.

With Ellie gone, William sat down and leaned in slightly. "So, Clara, what do you do?"

"I’m studying to be an English teacher," Clara replied with a small shrug. "I wanted to be a dancer originally, but teaching felt more practical."

"Don’t you still teach dance on weekends?" Henry asked, intrigued.

"Yeah, that too," Clara said warmly. "The school ballet is actually gearing up for its first show."

William’s curiosity deepened. "English, huh? I’m an avid reader myself. What are you into right now?"

Clara turned her book toward him—Wuthering Heights.

"Classics. I’m meant to analyze their themes and morality—how they reflect the values of their time," she said, taking a sip of her water. "What genres are you into?"

"Horror, thrillers, mysteries... the darker, more controversial stuff," William replied with a small chuckle. "Makes for interesting perspective."

"Really, hmm?" Clara tilted her head, intrigued. "And what do you study?"

"I did business first. Studied it in the UK. Now I’m doing engineering—with Henry here," William added, gesturing toward his friend.

Henry let out a laugh and gave William a playful slap on the back, pulling him into a mock headlock. Their laughter turned heads from nearby tables.

"Boys! Sit down, you’re causing a scene!" Ellie scolded as she returned with a tray of drinks.

As they settled in, William took his tea with a quiet thanks. His gaze shifted to Ellie as she arranged the mugs on the table with an oddly graceful flair.

“Ellie, remind me. What are you studying again?” he asked her curiously.

Ellie perked up. “Hmm? Oh! Art! Well, mostly fine art, but I’ve been trying out some other stuff too. It’s a mess, but I love it.”

William raised his eyebrows. “Art, huh. That… actually suits you.”

Ellie raised a skeptical eyebrow, bemused. “Why? Because I’m chaotic?”

He smirked. “Because you’re expressive. You see things other people miss.”

"Pfft, thanks, Will," she teased, nudging him gently.

Henry made a dramatic groan. “God, now you’re charming two women at once?”

The group burst into laughter. Afterwards, their conversation flowed easily. Henry and Ellie’s banter bounced lightheartedly, while William and Clara's exchanges carried a softer, more curious tone. As Henry launched into an idea about throwing a party, Clara leaned toward Ellie and whispered:

"You know, Will isn’t that bad."

Ellie glanced over at William, then leaned in with a grin. "You know what? He actually isn’t."

"Hey! What are you two whispering about?" Henry asked, catching the look between them.

"Nothing!" they chorused, giggling.

William raised a brow in amusement as Clara gave a tiny blush. He smirked, flashing just enough of his teeth to tease without showing too much.

As they finished their drinks, William stood and walked behind Clara, gently pulling out her chair.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"No problem."

As they strolled toward the campus together, Clara smiled. "I really enjoyed our conversation tonight."

"Same here," William said, glancing down at her. "If you'd like to keep talking... maybe we could exchange numbers?"

Clara’s eyes lit up. "Yes, please!"

William pulled a pen from his pocket. Clara realizing that he didn't have paper on him, handed him her 'Wuthering Heights' book. William then scribbled his number on the last page of it. They shared a quiet smile, and as they reached the campus center, it was time to part ways.

"Bye, Henry! See you soon!" Ellie said, hugging him.

"See you!" Henry called back.

"Goodbye, William. It was really nice meeting you," Clara said, offering a small wave.

William nodded, watching as the girls walked off into the night. Henry glanced sideways at his friend with a knowing smirk.

"Look at you. Charming Clara already."

"Mm? She’s just a nice girl," William replied, brushing it off.

"Sure, Afton. We’ll see," Henry said with a laugh, as they made their way back to their apartments.

"Will!"

William snapped out of his daydream, blinking as Henry's voice cut through the haze. He turned his head slightly, the cafe noise returning to focus.

"Mm? Sorry, I was thinking about something," he replied, adjusting his posture in an attempt to seem present.

Henry chuckled, amused but used to William’s occasional drifting off. "As I was saying, Ellie and I are planning to book a holiday to—"

"Cancun," William said, cutting in.

Henry paused, eyebrows raised. "Yeah, that’s right. Huh. You were listening."

William gave a faint smile. "Something like that."

"Well, see you tomorrow, Will." Henry gave him a quick nod and headed off.

William offered a distracted wave, his thoughts still turning over his past.

In a quiet bedroom, Evan sat on the floor with his back to the wall, clutching his knees.

The bedside clock read 7:00 p.m.

Five hours left.

Five hours until the nightmare returned.

He buried his face against his arms, trying to hold back the tears—but they came anyway, hot and quiet. His fingers curled into the fabric of his pajama sleeves.

Down the hall, Michael was in the kitchen, smoking. Already contemplating his brother's birthday party for tomorrow.

He didn’t know Evan was crying.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

PART 1

“Wanna help me out with a plan?”

Michael’s voice crackled through the phone, laced with excitement. On the other end, Jacob didn’t hesitate.

“Sure! What’s up?” His grin was practically audible.

“It’s my brother’s birthday soon. I need some backup.”

Jacob snorted. “Haha! That crybaby? Yeah, I’m in. What’s the plan?”

Michael’s lips curled into a smirk.

“I want to scare the living shit out of him.”

There was a beat of silence, then Jacob’s low laugh. “Oh yeah? What are you thinking?”

“He’s terrified of the animatronics at the diner. I say we set him up at the front stage. Freak him out—just enough to make him lose it. Then we leave.”

“Solid. Should I bring Anissa and Wilson? Just in case he tries to run to your dad or something?”

Michael’s jaw tightened, but he forced a crooked smile

“Yeah. Bring them. And don’t forget the diner masks. We’ll blend in with the party crowd.”

“Got it. Which diner?”

“Family Diner. He’s especially scared of Spring Bonnie and Fredbear.”

“Perfect. I’ll get the others. Just call when you’re ready.”

“Will do. See you, Jake.”

The line clicked dead.

Michael sat in silence, the smirk slowly fading.

The hatred he felt was sharp. Familiar. It mirrored his father’s.

And even if he hated to admit it, he was following in William’s footsteps… step by step.

*

NIGHT 3

Michael couldn’t sleep.

Thumping footsteps. Heavy, rasping breaths echoed outside his door.

He lay frozen, heart pounding, until curiosity pushed him from his bed. The hallway stretched out before him—dark, humming with static tension.

A shadow darted past. Evan’s door creaked open… then slammed shut.

Michael tensed.

He crept forward and stopped cold.

There, under the faint flicker of the hallway light, stood Fredbear. Not the friendly, stage-show Fredbear. Something wrong. Twisted. Towering.

Its nightmare version.

Michael gasped and slapped a hand over his mouth. This wasn’t just some prank. This thing was real.

And it wasn’t meant for him.

“Jesus Christ…” he whispered.

Suddenly, everything clicked.

This was what his father meant when he said Evan needed "discipline." This was William’s idea of fun.

Michael staggered back to his room, breath shallow, eyes wide.

And there it was. Lying on his desk.

The fox mask.

He stared at it, mind reeling.

If his father wanted to play this game... he was more than ready to join in.

William's eyes burned into the surveillance monitors. The room was dark, save for the sickly glow of the screens.

He leaned forward, lips tight, one hand wrapped around a half-empty bottle of beer.

Michael was moving.

So was the animatronic.

“What are you up to now?” William muttered, venom in his tone.

Then he saw it—Michael slipping on the mask. Approaching Evan’s room. Knocking.

William burst into laughter, sudden and sharp. Surprised at how his son would do something like that.

“Haha! That’s my boy!” he crowed, slamming his palm on the desk. “Just like me—a fucking clone!”

He tipped the bottle back, swallowing hard.

Eyes glued to the screens.

Entertained.

Satisfied.

Ready for the nightmare to continue.

Evan was in shock.

His tiny hands gripped the doorknob with desperation, knuckles white.

“Go away! Please! Stop!” he cried, voice cracking, barely above a whisper—but soaked in fear.

Michael’s laughter echoed down the hallway, cruel and hollow, bouncing off the walls like a ghost. Evan’s sobs grew quieter as he gave up struggling against the door.

Eventually, Michael stepped away. The animatronic loomed in the shadows like a beast from a dream, groaning low with mechanical menace.

Michael walked calmly toward the kitchen. He peeled off his mask and tossed it onto the counter without a second glance.

He filled the kettle and switched it on, standing still as it began to boil. The whirring sound filled the silence, and his mind drifted—back to the conversations with Jacob, Wilson, and Anissa. Back to the summer heat, the laughter, and the chaos.

Each of them, in their own way, was fractured.

Just like him.

Jacob was the thief of the group. Raised in a broken home, in and out of juvie. He could break into a house, regardless if got caught or not, yet his grin never left his face.

Anissa—Michael never really liked her. Too loud. Too reckless. She was infamous for shoplifting and throwing punches, both of which had gotten her in trouble more times than she could count.

Wilson had the cleanest record of the group, but he wasn’t clean. He dealt drugs, quietly, under the radar. The scars on his body weren’t from fights—they were warnings from other dealers. He was constantly looking over his shoulder.

Michael sighed. The kettle clicked off.

He poured himself a mug of tea, letting the steam rise and blur the edges of his thoughts. His mind slipped further, back to that one summer afternoon—the last time things almost felt normal...

*

They were sprawled out beneath a tree, half in the shade, half in the sun. Packs of alcohol sat nearby. A joint passed lazily between hands.

Michael chewed on gum, arms behind his head, eyes squinting at the sky. Anissa leaned against a trunk, smoke drifting from her lips. Jacob and Wilson lounged beside her, their laughter mellowed by the weed.

“Hey Mike,” Wilson murmured, his voice thick with smoke, “you ever get the feeling God’s watching us?”

Michael scoffed.

“God? Don’t believe in that shit.”

Anissa snorted. “If God was real, you wouldn’t have those bruises on your arms.”

Michael glanced down instinctively. Faint discolorations still marked his skin from his previous beatings at home.

He flipped her off without looking. “Whatever. I don’t back down. I hit back.”

It was a lie.

He never hit back.

Anissa gave him a look—dry, knowing—but said nothing. She took another drag instead.

“Your dad’s diner sucks anyway,” she muttered. “Tried getting a job there. They turned me down.”

Michael chuckled. “Gee, wonder why. Maybe because you’ve got a rap sheet?”

Jacob cackled. “No shit. Can’t have a klepto around kids.”

“Mike’s got a record too, though,” Anissa said, nudging him. “Still got in.”

Michael grinned. “That’s because I’m the boss’s son.”

“Nepotism at its finest,” Anissa said, smirking.

Then she turned to Jacob, playful venom in her voice.

“But I guess it's better to be caught shoplifting than committing arson, right?”

Jacob’s head snapped up. “Hey! That was your fault!”

Anissa just rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that.”

The bickering died down, replaced by silence and the hum of cicadas.

Above them, the sky drifted in lazy blue hues. Michael spat out his gum and cracked open a bottle, taking a long swig. Warmth bloomed in his chest, lulling him into that hazy, perfect calm that only summer could bring.

He closed his eyes.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, the memories of high school—the move, the fights, the fractured home—began to slip in like smoke under a door.

*

1979.

Michael entered his first class of the day, carrying a mix of frustration and defiance. The morning’s lecture from his father about the importance of education had done little to lift his mood. As he shuffled to a seat at the back of the science classroom, he took in the lively chatter of his classmates—boys comparing summer vacations and girls catching up on each other’s lives. Michael rolled his eyes, finding their enthusiasm irritating.

“Hey, bro, you’re in my spot,” a jock with a smug grin said, stepping into Michael’s aisle. His teeth gleamed as he spoke.

Michael looked up, barely hiding his annoyance. “Sorry, bro, but this is my seat now. Find another one.”

The jock’s friend, standing nearby, muttered, “Damn, Barry, you gonna let that weasel get the best of you?”

Barry narrowed his eyes, visibly irritated. “So, you’re that type of punk, huh?” he sneered.

“Yeah, I am. Now fuck off,” Michael shot back.

Without hesitation, Barry grabbed Michael by his gray hoodie and yanked him from the seat. Michael hit the floor hard, and the room fell into stunned silence. He cursed under his breath, glaring up at Barry, who smugly took the seat and kicked Michael’s bag toward him. “Find another seat,” he taunted.

Furious, Michael jumped up and punched Barry hard in the jaw. The class gasped as Barry staggered back, clutching his face. Enraged, Barry grabbed a fistful of Michael’s hair, trying to slam him into the ground. Michael twisted, driving a swift kick into Barry’s groin. The jock crumpled to his knees just as the teacher walked in.

“What’s going on here?” she snapped, her voice sharp with authority.

“God, teach! This psycho went after me!” Barry groaned, hands shielding his injury.

The teacher turned to Michael. “You! What’s your name?” she demanded.

Michael met her eyes, anger simmering. “He started it. Self-defense,” he muttered.

“I don’t care who started it! What is your name?”

“Michael. Michael Afton,” he said with defiance.

The teacher’s eyes narrowed. “Afton? Well, Michael Afton, it’s the first day back and you’re already picking fights! Do you really think that was a smart idea?”

“Maybe not,” Michael replied with a slight smirk, “but I guess I’ll be popular.”

“Oh, you’ll be popular, alright,” she snapped. “In the principal’s office. Now get out.”

Michael shrugged and slung his backpack over his shoulder. “Whatever,” he muttered, pushing the door open as the classroom buzzed behind him.

*

*

“So, you really beat the shit out of Barry?” Jacob asked, clearly impressed.

“First of all, I don’t even know if we’re talking about the same kid,” Michael replied. “Second, I’ll take on anyone who pisses me off.”

Jacob laughed. “Damn. Where you from? Your accent’s kinda weird.”

Michael sighed. “The UK. We moved here because my dad wanted to start his business in the U.S.”

“Goddamn, that’s a long way. Don’t think I introduced myself. Jacob Jackson.” He held out a hand, and they shook firmly. “You should meet my friends later. Wilson and Anissa. They’re cool.”

Michael raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Sure. I’m down.”

“Awesome.”

The pair headed to their next class. Michael greeted the teacher with a sarcastic grin as he walked in.

“You’re back already?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, actually. I am back. Principal Westor took one look at me and decided I was too charming to punish,” Michael said, grinning like a gremlin. “Either that, or he’s running on two hours of sleep and wanted me to leave so he could pass out." A few students giggled. The teacher shushed them.

“That's not funny. Sit down.”

Michael scanned the room. Barry was already there, glaring at him from the back. With no other seats available, Michael slid into one near the front, next to a girl with tanned skin and a confident presence. She wore flared jeans and a patterned blouse, the kind with loose sleeves and a wide collar. Her bangles clinked softly as she flipped open a compact mirror. She didn’t even glance at him.

Michael smirked. She turned away.

“So, you’re the new kid,” she said, not looking up from her compact mirror.

“That’s right, dollface. What’s your name?” Michael asked, ruffling his hair.

She rolled her eyes. “It’s Anissa. Anissa Hartley.”

“Oh, I think I met your friend Jacob. He mentioned you.”

“Jake? He did?” she said, applying lip gloss. “Where’d you meet him? At the office?”

Michael grinned. “Yeah. He was in trouble for not doing his summer work. We hit it off, though.”

Anissa laughed lightly. “Typical of him.” She turned to him with a shrug. “Well, a friend of Jacob’s is a friend of mine. Sorta. We’ll see how it goes.”

“Sounds good to me.”

They worked through class together, occasionally laughing at the teacher’s quirks. Anissa was surprised by how smart Michael was in science. As the bell rang, they stepped into the corridor, where Jacob was already waiting.

*

“So, you two finally met!” Jacob grinned, throwing an arm around each of them.

“Yeah. Afton here beat the shit out of Callman in class today,” Anissa said, adjusting her earrings.

“Holy shit! So it was him!” Jacob laughed, punching Michael lightly in the arm. “Dude, you’ve got guts!”

They walked outside and around the back of the school, where another boy leaned against the wall, smoking. He had clean, blonde hair and a relaxed posture. Michael pulled out a cigarette of his own.

“Who’s this?” the boy asked, nodding at Michael.

“Wilson, meet Michael Afton. This guy took down Callman first day back,” Jacob introduced.

Wilson chuckled, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Good. That guy had it coming.” He took a drag, exhaled slowly.

“Right? Anyway, what’s everyone’s next lesson?” Jacob asked, digging into his pocket for his schedule.

They all checked their timetables. Math or history.

Anissa groaned. “Ugh, I can’t be bothered.”

“Same here,” Wilson agreed. Michael nodded.

Then Jacob grinned mischievously. “So… who’s up for skipping?”

All four exchanged glances—and grinned in unison.

As you stepped into the diner, you spotted Michael and Evan sitting at their usual table. Evan’s face was streaked with tears, and Michael was casually smoking indoors like he owned the place.

"Evan! It’s your birthday tomorrow!" James beamed, running over and giving Evan a quick hug.

"Y-yeah," Evan murmured, clutching his plush bear tightly.

"Where’s the party gonna be?" you asked, trying to piece together the tension.

"Family diner," Michael muttered, exhaling a puff of smoke.

"Mikey, no! Not the family diner!" Evan cried, hugging his bear tighter.

"Whatever. Dad already arranged it," Michael said with a shrug, clearly unbothered.

"No, no!" Evan shook his head, panicked.

You turned to Michael, voice firm. "Michael, if Evan doesn’t want the party there, he shouldn’t have to go. It’s his birthday."

Michael rolled his eyes, taking another drag. "Look, Amy, I don’t make the rules. Dad said it has to be there, so it’s there."

"Then I’ll talk to him. I’ll tell him Evan’s upset."

Michael’s hand closed around your arm. "Don’t. Just leave it alone. All his friends already know—it’s happening there."

You met his gaze, annoyed. "Fine. But your dad ruins everything. If Evan’s crying about his own birthday, something’s wrong."

"Yeah, well, like I said—I don’t make the rules."

Still, you weren’t ready to let it go.

Right then, Henry stepped out of the staff room.

"Hey kiddos! How’s everyone doing?" he asked with his usual warmth.

"Good," you all muttered in return.

"Glad to hear it. Mike, I need a hand. Fredbear’s acting up again, and I could use some muscle. You free?"

"Sure, Henry," Michael said, standing and sticking his cigarette in the corner of his mouth before following Henry toward the back.

The second he was out of sight, you made your move—heading straight for William Afton’s office.

William was on the phone, his voice smooth and professional.

"Of course, I’ll organize your daughter’s birthday for next Friday," he said, scribbling notes onto a pad. "Yes, mhm. Thank you, sir. You have a good day now."

He placed the phone down with a quiet clack. A knock followed almost immediately. With a soft groan, he called out, "Come in."

You pushed the door open hesitantly. The office was just as dim as you remembered it.

"Amy." William didn’t even look up. His voice was already tired of you. "What can I do for you?"

"Sorry to bother you," you said, forcing your voice to sound steadier than you felt. You closed the door behind you, nerves pressing in. "I just have a quick question."

"Is this 'quick' question important, or a waste of my time?"

You gave a small, awkward laugh. "It's about Evan’s birthday."

William finally looked at you, his expression annoyed. "What about it?"

"I just... I noticed Evan seems really stressed about the party being at the old diner."

"What about the location?" he asked coolly, though a flicker of amusement played at the corner of his mouth.

"Michael mentioned it’s happening there, but Evan looked terrified. He really doesn’t want to go."

William’s lips twitched again, like he was holding back a grin. "Yes, well. It’s already planned. The venue’s booked, the staff scheduled. I’m not rearranging everything because Evan is being soft."

You frowned. "But he’s scared—"

"I understand your concern," William cut in, voice clipped, "but we’re not changing it. That’s final."

You felt the tension rise in your chest. "I just think maybe if he’s that upset—"

"I’m busy, Amy. And if you don’t get back to work, I’ll fire you."

The air left your lungs. You clenched your jaw and nodded stiffly. "Okay. Sorry to disturb you."

You turned quickly, heart pounding, and opened the door. As you stepped out, your eyes met Michael’s. He stood nearby, arms crossed, watching you silently. His stare was unreadable, and it made your face burn with embarrassment.

You looked away and hurried off, frustration and shame weighing down every step.

PART 2

Ring ring...

Anissa’s room pulsed with the upbeat rhythm of her favorite tunes as she spun around, dancing to the music. She grabbed a hot pink bottle of nail polish and flopped onto her bed, ready to give her toenails a fresh coat.

Ring ring...

The phone rang again, cutting through the music. Anissa frowned, scanned the room, and finally spotted the receiver. With an exasperated sigh, she turned down the volume on her cassette player and picked it up.

“Yeah? Who’s this?”

“Hey, ’Niss, it’s me—Jacob.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “Hey! What’s up?”

“So, uh, Mike’s brother is having some wack-ass party at the family diner.”

“Right...” she replied, grabbing the bottle of polish and setting it on the carpet. She tucked the phone between her shoulder and ear, dipped the brush into the bottle, and began painting her toes.

“Well, Mike wants to scare Evan. He said he wants us to be there.”

Anissa raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that kind of immature? We are adults.”

“I guess. But it’ll be fun—we’re not gonna hurt him or anything. Just a prank.”

She sighed. “Okay, whatever. I’ll go. Is Wilson coming?”

“Yeah, I already called him. He said he’d love to see Evan shit himself.”

Anissa rolled her eyes, though a smirk crept onto her face. “Alright. When’s this party?”

“Dunno. Mike said he’ll call me when it’s time.”

“Fine. See you then.”

“Sure. See ya, hot stuff.”

She chuckled and rolled her eyes. “See ya.”

The call ended. A few seconds later, she heard footsteps outside her door. Her father stumbled in, clutching a bottle, his face twisted in a lazy, drunken grin.

Anissa looked up, her pulse quickening.

“Who were you talking to, princess?”

“Just my friend, Hailey,” she answered, keeping her voice even. The sour smell of beer hit her as he stepped into the room. His eyes scanned the scattered clothes, flickering candlelight, and the pink nail polish bottle beside her.

“You know,” he said, voice slurred, “you’ll always be my little girl.”

Anissa gave him a tight, uncomfortable smile. “Yeah.”

He leaned over her bed, his laugh low and unsettling. “Remember the fun times? When we used to play together?”

Her heart raced, but she didn’t move. She tried to block out the memories—the ones that clung to the corners of her mind like shadows. Around her friends, she wore confidence like armor. She was the loud one, the one who joked, the one who flirted. But underneath it all was a quiet, aching need to feel safe. To feel wanted in a way that didn’t leave her feeling used. Sometimes, she mistook attention for affection, believing maybe if someone looked at her the right way, it could undo everything that had already been done. From what the monster in front of her had done.

She clenched her fists, bracing herself. But he didn’t touch her. He just gave her a crooked, saccharine smile.

“Bye, sweetheart. I’m just gonna go sleep a bit.”

“Bye,” she murmured.

“Bye what?” His tone shifted—low, sharp.

Anissa swallowed hard, forcing syrup into her voice. “Bye, daddy.”

He lingered a beat too long at the door before giving a half-wave and stumbling away.

As the door shut behind him, she sat frozen. Her stomach churned. She fought the rising bile in her throat and stared down at her trembling hands as she finished painting her nails, pretending everything was still normal.

"Dad, can I come in?"

Michael stood in the doorway, unsure, but something in William’s expression invited him in. The older man’s eyes gleamed with a familiar glint—pride, satisfaction, and something colder beneath it.

Michael sat down. The discomfort he’d felt earlier was slowly replaced by a fragile confidence. The air between them had shifted—no longer tense, but quietly electric with shared purpose.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” he asked, uncertainty trailing behind his words like smoke.

William leaned back, his smile measured. “Michael, trust me. This is exactly what Evan needs. He has to stop running from every shadow. Fear is a powerful teacher.”

Michael nodded slowly. 

William continued, “It’s a lesson. Life isn’t soft. He’ll learn something important from this, even if he doesn't realize it yet. And the diner—it’s the perfect place.”

For a brief moment, the weight of what they were planning seemed to lift, leaving a strange clarity in its place.

“Alright,” Michael said, standing. “Tomorrow at eleven. I’ll make sure everything’s ready.”

William stood with him, placing a firm hand on his son’s shoulder. “Good. I’m proud of you, Michael for taking... initiative. You’re finally starting to understand.”

*

Evan sat quietly, coloring beside James. The soft sound of crayons scraping against paper filled the air, occasionally interrupted by James’s cheerful giggles.

Suddenly, Michael burst into the room, eyes gleaming with twisted excitement. “Evan, I need to talk to you,” he said, forcing a grin that didn’t touch his eyes.

Evan looked up, his expression tinged with confusion and fear. “What’s going on?”

Without answering, Michael grabbed his arm. His grip was firm—too firm. Evan’s protests rose in panic, but Michael didn’t flinch. He dragged Evan down the hallway, ignoring James’s puzzled gaze.

They entered the dimly lit Parts and Service room. The space was cluttered with old animatronic parts and rusted tools. Michael shoved Evan toward a stack of boxes.

“Find something for me,” he ordered, voice cold. 

Before Evan could react, the door slammed shut behind him, and Michael locked it. 

“No, no! Let me out! LET ME OUT! Please! Please!” Evan’s voice cracked with panic, his fists pounding against the door.

Outside, Michael leaned against the wall, lighting a cigarette. The smoke curled around him as he listened. For a moment, a flicker of doubt crossed his face.

Then it vanished.

You stepped out of the restroom, the smell of disinfectant clinging to your clothes. Spotting James alone and focused on his coloring, you approached.

“Hey bud, where’s Evan?” you asked gently.

James looked up. “Michael took him away.”

You blinked. “Michael took him away?” James nodded, already focused back on his picture of Chica devouring pizza.

“Well… it’s nearly lunch. Want something to eat or drink?”

“A blue raspberry slushie, please.”

You headed to the kitchen, the icy cold from the machine biting your fingers. Your mind churned. Why would Michael take Evan? And where?

Handing James his slushie, you gave him a smile, then went searching for Michael. He wasn’t in the kitchen, arcade, or offices.

Then William appeared, coming from outside.

“Sorry, sir!” you said quickly.

“No need to apologize,” he replied. You were about to walk away when he called out, “Would you be interested in working at the old diner tomorrow? It’s just for the day—you’ll return to your usual duties afterward.”

You considered the offer, before nodding.

“Sure,” you said, masking your unease.

“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” William walked past.

“Hey, miss! One of the games is busted!” a kid called, yanking you back to the present.

“I’ll check it,” you replied. You examined the arcade cabinet. “I’ll need some tools. I'll be right back.”

In Henry’s office, Henry handed you the screwdriver but noted that the wrench might be in Parts and Services. While he took a call, you grabbed the keys from his desk and made your way over.

As you neared the door, muffled crying stopped you cold.

“Hello? Who’s in there?”

“Let me out!” a faint voice pleaded. "Please..."

“Evan?”

You unlocked the door and rushed inside. Evan sat curled up on the floor, tear-streaked and trembling.

“Oh, Evan…” you whispered, dropping to your knees and opening your arms. He flew into them, sobbing.

“Who locked you in?”

“No… no one,” he sniffled.

“You don’t have to lie. Whoever it was, I won’t tell.”

Evan looked up. “Michael. I don’t know why he did.”

The answer hit you like ice water. Michael?

“I’ll keep watch over you and James. If he bothers you again, I’ll deal with it. I promise.”

Evan nodded, holding your hand tightly. You picked up the wrench, and the two of you returned to James. You gave him a look, and he offered a small, knowing smile.

You fixed the arcade game swiftly, ignoring the impatient kids. Afterward, you slipped Henry’s keys back onto his desk.

*

Behind the building, William lit a cigarette. As he turned the corner, he found Michael already there, smoke curling from his lips. Michael quickly dropped the cigarette, stepping on it.

“Just because I’m pleased with your work doesn’t mean I condone smoking,” William snapped.

“Sorry. Bad habit,” Michael muttered. You smoke too, he thought bitterly.

The two stood in uneasy silence. William took a deep drag from his cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the air. The quiet stretched between them until Michael broke it.

“Is Mum coming tomorrow?” Michael finally asked.

William’s face darkened. “Unlikely. If she does, it’ll be a surprise.”

Michael nodded, eyes on the pavement. “Yeah…” He then hesitated. “Dad, can I ask you something?”

William didn’t look at him. “Go ahead.”

“…Do you love me? Or Mum?”

William sucked in a sharp breath of smoke and turned to face Michael. “What kind of question is that? You’re my son, aren’t you?”

Michael’s face fell. That wasn’t an answer. Not really.

William dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his shoe. “Get back to work. No more loitering.”

And with that, he left.

Michael stood alone, staring at the smoldering ashes on the floor, disappointed.

Your shift ended. You carried a sleepy James in your arms and waved goodbye to Evan. He gave you a puppy-eyed look that nearly broke you. Something about tomorrow felt wrong.

Michael and Evan drove home in silence. The red sports car purred beneath them.

“Who let your ass out?” Michael suddenly snapped, not taking his eyes off the road. Evan hugged his plush bear tightly, knuckles white.

“I asked you a question, you cunt!”

The car swerved, making Evan flinch.

“Leave me alone, Mike! Henry found me!”

“Tch. Whatever.”

Michael pulled into the driveway, parking with a jolt. He threw it into park and glared at Evan.

“Get the fuck inside. Don’t bother me.”

Evan bolted from the car and rushed upstairs. He slammed his door and locked it, chest heaving.

Michael stormed into his own room, grabbing the phone and dialing.

“Hey, who’s this?”

“Jacob, it’s Michael. Eleven tomorrow. Spread the word.”

“Got it. See you then.”

NIGHT 4

Evan’s heart pounded as he lay in bed, the darkness pressing in around him. Shadows danced across the walls. Baby Nightmare Freddies twitched and convulsed on the mattress, their distorted, animatronic faces flickering in and out of sight. Hallucinations—he knew that—but they felt real.

Breathe in, breathe out...

Flash the light...

Listen. Repeat.

A low, echoing laugh erupted from the corridors, and Evan’s desperation to survive flared.

Close the door. Wait...

Breathe. Breathe...

Survive.

You woke up early, the excitement of Evan’s birthday buzzing through you like electricity. Gently, you shook James awake.

“Hey—it’s Evan’s birthday!”

James blinked sleepily, then grinned. “Oh yeah! I won something from Sammy that I’m gonna give him. You think he’ll like it?” He rummaged in his drawer and pulled out a sparkling keychain—a prize from one of the arcade machines.

“It’s perfect,” you said, hugging him. “I’m sure he’ll love it.” Even though deep down you knew that Evan would probably have it.

James nodded, already climbing out of bed. “I’ll get ready. When’s the party?”

You weren’t exactly sure, so you decided to head over at your usual time. After breakfast, James joined you at the table, munching cereal with eager energy.

“Evan said he invited some of his school friends too,” he said between bites.

“That’s great,” you replied. “You’ll have people your age to hang out with.”

His eyes sparkled. “I can’t wait for the cake and pizza!”

Once breakfast was done, the two of you headed toward the old diner. The faded sign and peeling paint struck a chord of nostalgia as you approached.

*

The diner was locked.

You shifted your weight anxiously while James stood beside you, frowning.

“Don’t worry,” you said, ruffling his hair. “We’re probably just early.” You sat on the curb, letting the morning sun warm your face. James sat close, brushing hair out of his eyes.

“Should we go to the other diner, just in case?” he asked hesitantly.

“Well, Mr. Afton told me to come here,” you replied. “We’ll wait a bit longer—if no one shows, we’ll go.”

Time dragged. You picked nervously at your nails, unease settling in your chest.

“Amy! Look—that purple car!”

You looked up. William. And for once, you were relieved to see him. You gave him an awkward wave; he nodded as he got out. Michael and Evan stepped out too. Michael gave you a brief nod.

“Locked out, are we?” William grinned, pulling keys from his pocket.

“Seems so,” you said, following behind as he unlocked the door. The sharp, fake smell of plastic cheese hit immediately.

“Right. Michael, Amy, I need your help. Evan, James—go play on the arcades,” William instructed. The boys ran off while you and Michael got to work decorating. You hung streamers; Michael worked on the lights. William inflated balloons, and color slowly filled the space.

Once everything was set, William turned to you.

“Amy, we’ll need at least five large pizzas. Can you handle that while Michael and I prep the animatronics? Oh—and don’t forget the drinks machine.”

“Sure,” you said, heading into the kitchen. You prepped food, set out plates and cutlery, and arranged gift bags while the pizzas cooked. By eleven, guests were arriving.

A crowd of Evan’s friends poured in, joining Evan and James at the arcade. They laughed, slipped on party hats, and cheered when William brought out ice cream. Everything seemed perfect—until three older kids walked in.

Two boys in Bonnie and Fredbear masks. A girl in a Chica mask.

Evan froze.

You saw Michael approach them, slapping each on the back. He had a fox mask on.

Something felt wrong.

The boy in the Bonnie mask noticed you watching. He strolled over, confident, the others close behind. He was nearly as tall and strong as Michael.

“Hello there.”

“Hi,” you said flatly, casting a glance at Michael for support.

“Who are you?” asked the girl, arms folded.

“I’m Amy. I work here.” You gestured at your uniform.

“Oooh,” they all said in mock surprise. The girl leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

“How cute, Amy.”

You stayed silent, staring her down.

“So, Michael. Is this your girlfriend?” the boy in the Fredbear mask asked.

Michael laughed dryly. “No. Just someone I work with. I barely know her.”

The words cut deep.

Michael’s smirk toward the Chica-masked girl made your stomach twist.

“A friend, maybe?” the Bonnie-masked boy teased.

“If you can even call that,” Michael muttered, rubbing his hands together. “Anyway—let’s get this party started.”

You turned away, heart stinging. You slammed a tray down on the counter.

God, how stupid are you?

You picked up a cloth to clean down the surfaces, only to hear a faint cry—sharp and distressed.

Evan.

You dropped it and rushed toward the sound.

Michael and his friends were circling Evan, taunting him.

“Wow, your brother’s kind of a baby, huh?” said the Bonnie-masked boy.

“It’s hilarious. Let’s help him get a closer look. He’ll love it!” Michael jeered, mask now pulled over his face.

“No, please! No!” Evan begged, trembling.

“Come on, guys! Let’s give the little man a lift. He wants to get up close and personal!”

They grabbed him.

You ran forward. “Michael, stop! Stop!”

He shoved you hard.

“Fuck off, you bitch.”

You staggered back, stunned. You wanted to fight—but there was something dangerous in Michael’s eyes that froze you in place.

“No! Please!” Evan sobbed. "Put me down!"

They ignored him with Evan wailing as they dragged him toward the stage. Fredbear loomed, his jaw wide open.

The other children, lost in food and noise, didn’t notice a thing. William was nowhere to be seen—probably in the office, working away as usual.

“On three! One... two...”

“NO!” Evan screamed. "HELP!"

They pushed his head into Fredbear’s mouth, laughing. Evan screeched.

"Aww, look at him!" Jacob giggled.

For a second—just a second—it was still.

Then: a low, electric whirring. A twitch.

Fredbear’s servos groaned.

CRUNCH.

Fredbear's jaw snapped halfway down with a sickening crunch—too fast, too sharp, then froze mid-bite. Sparks shot from the animatronic’s jawline. A metallic clicking started, fast and irregular, like a gear grinding against itself.

CRUNCH.

Another bite—deeper this time. The machine jerked, jaw trembling like it was stuck in a loop.

Crimson blood sprayed from Evan’s head onto the group and you. His arms flailed, crying, but the machine wouldn’t stop.

Chkk—CRNK—chkk—CRNK.

Each bite was louder, more broken than the last. Flesh tore. Bone cracked.

And then—a final, shuddering SNAP.

Silence.

You all stood in shock, not knowing what to say. It wasn't until Anissa screamed in horror that chaos truly broke loose.

Children howled.

Chairs fell over.

Plates crashed.

The room erupted in panic.

William burst from his office, rage in his eyes. “What the hell is—”

He stopped cold.

Fredbear stood still, jaws and fur stained red. Evan’s body hung limp from his mouth.

William’s face drained of color and he dropped to his knees.

His son. Dead.

How? How did this happen?

His gaze landed on Michael.

Blank. Cold.

Then—rage.

"What have you done? What have you done, Michael!"

He surged to his feet, trembling with fury, each step thunderous as he closed the distance. Before Michael could defend himself, William lashed out violently at him.

Chapter Text

PART 1

William punched and kicked Michael over and over, consumed by a rage so blinding it turned his son’s cries into background noise. Michael begged him to stop, but it only made William angrier. His friends had already fled, leaving the scene in total chaos. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. You stood frozen, unable to process what you'd just seen.

“You fucking imbecile! What were you thinking?" William screamed, his voice raw. His hands closed around Michael’s throat.

Henry burst through the diner doors. “William—stop!” He rushed toward them, grabbing William’s arms and trying to pull him back. “There are children here!”

William turned on him, eyes wild. “Calm down? Calm down? Fuck off!" he bellowed. “He fucking murdered my son!” His finger shook as he pointed at Michael. “These kids just watched my boy get decapitated!”

Then, with a snarl, William struck Michael again—this time a slap so hard it sent him crashing to the floor with a thud.

Henry grabbed him again, firmer now. “The ambulance is on its way. Deal with Michael later. Focus on Evan now,” he said quietly, urgently.

William stood there trembling, then sagged forward, pressing his face against Henry’s chest. “Fuck,” he muttered.

Henry, stunned by the sudden closeness, wrapped one arm around his grieving friend.

Michael, nose bloodied, wiped it with the back of his hand. Your eyes met briefly. You turned away in disgust.

The paramedics arrived moments later. They worked quickly but carefully, prying Evan from Fredbear’s gory jaws and placing him on a stretcher. William couldn’t even look.

“Will, we have to go to the hospital. Come on,” Henry urged.

“He’s dead,” William rasped. “Evan’s dead!”

“There still might be a chance. Please, Will,” Henry coaxed, guiding him toward the car. As they moved, he caught sight of Michael, standing dazed and alone. “Michael, you’re coming with us too,” he said, his tone firm.

“I don’t want him there,” William snapped. “He caused this.”

Henry hesitated, then said, “This might be the last time he sees his brother. I know you can’t forgive him—not now—but let him come.”

William shook his head, voice hoarse. “Whatever. I don’t want to see his fucking face.”

Michael climbed silently into the backseat. The car pulled away, leaving you standing in the doorway of the ruined diner.

Only then did you realize James wasn’t with you.

Your heart dropped. “James?” you called, hurrying back inside.

The diner had fallen eerily silent. Tables stood overturned, a child’s shoe lay abandoned near the stage. And the stage itself—drenched in Evan’s blood. Fredbear’s suit, once cheerful, was now stained dark red. The sight made your stomach churn.

You gagged and stumbled away, but it was too late. You barely made it to the bathroom before vomiting. Over and over. You collapsed against the cubicle wall, trembling.

Minutes passed before you forced yourself up. You staggered to the sink, rinsing your mouth, splashing water on your face. Blood had streaked across your forehead. You scrubbed furiously, watching it swirl down the drain. Still shaking, you resumed your search.

Then—an open door.

Henry’s office.

You peered inside.

There, curled under the desk, was James, clutching Evan’s keychain.

“James?” you whispered.

“Amy?” His voice cracked as he looked up at you, eyes swollen with tears.

You knelt down, and he flung himself into your arms. “Evan died! He died!” he sobbed.

“There might be a chance he’ll live,” you whispered, holding him tightly.

“No. No. His head—his head was bitten off,” James wailed. You held him closer, unable to say anything else.

The two of you stayed there, huddled together under the desk, clinging to each other as the sirens faded and the nightmare settled into memory.

“Room number for Evan Afton? This is his father and brother,” Henry said, gesturing to William and Michael.

“Number 502,” the receptionist replied. “You may have to wait outside.”

“Thank you.” The three of them hurried down the corridor.

When they arrived, the door to Evan’s room was locked. Through the small window, they could see doctors moving around his bed, inspecting his head.

They sat outside in the waiting area: William on the left, Henry in the middle, and Michael on the right. William pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it.

“Will, you know you can’t smoke in a hospital,” Henry said gently.

“I know,” William muttered, exhaling smoke. “But when your kid’s life is hanging by a fucking thread, smoking should be the least of anyone’s concerns.”

A nurse spotted the cigarette and approached. “Sir, I’m sorry, but you can’t smo—”

“Do me a favor and fuck off,” William snapped without even looking at her.

She blinked, offended but professional. “Sir, if you don’t extinguish that cigarette, I’ll have to ask you to leave the premises.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he growled, stubbing the cigarette against the white wall, leaving a charred brown scar. “Happy now?”

“Yes. Thank you,” she said tersely, walking off.

As soon as she disappeared, William considered lighting another, but instead gripped his hands together tightly in his lap. Henry placed a hand on his shoulder, offering quiet support.

Michael said nothing.

He sat motionless, guilt pressing down on his chest like lead. Blood stained his hands and shirt, a dried, flaky reminder of what he had done. He wiped his palms down his jeans, then removed his party mask, staring at the smudged red splatter across its surface. His jaw clenched.

He wanted to throw up.

He threw the mask to the floor instead and bowed his head, silently pleading: If Evan wakes up… I’ll be a better brother. I swear. I’ll do anything. Please! Just don’t let him die.

After what felt like hours, the door creaked open. A doctor stepped out, clipboard pressed to his chest, his expression grim.

William tensed. Henry’s hand squeezed his shoulder.

“I’m afraid I have very bad news,” the doctor began.

William didn’t breathe.

“The incident didn’t kill Evan instantly, but he’s in a very serious coma. He has severe brain damage. We’re doing all we can, but… the chances of recovery are extremely low. If not, none. If Evan survives the next hour, we’ll consider that a miracle.”

The air left the corridor like a vacuum. The doctor looked down. “I’m sorry. You can see him now.”

William rose first and stepped into the room. Henry and Michael followed in silence.

Evan lay on the hospital bed, wrapped in wires and bandages. His head was swathed in thick gauze. His chest moved faintly beneath the blanket. Machines beeped and blinked in soft rhythms, too calm for how it felt.

William turned away, as if unable to look.

Michael moved closer. He stopped at the edge of the bed, hesitant, then sat beside Evan.

“Can you hear me?” he whispered. “I don’t know if you can…”

He reached out, taking Evan’s small, bandaged arm in trembling hands.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, his voice cracking. “I never meant for this to happen. It was just a joke… we thought…” He broke off, shaking his head. “I didn’t protect you like a brother should. I made fun of you. And now—” His voice splintered into sobs. He bent forward, pressing his forehead against Evan’s arm, crying freely. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry." He knew, deep down, that being sorry would never be enough. 

Eventually, he pulled himself back, wiping his face. He rose and stepped aside, giving his father space.

William slowly approached the bed. He knelt down beside Evan, staring at his son’s fragile form. The anger was gone now, replaced by something hollow.

He reached out and took Evan’s hand.

“You’re broken,” he whispered. “But we’re still your friends. Do you still believe that?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“I will put you back together,” William murmured. The words left his lips like a mantra, empty.

He then stared at Evan for a minute. For a long moment, he said nothing. He just stood there, watching the quiet rise and fall of his son’s chest. The hospital room buzzed faintly with machines, but all William could hear was the echo of his own thoughts.

You're here because of Michael.

Then—

Beep.

A single, sharp note cut through the sterile silence.

Beep.

Another, weaker this time.

Then the rhythm broke.

The monitor stuttered. Lines jolted across the screen in panicked bursts—then flatlined.

One long, piercing tone. Shrill. Final.

Michael’s breath caught in his throat. He staggered backward as if the sound itself had struck him.

“No…” he whispered, barely audible. “No. No. No!”

His knees hit the floor. Fingers gripped the edge of the bed like it could anchor him. Like Evan might still feel him there.

Doctors rushed in, calling out for defibrillators and meds, but it was no use.

Henry grabbed William's arm, guiding him out of the room as the staff worked in vain. Michael couldn’t move at first, but soon shuffled out after a nurse guided him out to leave.

Outside, the air was cold. The three of them walked in silence toward the car park.

William’s eyes were far away while Henry stayed close as a steady presence.

Michael walked behind them, broken.

You blamed Michael for everything.

The rage and contempt burning in your chest were almost unbearable. He hadn’t just mocked you in front of his so-called friends—he had killed his own little brother on what should have been a day of joy. Evan, the quietest and most innocent child you’d ever known. The idea that anyone could harbor such cruelty toward him—it was beyond comprehension.

As you took James home, the fear in his eyes was heartbreaking. What he had witnessed had left a deep scar on his young mind.

It was all Michael’s fault.

When you arrived at the house, the fridge was empty. James had sunk to the floor, switching on the TV, though his mind was clearly somewhere else.

“James, I’m going to pick up some food. Do you want to come with me?”

“No. I want to stay here,” he mumbled. His voice was small. He huddled closer to the TV as though its noise could shield him from the day’s horrors.

You sighed gently. He needed to feel safe. “Alright. I’ll be quick.”

You grabbed your wallet and stepped outside. The air was sharp and unfriendly as you made your way to the store.

The shop was brightly lit and bustling with life, but you felt like a ghost among the living. The orderly aisles, the hum of conversation—everything felt distant and surreal. You grabbed what you needed, barely registering the items in your hands. At the checkout, the cashier made polite small talk. You answered with a fake smile.

The walk back was a blur, each step echoing with the day's trauma.

The silence in the car was suffocating as Henry drove William and Michael back to the diner. The familiar purple car was parked where it had been that morning. When Henry pulled up, he glanced at them in the rearview mirror.

“Thanks, Henry. I appreciate you sticking by me,” William muttered, voice worn and dry.

Henry gave a thin smile. “No problem. That’s what friends are for, right?”

“Mm,” William grunted, barely acknowledging it.

They said their goodbyes, and Henry drove off, leaving William and Michael standing outside. William unlocked his car, and they climbed in. The doors shut with a weighty thud.

Inside, the air was stifling. William's grip on the steering wheel was iron-tight. His eyes were fixed ahead, unmoving. Finally, he spoke, voice like a razor.

“Remember when you asked if your mother or I ever loved you?”

Michael said nothing. He stared out the window, jaw tight.

William scoffed. “You were never my favorite. I can tell you that much. And now?” He let out a dry, mirthless laugh. “Now, I think you already know what I’m going to say.”

Still, Michael didn’t look at him. Shame clung to him like oil.

William turned the key. The engine rumbled to life.

They drove in silence toward the house.

You stumbled under the weight of the grocery bags, cursing under your breath. They were heavier than you expected. As you neared the crossing, a familiar flash of purple caught your eye—a car idling at the light. William and Michael.

You tried to look away, to keep walking, but your eyes locked onto theirs through the window. The anger inside you surged. You bit it down hard.

The light turned green, and the car moved on—but not before they saw you.

You let out a long breath and continued home.

Inside, James hadn’t moved. Still on the floor. Still staring blankly at the TV.

You put the groceries away in silence and knelt beside him.

“James,” you said gently, “I know you’re scared. But I’m here. We’re going to get through this. Together.”

He looked up, eyes wet but exhausted. “Can we just stay here? I don’t want to go back to that diner. Not ever.”

You nodded. “Of course, James. We’ll stay here. We're not going there ever again.”

Michael and William had both seen you.

For Michael, it ignited something close to remorse. He wanted to find you. Apologize. Even if forgiveness was a fantasy, even if you spat in his face, he needed to try.

William, however, felt something different—delight. He wanted to lash out, to break something. Beating Michael senseless had its appeal, sure, but that would be too obvious… too predictable.

He thought of your little brother.

A glint lit up in his eyes, and he began to plan something.

Something sickeningly thrilling.

Something inevitable.

ACT 2

PART 1

THE DAY OF EVAN'S FUNERAL

*

“Clara!” His voice cracked the quiet like a whip. He caught up to her near a large oak tree. She turned only slightly, her expression curled in disgust.

“No, William. Stay away!” She shoved him with both hands. “You lost Lizzie. Now Evan. Both our kids. Gone! You did this.”

William snapped. He slapped her, then gripped her shoulders, pinning her to the bark of a nearby tree.

“Don’t fucking blame me,” he snarled. “I was trying to protect Evan after Lizzie disappeared. I gave a damn. More than you ever did.” He jabbed a finger inches from her face. “Blame Michael. He killed his brother. He was the one.”

Clara’s expression twisted with fury and pain. “Then why didn’t you stop him?” she screamed. “You were at the diner. You always are!”

“I was working!” William roared. “I was in my fucking office!”

“You always say that.” Her voice cracked. “That's the same fucking excuse you use every damn time!”

“Because I was! Michael is an adult, Clara! I don’t have time to babysit a fucking eighteen-year-old! He’s sick, Clara! He’s a psychopath! And now Evan’s dead because of him!”

Clara stood frozen, tears beginning to spill. One slipped down her cheek. William followed it with his eyes.

Whether from sorrow or resolution, Clara’s voice trembled. “Whether Michael’s a murderer or not, he’s still our son. The only one we have left.” Her voice caught. “I don’t want any more contact with you. The most I’ll do is have Michael over the weekends, if necessary. If he wants. But aside from that... I’m done. I’m sorry, but I can’t handle this anymore. I can’t handle you!”

She marched around him and walked briskly to her car.

William stood motionless for a moment, then barked after her, “Yeah, walk away! That’s what you’re good at! You didn’t even show up for Evan's last birthday, remember that! Didn't even bother.”

Clara didn’t answer. She got into the car and started the engine.

“You’re gonna regret this, Clara!" William spat. "You’ll regret every goddamn thing—”

She drove off, tires spitting gravel behind her.

William stood there, breathing hard. Then, in a fit of rage, he picked up a rock and hurled it at the retreating car. It bounced off the trunk with a dull clang.

“Fucking bitch,” he muttered, slumping onto the curb, watching the car disappear.

“Come on, James. Let’s go home, yeah?”

James’s voice cracked. “Evan was my best friend.”

He reached for your hand, and you took it gently.

“I know, sweetheart,” you said softly, squeezing it. “I know you’re going to miss him a lot.”

“It hurts. It really hurts,” James whispered. "I miss him."

You stopped walking, crouched down, and pulled him into your arms. He clung to you tightly.

“It will hurt, James. You cared so much about him. Of course, you'll miss him! He was your best friend. Evan was like a little brother to me, too. But even though he’s gone, the memories you have will always be with you.”

James held on tighter. “Do you think we’ll ever forget him?”

You brushed a tear from his cheek.

“No, James. We’ll always remember him. His memory will stay with us. And whenever you think of him, you’ll remember all the good times. How much he meant to you.”

James looked up. His eyes held a glimmer of something—hope, maybe.

“When I think about him, I’ll remember how he made me laugh.”

You hugged him again, tears stinging your own eyes.

“That’s what Evan would want."

“Dad?”

Michael approached carefully. William sat hunched on the curb, deep in a dark mood.

“What the fuck do you want now?” William’s glare snapped up to meet him.

“D-do you wanna go home?” Michael asked quietly, voice shaking.

In the days leading up to the funeral, William had spiraled—he refused to work, drank heavily from a stash of whiskey, and spent whatever money he had on more booze. Michael had tried avoiding him, but William always found ways to lash out—physically, more often than not.

William’s bloodshot eyes burned with fury. “How about this,” he growled. “You go fuck off with your little friends. When I’m in the mood, I’ll call you. And as for your bitch of a mother—you’ll visit her every goddamn weekend.”

Michael hesitated. “What if... what if she says no?”

William rose to his full height. His suit made him seem taller, more menacing. He swayed unsteadily, then stepped in close, towering over Michael.

“If she says no, I’ll fucking make her,” he snarled. "And if you don't go, I don't know what I would do."

Michael instinctively backed away, eyes downcast. “Okay,” he murmured.

“Good.” William’s lip curled. “Now leave me in peace, you fucking murderer.”

The word sliced through Michael like a blade. He flinched but didn’t argue.

He turned and walked away, shoulders heavy with guilt. He didn’t have his car—but he had enough for the bus. Quietly, he made his way to the stop, waiting for something—anything—to take him away.

PART 2

After stepping out of the bath, you wrapped a towel around yourself and let out a long sigh of relief. You dried your hair with a second towel, then plugged in the hairdryer. The heat blasted into your hair as you moved it this way and that, tossing it and flicking the strands until it was mostly dry. You turned off the dryer and put it away before grabbing your shorts and top from the towel rail. As you dressed, you rubbed the foggy mirror with your hand, inspecting your reflection.

“Amy!”

The sudden call jerked you out of your thoughts. You ignored it at first, draining the bath and putting the bottles back in their places.

“Amy!” James’s voice was sharper this time, urgent.

“Yeah?” you shouted back, slightly frustrated.

“Someone’s at the door!”

Groaning, you headed downstairs. Peering through the peephole, you saw Michael standing on the doorstep, his knuckles hovering near the doorframe, poised to knock again. You gritted your teeth and, with a sharp push, opened the door. Michael’s eyes flicked up to meet yours.

“Um, hi,” he said, voice hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he belonged there.

“What do you want?” you spat, the anger rising within you. James hid behind you, clearly terrified of Michael's presence.

“Amy, can we talk, please?”

“No. I don’t want you here,” you shot back, voice tight with fury.

“Please, Amy, I really need to.”

Before you could slam the door, Michael wedged his foot in the frame, blocking you from shutting him out. “Please?”

“No, Michael!” You stepped outside, carefully closing the door behind you to keep James from seeing. The emotions that had been building inside you boiled over, and you raised your voice, fighting the knot in your throat. “I can’t believe you have the audacity to show up here, after everything! You embarrassed me—no, you humiliated me. And then you killed Evan like it was a joke. He was a child, Michael! A child!”

“Amy, I—”

“Shut up! Don’t pretend you’re sorry! You and your little friends—you made this mess, not just for me, but for so many other people! And those so-called 'friends' of yours, you told them I didn’t mean anything to you!” You shoved him, the anger flowing out of you. “When that guy in the Bonnie mask asked if we were friends, you said—‘if you can even call that’—what the hell, Michael? What the fuck was that? What am I to you, huh?”

“I’m sorry—”

“I don’t care! I don’t care about your apologies! You’re not sorry! Just leave me alone!” You shouted, your voice breaking.

Michael’s eyes shimmered with tears, but he didn’t speak, only looking at you helplessly.

“Don't you think you've done enough damage already?” you hissed, the words like venom on your tongue. “You’ve hurt so many people, Michael. Right now, I want you gone. I want you out of my life, for good.”

The tears ran down Michael’s cheeks as he turned and began to walk away, shoulders slumped. You stood there, breath shallow, heart pounding in your chest. Storming back inside, you slammed the door behind you. James was sitting on the couch, curled into himself, hugging his knees tightly.

“He’s gone now,” you said softly, sitting beside him and pulling him into a tight hug.

James sniffled, his voice small. “Are you still going to work at the diner?”

You sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t really have a choice, James. It pays better than anything else I’ve seen, and we need that right now.”

“But... if I go to the diner, I won’t have Evan to play with anymore,” he said quietly, picking at his shoelaces in that nervous way you’d grown accustomed to.

You gently placed your hand on his. “I know, sweetheart. But you still have Sammy, don’t you? He’s at the diner sometimes, right? Aren’t you friends with him?”

“A bit,” he mumbled. “He’s nice, but... I’m not as close to him as I was with Evan.”

“Well, maybe you could become closer friends with him? Get to know him better. You two could hang out and play together.”

“I guess,” he said with a shrug, still looking down at his shoes. He stood up, walking over to the shelf where a framed photo of the two of you was sitting. He picked it up, staring at it with a sad expression. “Everything is so scary now. But I’m glad you’re here with me.”

You stepped up behind him, your hand resting gently on his shoulder. “That’s what siblings are for, right? We’re here for each other. We’ll stick together, always.”

James gave a small nod, setting the frame back on the shelf. He paused for a moment before speaking again. “Do you think Mom will ever visit us?”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the knot in your throat. “I... don’t know, James. I don’t think so. Mom... wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind when we left. And I can’t see her wanting to come find us. But... maybe one day. Who knows?”

You pulled him closer again, wrapping him in a warm embrace.

Michael made his way to Jacob’s house and knocked on the door, leaning his head against it in a desperate attempt to hold back his tears. After a few moments, the door creaked open, revealing a shirtless and surprised Jacob.

“Oh—uh? Michael?” Jacob blinked, his eyes landing on Michael’s tear-stained face.

“Jake, can we talk? Please?” Michael asked, his voice trembling.

“Uh, sure,” Jacob said, stepping aside as he took in Michael’s disheveled state. “What’s going on?”

“We messed up badly on Evan’s birthday,” Michael choked out. “We killed him. And you guys just ran.”

Jacob let out a long sigh, lifting his hands in surrender. “Look, man, that was your idea. Don’t say ‘we’ like we all planned it. You were the one who shoved Evan’s head into Fredbear’s mouth. Yeah, we picked him up, but that’s it.”

“You could’ve stopped me,” Michael whispered, his voice cracking. "You could have said something."

“Made you stop? None of us thought the damn thing would bite! And who was it that called me in the first place? Who wanted to mess with Evan’s birthday?” Jacob’s voice grew frustrated.

Michael fell quiet. “You don’t know the full story, Jacob. You have no fucking idea.”

Jacob’s frown deepened as he studied Michael’s face. “Look, I don’t know why you hated Evan so much, but don’t start pointing fingers. It was a mistake. It was an accident. None of us thought the animatronic would malfunction.”

“I know... but now my dad loathes me. And Amy... she hates me too.” Michael’s voice faltered. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“I get it, man. Your dad’s anger makes sense, I guess. But Amy? Since when did you care about what she thinks?”

Michael shook his head. “I do care. I was just trying to act cool around you guys, but I messed everything up. She doesn't want to see me now.” He broke down, covering his face with his elbow as sobs wracked his body.

Jacob’s expression softened. “Dude... uh…” He stepped aside and opened the door wider. “Come in.”

Michael wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, trying to calm himself as he stepped inside. Jacob faced him. “Mike, I’m being serious though. Give her space. You can’t fix that overnight.”

“I know. But I’m lost. My dad won’t even let me back home until he calls me. I feel so fucking stupid. I ruined everything. My little brother’s dead, and everyone hates me.”

“You’re not stupid,” Jacob said, shaking his head. “And screw your dad. He’s always been a dick. You can stay here until he cools off. But with Amy, just don’t push it.”

“Yeah,” Michael murmured, glancing around Jacob’s house. “Thanks for letting me crash here. I just hope you don’t think I’m some kind of killer.” He paused, the echo of his father’s words haunting him. “Well... I guess I am.”

Jacob frowned. “You’re not a murderer. At worst, it was manslaughter—you didn’t mean it. It was a stupid, horrible accident.”

Michael nodded slowly, his expression hollow.

Trying to shift the mood, Jacob led him to the kitchen. “Anyway, you hungry? Mom left some pizza in the fridge.”

“Yeah. Sure,” Michael said quietly.

They ate in silence, the weight of the day pressing down as evening crept in.

“Thanks again, Jake. Seriously,” Michael said between bites.

“Don’t mention it,” Jacob replied.

William collapsed onto the couch, the whiskey bottle in his hand as memories of Elizabeth tore through his mind like shards of glass. He tried to block them out, but they returned with brutal clarity.

Elizabeth was cunning, sharp, and so much like him. But it was that same personality that killed her. He could still hear her voice—just before she died. 

He took another swig of whiskey, praying for numbness. But instead, the alcohol only sharpened the edges of guilt and sorrow. Her face flashed before him. 

“Elizabeth…” he whispered. "Why did you go to that damn animatronic? Why?" His other hand curled into a tight fist. "Why did you have to be so damn fucking curious?"

The room seemed to shrink, pressing in around him, the air thick with the stench of whiskey and rot. Thoughts ricocheted violently through William’s head — Elizabeth, Evan, Michael. Over and over again. Elizabeth. Evan. Michael.

Sweet, fragile Evan — gone. His bright little boy, crushed in that cursed bear’s mouth.

And Michael.

Michael.

The name throbbed in his skull like a migraine.

Michael, who ruined everything.

Michael, who thought it was funny.

Michael, who couldn't stop himself.

Michael, who should have been in that coffin instead. 

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. “Fucking Michael…”

The room rang with that name. It bounced off the walls, screaming at him. Echoing. Mocking.

Michael, Michael, Michael.

“Fuck him!” William roared. He kicked over a chair hard, hearing it clatter loudly.

Silence followed, broken only by the pounding of his heart and the ringing in his ears. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to squeeze the chaos out of his skull.

No more. No more of this. He was done. He needed control again. Something he could build. Manage. Own.

He lunged for the phone, fingers fumbling over the buttons. He needed the diner. He needed the routine, the noise of the machines, the distraction.

Dialing Henry, he waited as it rang. It was far too long before it was picked up.

“Hello?” Henry’s calm voice greeted him.

“It’s me. William,” he slurred.

“William? Are you drunk?” Henry asked, concern lacing his tone.

“What? No,” William snapped. “Just..." He fumbled with the phone cord, nearly yanking it from the wall. “Just calling to open the diner tomorrow. Call the employees—Pete, uh, what’s her name.”

“Amy?”

“Yeah. And John too. We need the cleaning staff.”

“Will, are you sure? Both diners?”

“Just the fucking pizzeria,” William barked. “I’m not opening that other shithole again. Use your damn head.”

Henry hesitated. “Okay… but Will, please don’t drink too much. Try to get some rest.”

“I barely had a glass,” William lied.

There was a pause.

“Where’s Michael?” Henry asked carefully.

“I don’t know,” William growled. “Probably at a friend’s.”

“Did he leave on his own, or did you send him away?”

“Why do you care?”

“I just want to understand,” Henry said calmly.

William rolled his eyes. “I told him to fuck off until I call him back. I can’t stand him.”

“Will, I know you’re angry, but I really don’t believe Michael meant to kill Evan.”

William wheezed. “Bullshit. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

In the background, William heard a voice—Ellie’s—call out, “Henry, who are you on the phone with?”

“Just William, darling,” Henry replied gently. Then back into the receiver: “Look, Will, I’ve got to go. Just try to rest. Let Michael come home tomorrow, alright?”

“Whatever. Night,” William muttered.

“Bye, Will. And remember what I—”

William slammed the phone down, then hurled the empty whiskey bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall, glass spraying across the floor. But even that didn’t make him feel better. The rage stayed.

He stared at the broken glass, overwhelmed by exhaustion, before slumping back onto the couch and staring at the ceiling. One last name slipped from his cracked lips, before dozing off.

“…Elizabeth…”

"Daddy?"

Elizabeth stepped quietly into the office at Circus Baby’s Pizza World, where William sat hunched over a stack of paperwork. He looked up, eyes shadowed and tired. Setting the documents aside, he approached her.

"What is it, darling?" he asked, his voice softer than usual, though frayed with fatigue.

"Daddy, why won’t you let me play with her?"

"Circus Baby?" She nodded eagerly.

"Because she’s not ready yet."

"Daddy, just once. Let me go play with her! She’s so pretty and shiny! Didn’t you make her just for me?"

A flicker of something passed across his face—annoyance, perhaps, or fear.

"I did, darling. She’s beautiful, just like you. But she’s not ready. It’s... not safe yet."

"But you let the other children go see her! Why not me?"

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Because I want her to be perfect for you. I promise—once she’s ready, you’ll be the first to play with her."

He turned back to his desk. But Elizabeth wasn’t done. She circled around him, eyes wide and pleading.

"Daddy, she can make balloons! Have you seen her make balloons? Oh, Daddy, please! Let me go to her!"

"No, Elizabeth." His voice hardened. "You can’t."

"Please! Just for a minute!"

"No, Elizabeth!" The frustration broke through and he slammed his hand on the desk. "I said no! What part of that word don't you fucking understand?"

She flinched. The tears came quickly as she spun on her heel and ran from the office, her sobs echoing down the hall.

William pressed his eyes shut. "Fucking damn it," he muttered, sinking into his chair.

The door creaked again.

"Hey," said Jack, a former employee, with casual ease. "Just grabbing one of the suits, if that’s okay?"

William barely looked up. "Go ahead."

Jack fiddled with the Funtime Fredbear suit, struggling with the torso.

"These suits are tricky. Does it have to be a springlock model?"

William didn’t look up. "Yes."

Jack shrugged. "I saw Liz crying. Is she alright?"

"She’ll be fine," William said, barely audible. "She’s tougher than she looks."

Jack finally got the suit on and grabbed the headpiece. "Well, I’d better get going. See you soon, sir."

William gave a vague nod. The office fell silent again.

*

Everything had run smoothly that day—until near closing time. William locked the office, rounded up Evan and Michael... but Elizabeth was nowhere to be found.

Irritation twisted in his chest.

"Where the hell is she?"

He searched the corridors, party rooms, back halls—nothing.

He called Michael over to help. Together, they combed every inch of the facility, but she was gone. The cleaners, Pam and Debbie, hadn’t seen her either.

His breathing turned sharp.

Then—a voice.

“What’s wrong, sir?”

A small boy, Lizzie’s age, lingered by the exit, sucking on a gobstopper.

William glanced at him. “Have you seen a girl? Ginger hair, green eyes, pink dress with a bow. Her name’s Elizabeth.”

The boy nodded. “Oh! Lizzie? Yeah, she was watching Circus Baby earlier. There were four of us, but we left to eat. She stayed.”

William’s stomach coiled.

“She stayed alone?”

“Yeah... are you okay, sir? Sir?”

But William was already moving—fast, storming down the corridor toward the performance room, his footsteps echoing off tile. 

Not her. Not now.

The room was empty. The animatronic still stood center stage, its painted smile frozen mid-performance, eyes glowing faintly in the dim lights.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t hesitate.

He approached the animatronic and powered it down. The low whir of machinery ceased. Silence pressed in, and with desperate fingers, he unlocked the back panel.

The hatch hissed open.

She was there.

Elizabeth. Crumpled inside the cavity like a discarded doll. Her pink dress soaked dark red. 

He stared.

His mind rose to a quiet, rising heat.

You little fool.

He took her out of it—arms hooked beneath her knees and shoulders. He knelt, settling her in his lap, her head resting on his thigh.

“You stupid girl,” he muttered. “I told you to stay away. I warned you. You never listened.”

He wasn’t crying. He was pissed. The failure, the disruption, the mess.

He then again slipped his arms beneath her and lifted her gently. Blood smeared his shirt, but he didn’t flinch. William eased her back into the cavity, folding her arms across her chest like a corpse laid to rest. No sentiment. Just containment.

The hatch closed with a click.

He then remembered about his family.

What would Clara say? What would Michael?

And then—

“Dad?”

He spun around.

Michael stood in the doorway, eyes wide.

William’s voice was low, warning. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

Michael’s gaze locked on the blood staining William’s white shirt.

“Is that... is that blood?” He took a step forward, unsteady. “What happened? Where’s Elizabeth?”

William said nothing.

"Did you hurt someone?" Michael’s asked, fearfully.

Still, William stayed silent.

"Dad, answer me!"

Then, slowly, Michael’s eyes drifted to Circus Baby—the cold, towering figure standing motionless in the light. Something about her... felt wrong. Something about her was off. Like she was watching, even though she couldn’t move.

He approached it, cautiously. A dread swelled in his stomach like bile.

“Dad?” he asked again, quieter now. “Where is she?”

No answer.

Curious, Michael let his fingers trace along the cold metal of the animatronic. He followed the seam of the hatch, slow and uncertain, until they met a small button nestled high on her back—just between the shoulder blades.

He hovered his index finger over it.

William took a sudden step forward. “Get away! Wait—”

Too late.

Michael slammed the hatch release.

The door opened.

Silence.

Then—

“What the fuck...” Michael’s face drained of color. “What the fuck!”

William grabbed him by the shoulders before he could bolt.

“Listen to me,” he said sharply. Michael struggled, terrified. “Listen to me, Michael! She approached Baby alone. The machinery glitched, and I told her that it wasn't safe. This wasn’t supposed to happen! This was an accident! A fucking accident, do you hear me?”

Michael thrashed, trying to pull away. “You killed her!”

“I didn’t kill anyone!” William’s grip tightened. “She was stupid. She didn’t listen. It’s not my fault.”

Michael was shaking. “You’re insane. You’re fucking insane—”

William shoved him back against the wall. “Listen to me,” he growled. “You say nothing. Do you understand me? Not to Henry. Not to your mother. No one!" He shook Michael violently. "And if I find out you have, you better pray that you're out of this damn country. Do you understand?" He squeezed Michael roughly. "Do you fucking understand?”

“I- I do! But... but you’re covering this up!” Michael whispered. “She’s your daughter—!”

“I know who she is!” William barked. “You think I wanted this? You think I meant for her to die?”

Michael’s face twisted with grief. “She trusted you...”

William released him, brushing the blood from his hands onto his pants.

“Well, she’s gone. And we move on. That’s all there is to it.”

He stepped back to Circus Baby. Closed the hatch again. Wiped down the panel. 

“I need to change,” he muttered. “Then we’re leaving.”

Michael didn’t move.

William walked out without looking back.

PART 3

Ring ring... Ring ring...

You got up from the sofa and walked toward the phone near the kitchen. Sighing, you picked it up.

"Hello?" you said, pressing the receiver to your ear.

"Hey, Amy. It's me, Henry. Just calling to let you know that William wants you to work at Fredbear’s Pizza tomorrow."

"Oh, hey! Uh… yeah, sure, I can do that," you replied, glancing at the clock. It was already evening. "Same time?"

"Thanks, Amy. Same as usual. I’ll see you in the morning."

You nodded. "Yeah, see you, Henry."

"Goodnight, Amy."

"You too." You hung up the phone.

When you turned around, James was standing in the doorway, his small frame almost swallowed by the shadows. His wide eyes were fixed on you.

Clearing your throat, you gave him a reassuring smile. "Henry asked me to work tomorrow."

James shifted, fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. "Oh. Okay. Is Sammy gonna be there?"

"Let’s hope so." You offered a softer smile, though you noticed the way his shoulders drooped. The clock ticked steadily in the background. You crossed the room and scooped him up, feeling his weight settle against your shoulder as he buried his face in your neck.

"Come on, bud. Let’s get you to bed. I’ll have an early night too."

You carried him to his bedroom. After tucking him in, you sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the blanket over his chest. His eyes searched yours.

"Promise me Michael won’t hurt me too."

The words struck like a blow to your chest, but you kept your voice calm as you gripped his hand.

"I promise," you whispered. You stayed by his side until his breathing slowed, and then finally, slept.

The next day, scampering into the diner, Michael’s eyes scanned the room, searching for you. You weren’t at the counter or near the arcades. The place was quiet, with only a few early customers around. His heart pounded as he pushed open the door to the restrooms, where he finally found you cleaning the sinks in the boy's toilets. 

“Amy?”

You glanced up, catching his reflection in the mirror. Turning around, your expression twisted into one of disgust. “What do you want now? Can’t you leave me alone?” you snapped, irritation lacing your voice.

“Amy, please, let me talk to you.”

“No. Leave me alone” you spat, trying to brush past him.

“Amy! Please, just let me talk.”

You stopped and turned to face him, arms crossed. “What? What do you want to say? What, that you're sorry?”

Michael’s throat tightened as he struggled to find the right words. “Yes. Amy, look, I’m sorry about everything. Please! I didn’t mean to kill Evan! It was an accident, I swear!” Your glare didn’t soften, and he stammered. “You know I wouldn’t kill my only brother. I’ve already lost Elizabeth.”

A snort escaped your lips. “An 'accident' by shoving Evan’s head into a fucking animatronic? It’s not exactly the first time you’ve done this, now is it? I remember my first day here in town, and you were doing it back then!”

Michael held his hands out in surrender. “I'm not perfect, I admit. But it was an accident. I fucking swear it was! It was a prank gone wrong."

You rolled your eyes. "Yeah, a 'prank' that led to someone dying. Way to go, Michael! Now, will you leave me alone? I've got work to do." You tried to walk past him but he held onto your shoulders. You were about to shove him off, but he let go almost instantly.

"Please, Amy. I-I, I’m going to tell you the truth.”

“What truth?” you demanded, narrowing your eyes. "Are you seriously trying to justify what you did?"

“I know you won't believe me, but this is what happened. My father - he encouraged me to bully Evan. He thought it would toughen him up. He thought fear would toughen him up. I… I took it too far because I wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted his respect. He said he would be proud if I did!" Michael lifted his hands, palms upward, slowly. "And now, I can’t stop seeing Evan’s blood on my hands, Amy. It haunts me. And now, I realise what a fool I was.”

Your expression hardened slightly with confusion. “Your dad encouraged you to bully Evan? To toughen him up?”

You scoffed, shaking your head, walking past him.

Michael’s voice became more desperate as he pleaded, “I’m not lying! Please, Amy! Believe me, he told me to do it!" Michael grabbed your arm. "Please! You know what he's like, and what I'm like!”

You wrenched it free, your anger flaring.

“Don’t try to blame him for what you did! You made your choices. You were the one who did it!”

Michael stared at you with his blue eyes. "I know! And I was so hungry for his validation that I listened to him. And I took it too far—and I know I did! Please, Amy, please believe me!"

You stared at him for a long moment, struggling to process his words. His voice had broken somewhere between desperation and regret, but you weren't ready to forgive. Not yet. Your voice was quiet, cold.

“You want me to believe you? That everything you’ve done... was for some stupid validation from your dad?”

Michael sighed deeply. “I know I fucked up, Amy. I know I did. But I never meant to kill him. I just wanted my dad to be proud of me… for once. I’m serious.” He stared at his shoes. "I know you’re not going to forgive me. Hell, I don’t even know if I can forgive myself.”

You took a step back, not sure if you were going to walk away or keep listening. “You do realise that I’m still angry at you, Michael. More than you can probably understand. You... you never even apologized for what you said about me, the things you said to your friends. Do you even understand how much that hurt too?”

Michael’s shoulders slumped as he nodded. "I was an asshole, Amy. A real dickhead. I was trying to fit in. Trying to seem cool. There was that girl... the one in the Chica mask. Long story short, she used to like me. Get real jealous with anyone, so I didn’t want her targeting you. That's why I said those things. I was trying to protect you in the dumbest way possible. But I was wrong. I was trying to be something I wasn’t.”

You didn’t reply immediately. Instead, you just stared at him. The anger inside you simmered, but so did the doubt. Maybe Michael really was sorry. Maybe he didn’t mean to cause any of this... but then again, maybe he was just trying to find a way to make himself feel better.

“Look, Michael, I’ve heard stories like this a hundred times before from other people. You’re not the first.”

“I’m being honest, Amy,” Michael insisted. "Please, I want us to stay as friends."

“Look,” you said after a long pause. “You don’t get to just erase everything with a few words, Michael. It’s not that simple.”

“I know. I don’t expect you to forgive me just like that. I know it’ll take time," he said.

You didn't respond. Maybe there was a small part of you that could understand the pressure he’d been under. But his actions had consequences, and you weren’t ready to let him off the hook.

Finally, you exhaled sharply.

“I’m not saying I believe you, Michael. And I’m definitely not forgiving you yet. But I guess... I guess we’ll see what you do. If you really want to make it right, you’ll show me.”

Michael nodded, his face full of shame. “I will. I’ll show you.”

You turned to leave, grabbing the sponge again to continue cleaning. But as you stepped past him, you heard him speak softly, almost to himself.

“I’m sorry, Amy. I really am.”

You gave a noncommital shrug, still focused on the sink, but you couldn’t fully ignore the soft note in his voice. You didn’t turn back, didn’t acknowledge it, but deep down, there was a slight shift. Of something. But it didn’t change anything.

Not yet anyway.

As you and Michael continued your conversation, William emerged from the office. He had a craving.

And he knew where to find it.

His eyes locked onto James, who sat alone by the window, absentmindedly rolling a crayon up and down the table. A smile crept across William’s face as he approached James.

"Hello, there."

James looked up with a shiver. "Hello."

"How are you today?" William asked, sliding into the seat next to James.

James’s gaze fell to the crayon. "Sad. I miss Evan. I wish he was here."

The mention of his deceased son made William’s jaw clench, but he maintained his smile.

"I miss him too. You and Evan were close, weren’t you?"

"Yeah, we were good friends. I want him back," James replied, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

William’s hand rested gently on James’s back. "We all do. But you know what? Evan had a special present for your birthday. I heard it's coming up in a few weeks." He could secretly thank you for slipping that small information to Pete while serving.

James’s eyes widened with curiosity and a flicker of hope. "He did? Did he tell you?"

William leaned in, his breath warm against James’s cheek. "Yes, he did. He told me he wanted to give you something special. We even went together to pick it out."

"Really?" James’s excitement grew.

William chuckled softly. "He asked me not to tell you, but I don’t see any harm in showing it to you."

James’s face lit up. "Is it a game? What is it? Where is the present?"

"It’s right here in the diner," William said smoothly. "Would you like to come and see it? I think it will cheer you up."

"Yes, please!" James’s eagerness was evident as he hopped off his chair, following William with a trusting smile.

As they moved towards the back of the diner, a faint, unsettling voice in James’s mind warned him of something amiss. He tried to ignore it, knowing the promise of a birthday present was close by.

They reached a dimly lit room, far from the festive décor of the main diner. William opened the door, and James stepped inside, looking around expectantly. The room was stark—just a dirty chair and a few scattered boxes.

The backroom.

James frowned. "Mr. Afton? Where’s the present? I thought it’d be in your office."

William smiled slowly.

"I never said where in the pizzeria the present would be."

He closed the door with a click, the sound echoing like a trap snapping shut.

And behind his back...

The knife waited.

Chapter Text

PART 1

James backed into the room, his breath hitching as he scanned the dimly lit space.

“Mr. Afton?”

A voice floated from the shadows. “Mm? What’s wrong?”

William’s smirk glimmered with malice, his eyes sharp and gleaming beneath the low light.

“I’m scared. Please...let me out!” James' voice quivered, tight with panic.

William’s footsteps echoed ominously as he advanced. “No,” he said, softly. “I’m not going to.”

James bolted, but he was too slow. William lunged, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him off the ground with ease. The boy gasped, his feet kicking the air, caught in an iron grip. His eyes met William’s—a dead, unfeeling stare that chilled him to the core.

“You know,” William murmured, voice smooth and cruel, “you’re not the first child I’ve killed. I’ve killed more children than your age in years. So your begging, your screaming, your pathetic little escape attempts?” His lips curled. “Useless.”

He drew a knife from his coat. The blade caught the light, gleaming like a predator’s eye.

James whimpered. “Please! Don’t!”

“Please! Don’t!” William mocked, drawing the blade lightly across the boy’s cheek. A thin line of blood welled up.

“Help me, Amy! Amy! Help!” James screamed, flailing wildly.

“Yell all you want,” William hissed, gripping the knife tighter. “She’s not coming. And no one can hear you.”

With a swift, brutal thrust, the knife plunged into James' stomach. Blood spilled in hot gushes, splattering the floor. The boy choked on a gasp, hands flying to the gaping wound.

William dropped him like trash.

James tried to crawl toward the door, dragging himself across the floor, blood trailing behind. But escape was never an option. William grabbed him by the hair and wrenched him backward, flipping him onto his back.

Then came the stabbing.

Once.

Twice.

Three times—deep into the chest.

James' cries were gurgled now, his limbs twitching as blood pooled around his body.

But William wasn’t finished. He flipped the boy over and stabbed again—into the back, over and over, with relentless force. The blade squelched through flesh and bone, and William let himself feel it—every vibration, every crunch.

“You’re going to die, James,” he whispered, almost tender. “You know that, right?”

James barely responded. “N-No... Amy... s-save me...”

William smiled coldly. “Now, now. We can’t have you using your vocal cords anymore. You might squeal.”

He grabbed James’ head, yanked it back—and slit his throat.

Blood sprayed. James gurgled, convulsed, and went still.

William stared at the corpse. Calm. Satisfied. Peace bloomed in his chest. It was dark and intoxicating. He let out a soft, breathless laugh, brushing the hair from his forehead. He had done it. He had killed your younger brother like he had promised to himself. And it felt amazing.

Euphoric.

The laughter returned, this time bubbling up from somewhere deep — a kind of mad joy he couldn’t contain. It spilled out of him, ugly and raw and real. Murder just felt right. Like slipping into skin that was always his. Like coming home.

For a moment, he let it wash over him, before reality crept back in slowly.

The body at his feet needed to go somewhere.

He didn’t have time to linger—the clock was ticking.

William checked the hallway, making sure no one was nearby, before grabbing an empty spare animatronic suit. Dragging James' body, he shoved it into the suit. The flesh folded unnaturally, and the squelch of blood echoed off the walls. He remembered the complaints—the foul smell, the leaking black fluid from the other animatronics—but no one had ever questioned it properly. Just another disappearance, dismissed by the police.

Why would James be any different?

With the body hidden, William turned to the mess. He crept back to his office, and through to the back where there was a washroom. He began scrubbing the blood from his hands and face in the sink, watching himself in the mirror. His lips arched upwards, and he flashed his teeth, feeling excited.

He then filled a bucket with bleach and water, returned to the scene, and cleaned every drop of blood with obsessive care. The knife went into the bucket, scrubbed until the metal gleamed. Then into his jacket.

He stripped off his bloodstained clothes—his slacks and shirt—and inspected the fabric. A few stubborn stains remained. He rinsed them under cold water, working the blood loose with friction and hand soap until they faded. Dressed in clean clothes that he had stored from his office drawer, he bagged the dirty ones. He was about to head into the dining room to leave, when he heard voices.

“Dad! Is there any ice cream?” Sammy’s voice, light and cheerful.

“There should be! What flavor do you want, kiddo?” Henry replied warmly.

“Chocolate!”

William swore under his breath. As Henry headed to the kitchen, with Sammy waiting close by, William's eyes darted around his room. He searched for a solution, until they landed on the ventilation shaft near the ceiling. It was out of sight and rarely, if ever, checked by anyone.

The perfect hiding spot.

Climbing onto a chair, he unscrewed the cover with steady hands. He stuffed the bloodied clothes inside, wedging the bag deep into the darkness. Once secure, he screwed the vent shut, climbed down, and smoothed his clothes.

The evidence was hidden. The backroom was spotless. He was clean.

William sat back at his desk, calmly completing the finances as if nothing had happened. His smile returned.

No one would ever know.

Clara sat on the couch, a cigarette dangling from her fingers, its smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. In her other hand, she cradled a glass of red wine, her grip tight—like the glass was the only thing tethering her to reality. Her mascara was smeared, dark trails marking the path of tears she had cried endlessly. Rage simmered beneath her skin, unbearable in its intensity.

If only I had won custody...

If only they were still with me...

All three of my children would be here

Smoking and drinking had become her only eventful moments of the day, marked as pitiful attempts to numb the ache. Time blurred—days and nights melted into a single, unrelenting stretch of sorrow.

What had William done to her?

The man she had once loved so deeply, who had been her partner, her confidant, her everything—he had destroyed her, ripped her life apart piece by piece.

Her mind drifted back to the moment she told him she was pregnant with Michael...

The hill had been lush and green beneath a bright summer sky. Clara laughed uncontrollably, the sun warming her face as William chased her down the slope. He caught her from behind, wrapping his arms around her as they tumbled into the soft grass.

They lay there, breathless and giddy, their laughter echoing through the open space. Clara’s neat updo had come undone, her hair spilling around her in wild, carefree waves.

William pulled her close, his breath warm against her ear.

“Got you,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. He gave her ear a playful nibble, making her gasp through another round of giggles.

“Will, you’re such a tease,” Clara said with a laugh, eyes sparkling.

“Oh, am I now?” William grinned, leaning in to kiss her. His lips were warm and familiar. “Come on. Let’s find somewhere to eat.”

He stood and offered his hand. She took it. They strolled hand in hand until they found a wooden bench nestled beneath a tree.

William unpacked their picnic: sandwiches, cold sausages, gingerbread cake, peanut butter biscuits and beers. Clara picked up a sandwich and offered half to him. He accepted with a smile. They ate in silence for a while, watching the breeze ripple through the grass. William cracked open a beer, tilting it toward her.

She shook her head.

His brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing — though a thought stirred:

When was the last time she’d had a drink?

Clara’s heart pounded. She had kept this secret for eight weeks now. She took a steadying breath.

“Will?” she said softly.

“Mm?” He slung an arm around her shoulders.

She hesitated. “Would kids ever be something you’d like?”

He paused, chewing thoughtfully. Setting the sandwich down, he shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind them. I guess. Why?”

“What would you prefer? A boy or a girl?”

William gave her a sidelong glance. “I suppose I’d want a boy who’s smart and strong. If I had a girl… I’d want her to be confident. Beautiful. Brave.” He narrowed his eyes. “Clara, what’s with all the questions?”

She fidgeted, fingers curling around the hem of her dress. “I... I don’t know how to say this.”

His hands found her shoulders, turning her toward him. His grip was gentle. “Clara. You don’t usually ask things like this without a reason.”

She stared at him, nerves raw. “You promise you won’t get angry?”

“I promise,” he said, calm and soothing.

“I’m pregnant.” The words hit the air like a dropped stone. “I went to the doctor this week. They confirmed it.”

William’s heart skipped a beat, but he masked his reaction behind a composed expression. “And… it’s mine?”

Clara blinked, stung. “Of course it’s yours. Who else’s would it be?”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. The gears in his mind turned. He hadn’t planned for this. Not now. Not with her. He had goals. A child was a complication he hadn’t accounted for.

Clara misread the silence. “If you want, we can go to a different state and talk about... other options. I don’t want to force anything on you. I—”

He placed a finger on her lips, silencing her. “Don’t worry about that,” he murmured. His touch lingered as he traced her jawline before lowering his hand. “It’s your decision. Whatever you want to do, I’ll support you.”

No, kill it. Abort it. Bleed it out and thank me for the mercy.

“You mean that?” Her voice cracked with relief.

“Of course,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Henry and I are close to starting our business, so money won’t be a problem. Your family will help, won’t they?”

Clara nodded. “My father said he will. And… I think I want to keep the baby. It’s strange, but I already feel something. It's funny, but it's like I’m meant to be a mother.”

William nodded, though he secretly wanted to roll his eyes. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

Clara let out a soft sob, pressing her face into his chest. He hesitated a moment, then wrapped his arms around her.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I was so scared you’d be angry.”

“I’d never be angry with you,” he murmured, stroking her back in slow, steady motions.

She didn’t see the way his eyes darkened as he stared past her. He didn’t want this parasite. Not one bit.

But keeping it?

He gave a small smirk, hugging her tighter.

Maybe it might just be the easiest way to keep her right where he wanted her.

Clara rubbed her tired eyes, smudging her mascara even more. She needed to call someone—anyone—to drown out the ache inside her. Just for a little while, she had to forget.

Ellie.

Despite their occasional arguments, Ellie was the only real friend Clara had left. She picked up the phone, dialing the familiar number with shaky fingers.

Ring ring… Ring ring…

“Hello? Ellie speaking!”

“Hey, Ell. It’s me, Clara.”

“Oh, Clara! Hello! How are you?”

Clara tightened her grip around the wine glass. “Bummed out. I need someone to talk to.”

“Of course. I’m here. What’s going on?”

“It’s William.”

A heavy silence stretched over the line. Then Ellie’s voice, cautious.

“He hasn’t hurt you again, has he?”

“No. I’m just furious with him.” Clara’s voice rose, cracking. “First Elizabeth went missing, and now Evan’s dead. I can’t trust him anymore. He’s ruined everything. He has no fucking responsibility!”

Ellie was quiet for a moment before speaking gently.

“Clara, he won custody. None of this is your fault. You couldn’t protect them all.”

Clara let out a bitter laugh. “I know. But my children are gone. Apart from Michael.” Her voice wavered. “Why... why did I ever marry William?”

“Because you loved him,” Ellie said simply. “You two were happy once.”

Clara scoffed. “Well, that feels like a lifetime ago.” She swirled the wine in her glass. “At least you and Henry are still solid.”

Ellie sighed. “Hey, don’t be bitter. Marriages sometimes don’t work out, and sometimes they do. That’s just life.”

Clara snorted. “And what? Does Henry still do those sweet things like he used to?”

“Well, yeah.” Ellie said softly. “He still leaves post-it notes on the fridge. This morning’s said ‘Don’t forget you’re amazing,’ right next to ‘Buy more butter.’ Very romantic.”

Clara smiled faintly. “Well you always did say that he had a quiet way about him.”

“He does,” Ellie agreed. “Still makes me tea when I look tired. Sometimes I forget how rare that is.”

There was a lull. Clara glanced down at her wine, swirling it again.

“God. All this talk of love and loss... it honestly feels like something out of a tragedy,” she murmured. "Speaking of tragedies, remember when we did Macbeth in school?” 

Ellie snorted, giggling. “You mean your very dramatic death scene in the final act?”

“That was a standing ovation!”

Clara could hear Ellie chortling through the phone. “You tripped over the stage curtain and took out the lighting rig!”

Clara laughed, her voice catching. “I was seventeen and trying to do a plié in character shoes. That’s talent.”

“True. And yet, you were always dancing,” Ellie said fondly. “Even when you weren’t supposed to. Didn’t you choreograph the witches’ scene with interpretive movement?”

“Don’t mock the ‘Dance of Prophecy,’” Clara grinned. “I had vision.”

“And three sprained ankles across the cast.”

They both laughed, the tension easing slightly.

Ellie softened. “I miss that. You used to laugh more.”

Clara’s smile faded. “Yeah. I used to.”

A pause, heavier now.

“I told William to have Michael on weekends,” Clara murmured. “Even though he’s older now, I just… I don’t want him around that house too much.”

“That’s a good start,” Ellie reassured her.

“Yeah, I guess,” Clara muttered, eager to change the subject. “So what are you up to?”

“Me? Just working on some office papers.” Ellie lowered her voice conspiratorially. “God, Old Carl keeps staring at me. He knows I’m married!”

Clara looked surprise. “Oh, so you got the office job you wanted?”

“Yeah! It pays well! Well, better than me trying to be a full-time artist,” Ellie hesitated. “Are you working?”

Clara exhaled slowly. “No. I resigned after Elizabeth went missing. I couldn’t handle it. Seeing those kids at that school made me miss her even more.”

There was a pause before Ellie brightened. “How about I get you a job where I work? You could join me!”

Clara considered it, then shook her head. “No, it’s fine. Thanks, though. I’m just… not ready.”

“That’s okay!” Ellie said, keeping her tone light. “So, you're not teaching dance either?”

“No. I wish I did though,” Clara murmured. A memory surfaced. “You know Ballora? That animatronic from Circus Baby’s Pizza World before it shut down?”

“Yeah?”

“A long while back, a kid in my class said she reminded them of me. Said I look like her.”

Ellie let out a soft laugh. “Oh! The ballerina one? Yeah, I can see that!”

Clara’s fingers traced the rim of her glass. “Do you think William made it for me?”

There was a pause.

“Maybe?” Ellie said carefully. “He might not always show it, but I think, deep down… he does care about you.” A sigh. “He’s just… he’s difficult.”

“Mm.”

A beat passed.

“Oh crap, my boss is coming. I have to go! Let’s meet up later this week?”

“Yeah. That’d be nice.”

“Good. And Clara?”

“Yeah?”

Ellie gave a little sigh. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

Clara’s throat tightened. “Yeah. You too.”

“Bye!”

Click. The call ended.

Clara stared at the phone. Ellie’s words replayed in her head.

I think he does care about you. He’s just… difficult.

With a sigh, she set the phone down and poured herself another glass of wine.

You’d just finished scrubbing the toilets and sinks, breathing in that faint chemical satisfaction as you stepped back into the hallway. From the kitchen came the clatter of cutlery, pans bashing, and a muttered curse — “Fucking oven. I swear to God...” There was a new cook now, named Rudy. Originally Ronnie, but he insisted Rudy sounded more intimidating. Henry had somehow managed to find him by pure luck. Or maybe bad luck, judging by the oven door slamming shut, followed by:

“For fuck’s sake! This oven’s a bastard. Can’t even melt cheese on a goddamn slice without burning the crust like it’s Vietnam. Look at this shit. Charred like Satan’s arsehole.”

Your eyes landed on Sammy, sitting alone at a table. You walked over with a warm smile.

“Hey, Sammy! How are you?”

“Hello, Amy! I’m good. Just waiting for Dad to get me some more ice cream!”

“Yeah, I don’t blame you. It’s really hot out today!” you chuckled, nodding.

Just then, you spotted Henry in the distance, carrying a massive chocolate ice cream stacked high with two chocolate flakes. He approached Sammy and presented it with an exaggerated theatrical bow, making the little boy giggle with delight.

“Thanks, Dad! I love you!” Sammy beamed, accepting the treat with both hands.

Henry smiled, his expression full of affection. Watching them together warmed your chest—but it also ignited a familiar ache. You remembered your own father, the way he used to hold you and James close, always proud, always gentle.

James.

A cold realization hit you. Where was he?

Your heart skipped a beat as you glanced around the diner. Maybe he’d gone to the toilet? You weren’t sure. The unease was quick to settle in your chest. You made your way to the drink counter, accidentally bumping into a man as you passed.

“Sorry! Hey, Pete.”

Pete looked up from the espresso machine. “Hi, Amy. How’s it going?”

“Not too bad. Just helping out,” you shrugged. “Look, have you seen—”

Before you could finish, Pete turned away, flustered by a customer waving him down.

“Hey, could you make two coffees while I handle this guy?”

“Oh, sure thing,” you said, stepping behind the counter without hesitation.

He handed you the orders, and you moved to the coffee machines. As you worked, your thoughts kept drifting back to James.

*

An hour passed.

Worry had grown into full-blown panic.

You’d checked everywhere—arcades, the dining area, the kitchen, even the toilets again. Still no sign of James. You were now approaching strangers, voice trembling:

“Have you seen a little boy? Red top, blue jeans, blue trainers?”

Most just shook their heads.

Your chest tightened. The air felt too thin. James wasn’t the type to wander off. Not when you were around.

Had he gone home? Was the diner too much for him? The anxiety twisted in your gut as your thoughts raced. Maybe Henry had seen something?

You practically sprinted to his office, pounding on the door.

“Come in!”

You burst in, barely able to breathe.

“Amy! How are you, my dear?” Henry looked up from his desk, concerned.

“Henry… have you seen James anywhere?” Your voice shook.

He set down his pen and removed his glasses.

“Hmm. No, I haven’t. I came in a bit late today. Is something wrong?”

“I can’t find him,” you said, tears brimming in your eyes. “He’s not here. I thought maybe he went home, but... why would he do that?”

Henry stood and placed a steady hand on your shoulder.

“Go check the house. If he’s not there, come straight back. We’ll figure it out.”

You nodded, wiping your face with the tissue he offered, and dashed outside. But as you ran, your foot caught on the curb—you stumbled, landing hard on your knees.

“Shit,” you hissed through gritted teeth. Blood trickled down your legs.

A familiar voice called out:

“Amy?”

You looked up. Michael was approaching fast, eyes widening when he saw you.

“Are you okay?” he asked, kneeling beside you.

You tried to speak but choked on your tears. The fear, the pain—it all poured out at once.

“James is missing,” you sobbed. “I’ve looked everywhere. I thought maybe he went home.”

Michael gently pulled you into a hug.

“We’ll check together. Come on. Let’s get you home, and we’ll look again if he’s not there.”

He helped you up and carried you the rest of the way. You clung to his shoulders, your grip tight.

Once at the door, he set you down and waited while you fumbled with the key. You burst inside, calling James’ name at the top of your lungs.

No answer.

You ran upstairs, flinging open every door, checking every corner.

Still nothing.

The dread was unbearable.

“No,” you whispered, chest heaving. “This can’t be happening. No, no, no…”

Michael’s calm voice cut through the fog.

“Amy.”

You turned and collapsed into his arms again.

“I don’t know where he is, Michael! He’s gone!”

“We’ll find him,” he said, firm but kind. “But first, we need to clean those knees. You’re bleeding pretty badly.”

You glanced down, only now noticing the blood trailing down your shins.

Nodding numbly, you let him guide you to the bathroom. He found a first aid kit and knelt beside you as you sat on the toilet lid. The antiseptic stung, but you didn’t flinch. You were too drained to react.

He worked quietly, focused and gentle. You stared at the floor.

“Thank you,” you murmured once he finished bandaging your legs.

“Don’t mention it,” he said softly. “You’ve helped me before, remember?”

“Yeah,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

There was a beat of silence before he stood and reached for your hand.

“Let’s go back to the diner and look again.”

You nodded. Together, you stepped outside and ran.

*

PART 2

As the diner’s closing time crept in, William remained in his office, absently tapping a pen against his desk. His thoughts raced.

He needed to dispose of the evidence—tonight.

A knock jolted him from his thoughts. He composed himself quickly as Henry stepped into the doorway.

“Hey, Will.”

“Henry,” William greeted smoothly, looking up with feigned ease. “How’s it going?”

“Good. I’m heading out. Ellie called—she’s eager for an early VHS night,” Henry chuckled. “Gets way too excited about those.”

“Sounds nice.” William leaned back in his chair. “I’ll stay a bit longer. Just finishing some paperwork.” He gestured loosely at the scattered pages.

“Right.” Henry lingered, a thoughtful frown forming. “Oh. Amy came to me this morning. Said her brother’s missing.”

William didn’t flinch.

“She mentioned that to me too. Told her last I saw him was in the dining area. I’ve been here in the office all day.”

“Yeah… she seemed pretty shaken up.” Henry rubbed the back of his neck. “Too many kids disappearing lately. Starting to feel like a pattern.”

William gave a vague nod.

“Mmm. Tragic, really.”

Henry watched him for a moment. Then, as if remembering something, he snapped his fingers.

“Oh, and Michael said he’d be home tonight.”

“Mm. Thanks for letting me know.” William’s voice was quiet, distracted.

Henry glanced toward the backroom door.

“Hey, Will. Question. Mind if I grab some boxes from storage? Need to organize my office a bit.”

William’s gut tightened.

“Sorry, Henry. I’ve got a few projects in there. Kind of mid-process. Would hate for anything to get knocked over.” He tried for a light chuckle. “Besides, Ellie’s waiting. You know how she gets when she is.”

Henry hesitated.

“It’ll only take a second. I won’t touch anything important. I promise.”

William’s hand tightened around his pen. Denying him now would only raise more questions.

“Alright, alright,” he said lightly, reaching into a drawer. “Just be quick, mm?”

Henry nodded and took the keys, heading toward the backroom. William sat frozen, listening to the jingle of keys, the soft click of the lock.

His fingers drummed an anxious rhythm against the desk.

Inside, Henry flipped on the light and scanned the room. An animatronic stood half-concealed behind stacks of equipment and boxes.

“Huh.” He frowned, stepping closer. “Didn’t know we had a spare back here…” He studied it briefly—its posture, the oddly lifeless eyes—before shrugging and turning to grab a few boxes.

When he re-entered the office, William hadn’t moved, eyes glued to a notepad, pretending to write.

“Got what I needed. Thanks, Will,” Henry said, lifting the boxes with a smile.

“No problem,” William replied, tone easy.

As Henry left, William strained his ears. He waited for the flick of the lights. The sound of Henry’s whistling. The creak of the front doors. The hum of the car engine.

Gone.

William stood abruptly and retrieved the bag of dirty clothes from the ventilation shaft, his hands quick. He then hauled himself to the cleaning cupboard and scrubbed the vent with rubbing alcohol, muttering to himself, “Better safe than sorry.” Then he placed an open container of activated charcoal inside the shaft—if anyone asked, it was to keep the air fresh in the 'old building'.

He cleaned his hands, wiped every surface he’d touched, and checked all locks twice over. Then, dragging the bag to his car, he shoved it into the passenger seat, covering it with a jacket.

With one last glance at the darkened diner, William locked the doors and disappeared into the night.

*

He was fortunate. With Michael upstairs, William seized the opportunity to dispose of the evidence. Tossing the clothes into the washing machine, he set it to the highest temperature, then made his way toward the staircase.

As he passed Michael’s door, he paused, peeking inside. His son lay sprawled on the bed, snoring softly.

Good.

William eased the door shut.

In his own room, he locked the door, stripped off his clothes, and tossed them carelessly onto the bedside table. The craving gnawed at him almost immediately. He crossed to the window, cracked it open, and retrieved a cigarette from a crumpled pack. The lighter’s flame flickered in the darkness as he took a slow, deliberate drag, letting the nicotine dull the static in his head.

"You’ll never amount to anything, William."

His father’s voice slithered through his thoughts—unwelcome, but relentless.

William exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples as the smoke curled into the night air. He smoked until the cigarette burned down to the filter, then flicked the stub out the window. Crawling into bed, he shut his eyes.

Sleep didn’t come easy.

The past still had its grip on him, dragging him down into a memory he’d rather forget.

“What’s this, William?”

Oliver stood in the doorway, holding up a half-empty miniature bottle of gin between two fingers. The label was peeling, the glass sweating in his grip. He was simmering with restrained rage.

William didn’t look up. He sat cross-legged at his desk, meticulously tightening the joints of a mechanical bear, its tiny limbs stiff with design flaws. “Looks like gin,” he muttered.

Oliver stepped into the room, his hunter boots heavy against the wooden floor. “And what have I told you about drinking?”

“That it’s disgraceful,” William recited flatly. “For weak men. A mark of failure. Lack of discipline.”

“Exactly.” Oliver’s grip on the bottle tightened. “So what the hell is this doing in your bag?”

“I bought it,” William said simply, still focused on the bear. “It helps me sleep.”

The air shifted.

Oliver’s face darkened. “You’re sixteen. And you’re sneaking alcohol into my house?”

William’s fingers paused, then resumed. “You drink too.”

“I drink on a Sunday, because I’m an adult,” Oliver snapped. “You’re a boy pretending he’s got problems.”

That was when William looked up. Calm. Cold. “Maybe I do have problems.”

Oliver’s hand shot out. The slap landed hard across William’s face, sending the bear skittering off the desk with a hollow clatter. A flicker of pain sparked in his eyes, but he didn’t react. He simply rubbed his cheek and muttered:

“Every time I try to survive in this house, you give me another reason to drink.”

“You little shit.” Oliver’s voice dropped an octave, trembling with fury.

William glanced at the shattered bottle of gin now leaking onto the floorboards. “You’re the reason I started,” he said, his voice even. “So don’t act surprised.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Oliver grabbed the half-built animatronic from the floor and hurled it across the room. Pieces of plastic and wiring exploded against the wall.

“You’re a fucking disgrace,” Oliver spat. “A failure. You’ll never amount to anything.”

This time, when Oliver’s fist came down, William met it with his own. His knuckles slammed into his father’s jaw with a satisfying crack.

Oliver stumbled backward, stunned. A moment passed. Then his face contorted with pure fury.

“You little—”

“OLIVER!”

Veronica’s voice cut through the room like a whip. She rushed in, wide-eyed, her hands raised as she stepped between them.

“What are you doing?”

“He punched me,” Oliver growled. “Your son just punched me in the face.”

Veronica’s gaze flicked to William. “Will…?”

“He hit me first,” William said without emotion. He reached for the pieces of his project, scattered like broken teeth across the floor. “I was just fixing something.”

Oliver scoffed, spitting onto the floor. “I caught him sneaking gin, and this is what I get for trying to teach him discipline?”

“Please,” Veronica said weakly. “Can’t you two just—just talk instead of fight? Do you know how much this hurts me?”

Silence.

Then Oliver scoffed. “You’re soft. That’s why he’s like this. No respect.” He shoved her aside roughly and stormed out, muttering curses as his boots thudded down the hallway.

Veronica sank onto William’s bed, her hands trembling. Her eyes glistened as she smoothed her dress in shaky motions, tears falling in silence.

William didn’t move right away. He didn’t love her. Not really. Her tears weren’t for him—they never had been.

“Oh, Will,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Why can’t you just get along with him? He takes it out on me afterwards…”

William turned away, his eyes fixed on the blank white wall.

He’d seen Oliver beat her before. Too many times.

And yet, still, he felt nothing.

Without a word, he crouched and began fixing the broken remnants of Fredbear. He worked in silence, salvaging what he could, while behind him, his mother wept.

Then—

“Veronica!”

Oliver’s roar echoed down the hallway.

“How many fucking times have I told you about this?! Get down here, now!”

There was a pause, a sharp intake of breath.

Then the rustle of fabric. Quick footsteps.

His mother disappeared down the hall.

William didn’t look up.

And then came the slap.

*

His eyes snapped open.

A ragged breath tore through his throat. Sweat clung to his skin in clammy patches. For a moment, he simply lay there, heart thudding in his ears, eyes wide and blank as they adjusted to the dark ceiling above.

Then, with a long exhale, William dragged a hand through his damp hair and scoffed under his breath.

Just a dream.

How pathetic.

He rolled onto his back, the mattress groaning beneath him, and stared up into the still shadows of his room. What a stupid nightmare. The kind that tried to claw at some long-dead thing inside him.

Pointless. Weak.

The memories had returned with disturbing clarity—faces, voices, moments half-buried and unwanted. But he could feel nothing. Nothing, but that familiar coldness. Slick and precise, like a scalpel under the skin.

His mother’s death came to him as an image drained of color. Pills. A full bathtub. Silence. He hadn’t found her—just heard about it after the fact. There had been no shock. No grief. Just another problem that resolved itself.

At the funeral, he’d stood beside Michael and Clara, adjusting Lizzie's blanket, watching Clara sniffle into her gloves. He didn’t cry. He hadn’t even blinked when the coffin lowered. If anything, he felt irritation. His mother had always been fragile, and in the end, she proved him right.

Five years later, it was Oliver.

Cancer.

It was inevitable. The man had been pickling his insides for decades. William didn’t go to the funeral. Clara insisted he should, called him cruel. He ignored her. When he finally visited the grave weeks later, he spat on it. The soil had felt damp and spongy beneath his boots. It suited a man like him. His father had never been worth anything more than rot.

But Evan...

Evan had been different.

That funeral had made him feel something. Not sorrow. Not regret. Just... disruption. A crack in the mirror. Evan had been his. The one child he hadn’t yet ruined. He had plans for Evan—hopes. He wanted to shape him, to craft him into something cleaner than the mess Michael had become.

And now, Evan was just another slab of cold flesh in a box.

For a while, William had crumbled. Grief didn’t describe it—grief was a human word. This had been something else. An absence. A vacuum. And once it settled, it didn’t go away.

It evolved.

Now, whenever the emptiness returned—when the stillness of life threatened to consume him—he knew how to fill it.

Pain.

Others’ pain.

That, at least, gave him something to feel.

He rolled over slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching.

He would never let boredom consume him again. He would feed it. Indulge it. And the world would bleed quietly beneath his fingertips.

With no guilt. No hesitation.

No matter what.

You walked into your house, the ache in your chest sharper than before. The absence of James hung heavy in the air, pressing into your ribs like stone.

In the kitchen, you tried to make dinner. You opened cupboards, boiled water, stood blankly at the window. Eventually, you stopped. The half-prepared meal sat untouched on the counter, forgotten. You couldn't bring yourself to care.

Upstairs, you stripped off your uniform and tossed it aside. Flopping onto your bed, you stared blankly at the ceiling. Doubt gnawed at you. Could Michael really help you find James? Was this just false hope?

With a long sigh, you tried to push the worry away.

Eventually, exhaustion won and you slipped into a restless sleep.

Michael woke early, his body jerking slightly. He sat up, stretching out his limbs and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Peering to his left, his clock shone 6:38. After a quick shower and a fresh shave, the cool water grounding him, he toweled off and pulled on a ripped gray hoodie and shorts.

Today, he was going to the diner.

He needed answers—and if his gut was right, his father was hiding them.

Descending the stairs, Michael grabbed some keys and headed out. His red sports car rumbled to life as he turned the ignition, pulling away before the house fully stirred. He had to get there before his father woke up.

*

Last night, while William was busy with work, Michael had snuck into his father’s room.

The spare keys were in the second drawer, beneath a stack of receipts and a rusted tape measure. Michael pocketed them and left without a sound.

Now, the diner loomed ahead—quiet, still, the windows dark and empty. As he parked, unease crept in.

Dammit, Michael. It's going to be fine. 

With a steadying breath, he stepped out and unlocked the door, slipping inside.

The musty air hit him first. Then the silence. It was a silence that felt wrong.

Michael moved quickly through the empty dining area, heading straight for the office. The handle was locked. He frowned, rolling his eyes.

"Of course," he muttered. "Always locking shit up. Bastard."

He pulled out the ring of keys and tried each one, jaw tight with impatience. Finally, the second-to-last clicked. The door creaked open.

Inside, the office was still. He flicked on Evan’s flashlight and began searching. His eyes scanned the floor, the desk, and the shelves, hoping to find something—anything—that would give him a clue. But as he rifled and shook the drawers loose, opened cabinets, and even checked under the desk, he found nothing out of the ordinary.

No secret files. No hidden compartments. No signs of a struggle or foul play.

Everything was as it should be.

He paused at the sink in the back corner of the office. He crouched and opened the cupboard underneath. Just old cleaning products and a moldy rag. He slammed it shut with a growl.

There had to be something.

Not giving up, he left the office and made his way down the hall to the backroom. The corridor echoed with each step.

He reached the door, heart pounding. Another lock.

He tried every key again, but none worked.

"Seriously?" he hissed, jamming another into the lock.

Still nothing. It took a while for Michael to realize that the spare keys hadn’t included the one for the backroom.

Michael leaned his forehead against the door, breathing heavily. Then, in a flash of anger, he slammed his fist against it. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the still air.

"Fuck! You've got to be kidding me!"

He stood there a moment, fists clenched, jaw set. Then, reluctantly, he turned away.

Back to the office. Back to square one.

7:30.

William’s eyes snapped to the clock.

He groaned, dragging himself out of bed and throwing on his dressing gown. He shuffled down the hall and knocked on Michael’s door.

“Michael! Get up.”

No answer.

He knocked again, harder. “Michael!”

Still silence.

With a scowl, William flung the door open. “I told you to—” His voice caught.

The bed was empty.

William’s blood ran cold.

He rushed to a window. Michael’s car was gone.

That fucking kid.

His thoughts turned to the diner, and he spun on his heel and stormed into his own room, tearing through drawers.

The spare keys were gone.

"That little fucking shit," he snarled.

He tore off his robe and threw on yesterday’s clothes in seconds, bolting downstairs and slamming the front door behind him.

In moments, he was in his purple car, tires screeching against the curb as he sped down the road. It wasn’t the keys he cared about. Or even the backroom.

It was the ventilation shaft.

He’d cleaned it—wiped every surface, scrubbed the metal—but had he tightened everything? Were there still traces? A smear of blood under a bolt? A fingerprint? A smell? He was sure that he had, but there was still that doubt.

Fuck!

He couldn’t remember.

It had been late. He was tired. And if Michael found something—if he even suspected—everything could unravel.

William’s grip tightened on the wheel as he pressed down harder on the accelerator.

He had to get to the diner.

Now.

Michael began slotting the files back into their places, realizing he needed to leave the diner and update you on what he had found—or rather, what he hadn’t found. He was about to head out when he froze, hearing the unmistakable purr of a high-end engine. 

His father’s car.

Too late.

The diner’s front doors slammed open with a bang.

“Michael!” William’s voice rang through the empty halls, laced with fury. “I know you’re in here! I can see your car!”

Michael stiffened.

Shit. Shit.

Footsteps.

Heavy, fast.

Growing louder.

Michael looked around the office. There was nowhere to hide—no closets, no windows. Just four walls and one door. And the desk but—

“Michael!” Closer now. Almost here. "Where are you?"

The door burst open.

William stormed in, his eyes locking onto Michael in an instant.

There was a moment of heavy silence.

Then William smiled—but there was no humor in it. Just a grim, knowing smirk.

“Caught red-handed, I see,” he said coolly. “Care to explain why you’re in here?”

Michael didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He knew any answer would only make things worse.

William stepped closer, the door slowly creaking shut behind him and his expression darkened.

The humor drained away.

“Well?”

PART 3

William yanked his son by the hair and shoved him into a chair. Michael’s heart pounded.

"I couldn’t sleep, Dad," he said, trying to steady his voice. "Wanted to have an early start."

William folded his arms, jaw clenched. "So, because you couldn’t sleep, you broke into the diner, stole my spare keys, and brought a flashlight? That’s a hell of a morning routine, Michael."

Michael shrugged, forcing nonchalance. "I was curious. If I’m supposed to join your"—he made air quotes—"legacy, I might as well walk wherever I please in this building."

"You know better than to go near my office," William hissed.

"Why not? Got something to hide?" Michael shot him a smirk, but his eyes didn’t match the bravado.

William’s eyes darkened. He stepped in front of Michael, resting both hands on his son’s shoulders. Leaning close, his voice dropped into a growl.

"If I catch you in here again, you’ll regret it. You’ve already given me enough reasons to hurt you. If you want to live to see twenty, keep your nose out of my business."

Michael swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. Sweat prickled at his brow.

"Whatever. But you still haven’t answered my question. What’s so bad about me being in here?"

William’s grip shifted. One hand clamped around Michael’s jaw, tilting his face upward.

"You wouldn’t like it if I started rummaging through your room, would you?"

"No, but you’re acting suspic—"

Before he could finish, William’s hand snapped to his throat and slammed him against the chair’s backrest.

"If I see you near my rooms again," he hissed, "I’ll fucking tear you apart."

Michael nodded quickly, breath catching under the iron grip.

"Hand me the keys. Now."

Michael hesitated, then handed them over. William snatched them and let go, stepping back.

"Since you’re so eager to be part of the legacy," he said in a mockingly cheerful tone, "you can help set up the diner. You’ll deal with the animatronics. I’ll power up the arcades."

Michael muttered a curse under his breath and followed, knowing he fucked up.

*

Henry passed by as you entered. You gave a small wave.

He returned it with a warm smile. "How are you holding up, Amy?"

"Not great," you admitted. "Still no news. I’m really worried about where James might be."

Henry gently draped an arm around your shoulder. "I’m sure you’ll find him. One way or another."

"I hope so," you murmured, chewing your lip.

He gave a sympathetic nod and continued on his way.

You made your way toward the arcade section. One of the machines had an "Out of Order" sign taped across its screen. Sighing, you grabbed a toolkit and started unscrewing the side panel, grumbling about the tight screws.

Then—thwack.

A paper airplane hit your arm.

You glanced up. Across the room, Michael stood with his hands in his pockets. He raised a finger to his lips, then tilted his head toward his father’s office before disappearing down the hall.

Curious, you unfolded the note:

I checked Dad’s office, but nothing useful. The back room’s locked. I might try again later.

Not much, but it was something. Proof he was still trying. 

You folded the note into your palm, shoved it into your pocket, and turned back to your work.

Michael stepped outside for a smoke, racking his brain for a way into the backroom. His father’s office had turned up nothing, but that room was always locked, and always off-limits. It lingered in his thoughts like a splinter. William kept the keys on him at all times. Risky, but necessary. If there were answers to find, they’d be in there.

The smoke curled around his face as he lit up, trying to focus. That’s when he saw a familiar face.

Anissa.

What the hell is she doing here?

“Afton,” she called out.

He exhaled slowly. “Anissa. What do you want?”

She rolled her eyes. “Nice to see you, too. I just came to check in after Evan’s death. Wanted to see how you’re holding up.”

Michael shrugged, guarded. “Could be better.”

Her eyes drifted to the cigarette between his fingers, then back to his face. Something in her expression put him on edge. She wasn’t here for sympathy.

“Mmm. So, up to much?” she asked, too casually.

“Just taking a quick break,” he said, hoping she’d take the hint. “I’ve got to help my father soon.”

But she didn’t back off. She moved closer, one hand landing lightly on his chest. He stepped back.

“What are you doing?”

“Relax,” she said with a giggle, but her eyes were razor-sharp. “I missed you, Mike. Seeing you at the diner stirred things up. Remember? You told me Amy was just some girl you worked with.”

His stomach turned.

“Anissa, stop. I don’t feel that way about you. We’re friends, that’s all.”

Her smile flickered, eyes narrowing. “Friends? That’s a joke. You always had a way with words, didn’t you?”

He took a step back. “I’m being honest. Nothing ever meant more than friendship.”

She grabbed his shirt, tugging him forward.

“Is that it? You’re throwing me aside because of her, aren’t you? Because of Amy?”

Michael’s patience thinned. “I told you. I'm not interested in you. This was long before Amy came into the picture. And this isn’t about her.”

“You’re lying,” she hissed. “You think you’re better than me.”

Michael’s voice sharpened. “You want the truth? You’re not my type. You never were. And whatever you do with other guys, that’s your business. Don’t drag me into it.”

Her face contorted.

“Oh, I’m the problem now? What about you, Michael? How many women have you used sexually? Does Amy even know who you really are? I bet she doesn’t know what a fucking snake you are.”

Something inside him snapped.

The slap cracked the silence. Anissa stumbled back, hand to her cheek, eyes wide with fury.

Breathing heavily, he said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn't have done that. But you crossed the line. I don’t like you that way, and I never will. Deal with it. Just leave me and Amy alone.”

She glared, venom in her gaze.

“You’ll regret this, Afton. You’re just like your father. A monster.”

She spat at his feet and stormed off.

Michael stood frozen, shaking with anger. He rubbed his eyes and took a long breath before heading back inside.

Parts and Services was locked.

You groaned softly. Just a few more tools, and the arcade would have been fixed.

First stop: Henry’s office.

You knocked, but there was no answer. You tried again, yet no one opened the door. With no better option, you made your way to William’s office.

He opened it, impassive as ever.

“Mm?”

“Hi. Do you have the keys for the Parts and Services room?” you asked, keeping your tone steady.

He raised a brow. “Henry not around?”

You shook your head. William sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out a jangle of keys. “Just bring them back.”

You nodded, murmured a thank-you, and headed off.

After grabbing what you needed from Parts and Services, Michael’s note flashed in your mind:

‘The back room was locked. I could try to get in.’

You glanced down at the keys in your hand. If William didn’t notice right away…

One shot.

You walked quietly toward the back room, careful not to let the keys jingle. As you sorted through them, your fingers landed on a small brass one. It was distinct from the others, which were mostly silver. You slipped it into the lock and turned.

Click.

The door creaked open to reveal a dim, cramped space—boxes piled haphazardly, an old chair in the corner. A faint chemical scent hung in the air.

Disinfectant.

Odd. For a room that looked abandoned, it smelled too clean.

You stepped inside, eyes scanning the floor, the walls, the shadows for any trace of something wrong. Blood. Clothes. Anything.

Just as you were about to investigate further, you heard a sound behind you. Whipping around, you held your breath.

There was nothing but the empty corridor.

You exhaled in relief.

But the relief was short-lived.

As you took another step toward the boxes, you noticed something leering behind them. Before you could investigate further, a shadow cut across the doorway. Your breath caught as William stepped into view, one arm resting against the frame, a cigarette between his lips. Smoke curled lazily upward.

“Amy,” he said, raising a brow. “I don’t think this is Parts and Services.”

You froze as your heart slammed against your ribs.

Shit.

Chapter Text

PART 1

“Mr. Afton.”

You froze, your nerves spiking as you turned to face him. What would he do? Surely he wouldn’t hurt you... right?

William's gaze was cold.

“Mr. Afton, I—I thought you'd be in your office?”

“I have sharp ears,” he said coolly. “Care to explain why you’re in this room?”

He sauntered in, shutting the door behind him with a firm click. He flicked his cigarette to the floor and crushed it under his heel.

Your pulse jumped up. The dim backroom felt smaller now, with him between you and the only exit.

“I guess... curiosity got the better of me,” you said, trying to sound casual. “Henry didn’t show me this room during the tour. I just wanted to—”

“Curiosity,” William interrupted, stepping closer, “killed the cat.”

The way he said it—soft, almost amused—sent a chill through your spine. He loomed, and you knew you’d be no match if things turned violent.

“What exactly are you implying, sir?” you asked, forcing your voice to stay level.

William leaned in, his breath warm and suffocating. “Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You gave a reluctant nod. As you tried to step past him, he blocked you. His expression hardened. Then, without warning, he shoved you. Hard. Your back slammed onto the grimy wall, and his hands pinned your shoulders. The impact rattled your bones. Panic surged.

“Get off me!”

You thrashed, kicking and swinging. But he caught your wrist with ease.

“Get the fuck off!”

“You’re not in control here,” he hissed. His free hand clamped over your mouth, muffling your protests. But then, his eyes dropped. Something in your pocket had fallen onto the floor, catching his attention.

“What’s this?”

A cold sweat broke out across your skin. Michael’s note.

“What’s that? Speak up.”

He removed his hand, and you gasped for air.

“Just... a shopping list,” you lied, your voice faltering. “I was gonna head out after work.”

William's smile turned sarcastic. “Really? I doubt you need much food. You’re the only one eating at home. Besides, you’ve got a great memory. I've seen you recall full party orders. So humor me.”

“You don’t need to see it. It’s just a list,” you retorted, trying to sound braver than you felt. “How paranoid can you be?”

William’s glare hardened. “You’re shit at lying. If you won’t show it, I’ll take it.”

You struggled as he crouched lightly to the floor. His hand slammed against your neck to keep you still. He yanked the paper up and unfolded it.

“Let’s see what this has to say.”

His eyes scanned the note. His laughter filled the tight room, low and mocking.

“So... Michael got curious. Didn’t find anything in my office. The backroom... mhm! Yet he told you anyway.” He raised his brows. “Funny. Are you two working together?”

“Don’t you dare hurt him! You have no right to go through my stuff!” you cried.

William’s grip on your neck tightened. A strangled gasp left you.

“Shut up,” he growled, gripping your chin and forcing you to look at him. “And you have no right to dig through mine. You think you have rights? I’m your employer. I have every right to know everything about you. Not just for records—but in case something... happens.”

He leaned in even closer. “But with no mother, no father,” he paused, smiling cruelly, “no brother... If anything were to happen to you, no one would notice. No one, in fact, would care.”

His smirk deepened. “And that makes it so much easier to keep you in line.”

Rage flared in your chest. You clawed at his face, leaving faint scratches. He recoiled with a curse, and you shoved past him.

“You son of a bitch!” you snapped, stumbling toward the door.

He lunged, snarling. His hand yanked your collar and dragged you back. Your spine slammed against his chest.

“You think you can threaten me?” His hand slithered up, wrapping around your throat. “I could snap your neck and no one would care.”

His thumbs pressed harder. Harder. Harder. You panicked, grabbing at his wrists, choking.

“No one would notice,” he whispered. “So let’s test that theory, shall we?”

Then—a rattle. The doorknob.

You both froze.

“Dad? Is that you?”

Michael’s voice.

William’s eyes blazed with irritation. He leaned into your ear.

“Stay out of my business. And keep your mouth shut. Or Michael gets hurt.”

“Don’t hurt him,” you whispered, barely audible. “Please.”

“That depends on you.”

“Dad?”

“I’m busy!” William barked toward the door. “Go help out front!”

He turned back to you. His fingers loosened. You stumbled forward as he shoved you toward the exit.

“Get back to work. That’s what you’re here for.”

You glared at him. He held out his hand.

The keys.

With clenched teeth, you slapped them into his palm.

“You’ve lost the privilege of carrying them,” he snapped. “Next time you need access, ask Henry. If he’s not around—I'll handle it.”

As if nothing had happened, he adjusted his tie and shoved the door open, ushering you into the bright, noisy diner. Customers smiled. Kids played. The world moved on.

You didn’t look up.

“Hm? Nothing happened. I’m just working.”

Michael shook his head. “Amy, don’t lie. My dad had a note of some sort. Did he take it? Did he hurt you?”

You froze for a heartbeat. Then, “I don’t know, Michael. I’ve got work to do.”

“But—”

“Sorry. I have to go.”

You turned sharply and walked away.

Michael stood there, stunned.

Why were you pushing him away? What had William done?

“Amy, please! Come back!”

But you didn’t.

You kept walking.

Henry returned to his office after a quiet lunch, the taste of pie still lingering faintly. He sat down in his chair and opened the bottom drawer. From beneath the fabric lining the corner of his desk, he retrieved a small key—hidden, secure. With it, he unlocked the drawer’s inner compartment and pulled out a leather-bound diary.

Clicking his pen open, he began to write:

*

It has been six months since my Charlie died.

I still have no idea who the killer is.

Recently, five more children have gone missing—and now, another. How is it possible that every one of them disappeared at the same diner? Every day, new families walk through those doors. Laughter, joy, noise—and somewhere in the middle of it all, a monster hides. Whoever did this… they’re either a stranger blending into the crowd or someone we know.

Perhaps a familiar face.

The police questioned William, but I struggle to believe he could be responsible. That said… I’ve seen the way he looks at Michael. There’s resentment there. Michael’s not a bad kid. What happened with Evan—it was a tragic accident. But I fear William still holds him accountable, and I suspect he hurts Michael behind closed doors, punishing him in ways no one can see.

Still, I believe in innocent until proven guilty. And yet, if not William… who? What kind of person would do this? What reason would they have to kill Charlie or anyone?

The more I think about it, the fewer answers I find. I feel like I’m running in circles. The killer is still out there, and the worst part is—I wasn’t there when Charlie needed me most. I couldn’t protect her. M aybe if I had been watching, she'd still be alive.

I will never forgive myself for that.

To keep the others safe, I need to start watching the diner more closely. Pay attention to anyone acting strangely—anyone luring children out of sight, or leading them into places they shouldn’t be. It’s a heavy, terrible thought, but I can’t afford to ignore it. Charlie… Cassie… Liam… James… all of you sweet, innocent children. Your faces follow me everywhere I go.

I swear I’ll find the monster who did this.

I won’t rest until I do.

I promise.

As night settled in, William had managed to send everyone home: the customers, Henry, you, and Michael. Now, he faced a pressing problem—disposing of James’s suit.

He had two options: the old family diner, or his secret underground facility beneath the robotics company. The latter was too risky; technicians were still working late, and being seen carrying the suit could be deemed suspicious.

Grim-faced, William made his way to the backroom. He found the suit, limp and heavy, and began the arduous task of shoving it into the trunk of his car. It resisted, as if unwilling to be hidden, but after some effort, he managed to slam the trunk shut.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, William lit a cigarette. The brief flare of the lighter illuminated the hard lines of his face. He took a slow drag, the smoke curling around him as he pulled onto the road, the streets quiet and deserted.

His mind wasn’t.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the consequences. What if someone had seen the suit? Worse—what if you had stumbled upon it?

The red light turned green, and William kept driving. The city lights reflected off his windshield, flickering like ghosts. Eventually, he arrived at the family diner—abandoned, cloaked in silence. He parked, finished his cigarette, and stepped out into the cold. After unlocking the boot, he hauled the suit out and dragged it through the back door of the diner.

*

The air inside reeked of stale grease and forgotten memories. He froze for a moment. The scent brought back vivid recollections of Evan—of his screams, of his death.

No. Not now. Not tonight.

With clenched teeth, William dragged the suit into the back room and shoved it into the darkest corner he could find. He covered it with old boxes, broken machinery, wires, dusty tarps—anything to conceal it.

Once hidden, he emerged into the dining area. Paper napkins, discarded cups, rusted cutlery, and ominous stains dotted the floor. He stared at a dark patch he knew was dried blood. Evan’s blood.

His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms.

“Can’t even protect your own kids, William...” Oliver’s voice echoed in his skull.

He closed his eyes.

Oliver Afton had three months left to live.

Dying of cancer on his hospital bed up in Greater Manchester, his son, his daughter-in-law, and two grandchildren were gathered around him. Clara stood, hands clasped. William sat in the only chair, glaring at his father.

“Well? What brings you all here?” Oliver muttered, struggling to shift.

Clara stepped forward.

“We brought you some things we'd thought you’d like.”

She handed him a small basket filled with trinkets, a prayer card, and a box of his favorite treat: Turkish delight. Oliver peered into it, giving her a silent nod of thanks. William said nothing. Michael and Elizabeth sat on the floor, bored.

Oliver’s eyes caught Clara’s baby bump.

“How many months?”

She gave a weak smile — then winced. The baby was kicking again.

“He’s, uh… six months in.” Clara bent slightly, breathing through the discomfort.

Oliver rolled his eyes and snapped at his son.

“Get your ass off that chair and let your wife sit. You disgrace.”

William stood with a sharp sigh, allowing Clara to take the seat while he stood beside her.

“Six months, huh? Well, I’ve got three left. Guess I’ll be lucky to see the boy if I last that long.” He turned to William. “How’s that engineering firm of yours? Still a load of shit?”

William bristled. “Don’t blame me. Competition’s rough and inflation’s shit. Be grateful I’ve got a job at all.”

Oliver snorted. “So, if you’ve been struggling, who’s been paying the bills?”

The silence answered for them. Oliver’s grin widened.

“Ah. So Clara is. Pregnant and working. You oughta be ashamed of yourself. Imagine your own wife paying the bills and nurturing a child.” He gestured to Michael and Elizabeth. “Well—three children. Isn’t it a man’s job to provide? Then again, if you’re already struggling, why have more kids? Can’t you put it away for once?”

William seethed. Michael, confused, piped up:

“What do you mean, ‘put it away’?”

Oliver shook his head. “Aye, you’re too young, kid. One day you’ll know.”

William hissed, “What I do is my problem. For all we know, next week things might change. Frankly… can’t you die quicker, so I don’t have to hear this shit anymore?”

“Will!” Clara snapped. She then flinched, her hand tightening over her stomach.

“It’s alright, Clara,” Oliver rasped. “Your husband just feels inferior.” He turned to her. “In fact, I’d like a word with you. Tell him to leave the room—with the kids.”

Clara hesitated, then nodded. William muttered curses under his breath as he gathered the children and stepped out. Once the door shut, he leaned in, ear pressed to the wood.

He caught fragments:

“Leave that fool.”

“A danger to others.”

“And the children. Especially to the new baby.”

William’s jaw clenched.

After a few minutes, Clara opened the door.

“Well? Let me guess—same predictable shit about me?” William hissed as he stepped back inside. As he passed his father, he leaned down, voice low.

“This is the last time me or my family will ever see you. The next time I do, it’ll be at your grave. And good riddance when you get there.”

Oliver laughed.

"You're going to lose everything. Don't you worry about that."

When William opened his eyes again, the memory was buried once more.

He stepped out into the night and locked the door behind him. Slipping into his car, he drove off, satisfaction within him. No one would find the suit now. And if you or Michael ever dared disobey and enter either backroom, he’d have the perfect excuse to fire you—and make his own son go missing.

Michael was lying in bed, heart racing. He had made a decision. Tonight, he would confront his father.

The moment he heard the front door unlock, Michael sprang up and headed downstairs, meeting William face-to-face in the hallway.

“Michael?” William blinked in surprise, loosening his tie. “I thought you’d be in bed by now.”

“Why did you have that note?” Michael demanded, his fist curling at his side.

“Hmm? Oh, that piece of paper?” William shrugged casually. “I found it on the floor. Why?”

“If that’s the case,” Michael said, narrowing his eyes, “why did Amy look so scared when I asked her about it?”

William’s gaze sharpened. He stepped closer, voice silky. “Are we talking about the same note? The one I found was just a list. Did you give Amy a different note, or was it the same one?”

Michael hesitated. He couldn’t tell if his father was bluffing or genuinely confused.

“It was a list,” he muttered.

“A list?” William echoed, his tone mocking. “What kind of list?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, but it is now,” William said, stepping forward. Michael instinctively backed up. “Unless… there’s something you don’t want me to know.”

“I have nothing to say,” Michael snapped. “I just want to know why you showed it to me.”

William’s lips twisted into a grin. “I thought you’d appreciate a reminder.”

Michael frowned. “A reminder? Of what?”

William’s eyes glittered with something dark. “Of how easily things can slip through your fingers. How quickly a little slip of paper can ruin everything.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “But now, seeing how rattled you are… I can’t help but wonder. Was there something more on that note? Something you didn’t expect me to find?”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

William leaned in. “You can always be honest with me, Michael. That’s what a father-son bond is for.”

Michael stared at him. “You know, don’t you?”

William grinned sadistically. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.”

Michael’s voice trembled, but his resolve didn’t. “Whether you do or don’t—if you lay a finger on her, I swear—”

“Swear you’ll what?” William interrupted with a sneer. “Kill me? Be my guest. The town already sees you as a murderer. They’d wouldn't be surprised if you killed your own father, too.”

Michael’s teeth clenched.

“I’ll find out what happened to James,” he vowed. “And all the other children.”

William rolled his eyes. “By all means. Play detective. But for now, go to bed. It’s late. And I need a drink.”

“Tch. Typical,” Michael spat, turning away.

William watched him go, then made his way to the kitchen. He cracked open a cold beer and took a long sip, the smugness never leaving his face.

The encounter with William had shattered something inside you. The pain of losing James—his laughter, his love of cartoons, his hugs—was unbearable.

You blamed yourself. Over and over again.

If only I’d kept a closer eye on him… maybe he’d still be here. 

You considered calling Michael. Maybe he could help. Maybe he needed to know what his father did to you.

But the fear stopped you.

If William found out, Michael could be in danger.

You lay there, torn between silence and the truth. Then, slowly, your resolve faded, replaced by exhaustion.

You let yourself cry again—deep, silent sobs.

PART 2

Henry was lying on the sofa, the soft hum of the TV filling the room. His eyelids grew heavy, and before he knew it, he drifted into a deep sleep...

"I think they like me!"

Henry glanced over at his children, Charlie and Sammy, as they mingled with the Afton kids. He smiled, a rare sense of ease settling over him.

William smirked, leaning in slightly. “Yeah, it seems so, Henry.”

Elizabeth tugged at her father’s sleeve, her green eyes alight with excitement. “Oh, Daddy! I love Charlie’s shirt! It matches my eyes!”

William sighed sharply and freed his sleeve from her grasp. “Elizabeth! Your mother just ironed this.”

“Sorry!” she pouted, though her enthusiasm didn’t fade. “But I do love Charlie’s top!”

“Mmm, it’s very nice,” William murmured, meeting Henry’s eyes with a brief, knowing look.

“Green’s my favorite color. What’s yours, Liz?” Charlie asked, her voice warm and welcoming.

“Pink!” Elizabeth declared with pride.

Nearby, a young Michael groaned and edged away from the group. He’d rather be anywhere else. Catching sight of him, William quickly reached out and hauled him back into place.

Sammy giggled behind his hand at the sight.

“Dad, can I go? I’ve already met Henry and his kids before,” Michael muttered, scratching his head in frustration.

“No,” William replied flatly. “You need to properly talk to your uncle Henry.”

“Uncle Henry?” Evan whispered, clutching his plush bear tighter.

“Well, not an actual uncle,” William clarified, “but he’s close to me.”

“Practically brothers!” Henry added with a laugh, giving William a hearty slap on the back. They both grinned.

Michael rolled his eyes, feeling trapped.

“William!” Ellie’s voice rang out as she stepped through the back garden door, her bright blue dress fluttering in the breeze. She waved cheerfully. “How are you? Wait a sec—is that a gray hair?” she teased, pointing playfully at his head.

William chuckled, tousling Evan’s hair. “Not surprising, really. Looking after these three is hard work. But I’m surviving.”

“Daddy! I’m the best daughter in the world! I’m not hard work!” Elizabeth protested, folding her arms.

“You are the best, darling,” William said, holding out his hand. Elizabeth eagerly grabbed it, glowing under his praise.

Henry glanced down at Evan and gave the boy’s head a gentle pat. “He’s growing up fast.”

“I’m nearly five,” Evan whispered shyly. “I can’t wait ‘til I’m old enough to be like Mike.”

“You’ve got plenty of time, kiddo,” Henry smiled. “And from what I’m seeing, you might end up taller than him someday!”

Evan beamed, his shyness melting away at the compliment.

Just then, the door creaked open again, revealing Clara. Ellie greeted her with a warm hug.

“Heya! You look gorgeous! I love your necklace. Where’d you get it?”

“Will bought it for me,” Clara replied softly, leaning in to give her husband a brief kiss. “It’s very nice.”

“I’m glad you love it, darling,” William said, wrapping an arm around her waist.

Meanwhile, Michael lingered on the fringes of the group, feeling more out of place with each passing minute. He hated these kinds of family gatherings. His parents always seemed to forget about him while doting on the younger ones.

His thoughts drifted—back to the UK. Back to when he still had friends. Good days: setting fire to paper, clogging the toilets, stirring chaos at school. Immature, sure, but at least he felt something back then. Here, he felt like a ghost.

“Michael? Michael?”

Henry’s voice cut through his thoughts. The older man had crouched beside him, concern flickering in his eyes. “You okay, kid?”

Michael’s expression darkened as he nodded curtly. “I’m fine.”

“You sure? You seem a bit... off.”

Before Michael could respond, William exhaled a stream of smoke, cigarette dangling between his fingers.

“Leave him be, Henry. You know how teens are—moody little things.”

Henry sighed and stood, brushing off his knees. Something was definitely off—but he let it go.

“Who wants a barbecue?” he called out with a smile.

“Me!” the children chorused in unison.

All except Michael.

It was the next morning, and Anissa stood inside the gas station, watching as the hot dog machine slowly rotated rows of sizzling franks. The smell of cooking meat and melting cheese filled the small space, but her mind was elsewhere. Her thoughts churned as she selected a hot dog, adding mustard and ketchup with absent-minded precision.

As she approached the counter to pay, her heart skipped a beat—Michael’s father, had just walked in. Their eyes met. Anissa gave him one of her well-practiced, sweet smiles. William merely raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, and looked away.

She rolled her eyes in frustration, paid for her snack, and stepped outside. The familiar gleam of the purple car caught her attention in the parking lot. Squinting against the morning sun, her focus sharpened as she spotted William again. Determination sparked in her eyes.

"Excuse me? Sir?" she called out, her tone sugary-sweet.

William paused, turning toward her, his suit catching the sunlight. "Mm? How can I help?" he asked, polite but clearly detached.

"You’re the owner of that famous pizzeria, right?" Anissa asked, stepping closer.

"Yes," William replied curtly.

"Do you have any vacancies? I’d like to work there."

Her real motive, however, wasn’t a paycheck. She wanted in—to sabotage Michael’s job, and yours too.

William studied her. His expression was unreadable. "Do you have a résumé?"

"I do," she said confidently, straightening up.

William sighed, as if already bored. "Your name?"

"Anissa Hartley," she replied, expecting it to carry weight.

Recognition flickered in William’s eyes. "Anissa... Hartley. Have we met before?" He frowned. Then his expression darkened slightly. "Wait. Aren’t you that friend of Michael’s? The one who tried applying last summer?"

Anissa’s smile faltered. She crossed her arms. "Perhaps," she muttered, irritation seeping into her voice. "Why? Can I not?"

William’s gaze hardened. "We don’t accept people with records. I suggest you look elsewhere," he said flatly. And with that, he turned and got into his car, the conversation already forgotten.

Anissa stood frozen. The sting of rejection hit hard, but it wasn’t just that—it was the humiliation. Her grip tightened around the hot dog in her hand, ketchup squelching from the bun.

This wasn’t over.

*

Later, as William sat in traffic, Anissa’s voice lingered in his mind. Could she be useful? Maybe. Maybe not. The thought flickered and vanished just as quickly as it came. He pulled into the diner's lot, stepping out and straightening his tie.

Inside, he spotted Michael hunched over one of the animatronics, tools in hand.

"Michael," William called, his voice slicing through the low hum of machinery.

"Mhm?" Michael didn’t look up.

William approached, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Remember the day you killed Evan?"

Michael’s grip tightened on the wrench. His jaw clenched. He forced a reply through gritted teeth. "Yes."

William leaned in, his voice low. "Who was with you? I remember seeing three more kids."

"My friends. Jacob, Wilson, and Anissa," Michael replied evenly, though the tension in his voice was unmistakable.

Anissa.

"I see," William murmured. "Well, I ran into your friend Anissa earlier. Sweet girl," he added, her name rolling off his tongue like a taste he wasn’t sure he liked.

Michael froze for a second, heart pounding. Had she said something? His mind whirled.

"Oh. Where was she?"

"Gas station. Buying a hot dog. She said hello," William said casually, though the glint in his eye was anything but.

"Right," Michael muttered. He went back to tightening screws, hoping the conversation would end there. Under his breath, he added, "God, she’s got some serious issues."

William caught it, of course, but let it slide. He cleared his throat instead. "Anyway, finish patching up Foxy. I’ll be doing some paperwork and taking a break."

"Sure," Michael said without looking up, thankful for the exit.

At the door, William paused.

"Oh, and if you see Amy, tell her to fix Freddy. It’s time she learned."

Michael nodded, eyes still fixed on the animatronic as William disappeared into his office.

Michael held Freddy's head steady as you twisted the wrench, carefully unlocking the latches to reveal the inner mechanisms.

"Remind me again why I have to do this?" you muttered, struggling with the disorienting mess of wires and gears.

Michael shrugged. "Dad said he wanted you to learn. Guess it’s part of the job."

You tried to adjust the eyes, but their vacant stare was unnerving. The whole suit reeked—stale grease, mold, something worse—and you wrinkled your nose in disgust.

"Why do they smell so bad?"

"No clue. They’re ancient. Probably haven’t been cleaned since they were made," Michael replied.

Just then, Freddy’s mouth snapped shut on your finger. You yelped, jerking your hand back as blood welled up from the cut.

“Ugh! Damn it!” you hissed, instinctively sticking your finger in your mouth.

"Ah, shit. Hang on. I’ll grab the first aid kit," Michael said, rushing off to the staff room.

As you waited, your eyes wandered to the animatronic’s torso. A thick, black fluid was seeping from the seams, and your stomach turned. Assuming it was oil, you touched it out of curiosity, only to recoil at the rancid smell. Grimacing, you wiped it on your clothes just as Michael returned, holding a battered white first aid kit.

"Here we are," he said, setting it down. He opened the kit and pulled out some alcohol wipes and a bandage. Carefully, he cleaned your wound, dabbing away the blood before wrapping your finger.

"Thanks, Mike," you said, giving him a small, appreciative smile.

Michael looked up, his eyes meeting yours. "Mike, huh? First time you’ve called me that."

"Do you like it?" you asked, slightly teasing.

"I do," he replied, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

Your cheeks flushed lightly, and you looked away, biting back a smile of your own.

Clearing his throat, Michael shifted slightly. "I was thinking... would you wanna grab a meal later? There’s this place I know. It’s nice. Thought it’d be good to, you know, hang out outside of this creepy place."

"Really?" you asked, surprised—but not disappointed.

"Yeah, why not?"

"Sure. That sounds great," you said, reaching out your hand. He shook it with a firm grip, both of you grinning now as you turned back to Freddy.

As you continued working side by side, Michael told stories from high school, and for a little while, the foul scent gave way to laughter.

*

Near the end of your shift, you and Michael made your way to Henry’s office.

"Hey, Henry," Michael said, knocking lightly on the door.

Henry looked up from his paperwork and smiled. "Michael! What can I do for you?"

"I’m heading out with Amy for a bit. Mind letting my dad know? I’d tell him myself, but… you know how he gets."

Henry sighed, but nodded. "Sure. Where are you two going?"

"I was thinking Juniors," Michael said casually.

Henry raised a brow, his smile turning wry. "Michael, you’re not twenty-one yet. You know you can't drink. It's not like the UK."

Michael smirked. "Alright, alright. What about The Blue Whale? Food and soft drinks only."

Henry let out a light laugh. "Much better. I’ll tell William. Just behave yourselves, alright?"

"We will," Michael said with a playful salute.

As you both left the office, you nudged him lightly. "Should I change?"

"Yeah, go for it. The place is kind of cosy. It's mostly known for its chicken. You’ll love it."

"Sounds good," you said, grinning as you both headed out to his car.

The drive to your house was filled with music, laughter, and teasing remarks. With the windows down and the late afternoon sun washing over the interior, the tension of the day melted away.

When you arrived, Michael waited in the car while you ran inside. It was too warm for a jacket, so you let your hair fall loose and slipped on a stylish outfit with your favorite shoes. When you came back out, Michael gave a dramatic gasp and pretended to stumble back as if stunned.

"You look amazing," he said, this time sincerely.

You blushed, trying not to smile too obviously. "Pfft. Thanks."

He chuckled, unlocking the door. "C’mon, let’s get some chicken."

The two of you drove off, the air light with anticipation.

“Hey, Will,” Henry began cautiously, stepping into the office. “Michael and Amy are planning to go out tonight—to The Blue Whale. Is that okay with you?”

He couldn’t help the twinge of anxiety creeping up his spine. He was bracing for a potential outburst. But to his surprise, William’s response was calm and collected.

“That’s fine with me. Let them enjoy themselves. I’ll be busy tonight anyway.”

Relieved, Henry nodded. “Ah. Okay. I just wanted to keep you in the loop. I’ll see you tomorrow, Will.”

“See you,” William replied, his voice smooth and unbothered.

As Henry left, a slow grin spread across William’s face.

Busy, indeed. He had plans of his own for the night.

Very busy plans.

The waitress approached your table, giving the both of you a quick once-over before turning to Michael, who was scanning the menu.

“What can I get you two?”

“I’ll have the southern fried chicken with chips and onion rings,” Michael said, closing his menu with a satisfied tap.

She turned to you with a smile.

“And you, hon?”

You scanned the menu quickly, feeling a bit nervous under her gaze.

“Umm, I’ll go with the classic burger and a side of chips.”

“Extra cheese with it?” she asked, already jotting it down. You nodded. “Any drinks?”

“I’ll have a Coke. How about you, Amy?” Michael asked, glancing over.

“Same for me,” you replied, offering the waitress a polite smile.

“Coming right up,” she said, chewing her gum as she strolled away.

The restaurant had a cozy, old-school vibe—blue, white, and black tiles lined the floors, and potted plants sat peacefully on the windowsills. It felt like the kind of place locals kept alive with tradition and comfort food.

Michael absentmindedly fiddled with his fork before finally breaking the silence.

“So, what do you think of the place?”

“It’s nice. I like it,” you said, smiling.

“I’m glad. My dad used to bring my mum here back when they were together. I think he ordered every dish on the menu at least once,” Michael added with a chuckle.

“Really? Huh... that’s actually quite sweet.”

“Yeah. Funny how things change. I used to babysit Liz and Evan while they went out. It was a hassle, but… at least I wasn’t alone.” He looked at you. “What about you?”

You gave a shrug. “My family didn’t go out much. We couldn’t really afford it, so when we did, it was someplace cheap. Think of places like Freddy Fazbear’s. Cheap junk food, play areas. But James loved it,” you said with a faint, nostalgic smile.

Michael reached across the table and gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

“I bet he did.”

The waitress returned with your drinks, setting them down with a smile.

“Food’s on the way. Anything else you need?”

“No, thanks,” Michael said.

“Thanks,” you added as she walked away.

“She seems friendly,” you remarked, sipping your drink.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Michael said, glancing in her direction. “It’s nice. Not everyone’s that welcoming here. Not like Wilson and the guys—man, they can be a handful. Wilson especially. He’s always got something to say about everyone. Jacob’s alright, though. He’s chill.”

You gave a short nod. “You’ve mentioned them before. Well, I've met them too. They seem… complicated.”

“Yeah. Complicated is one word for it.” Michael sighed. “And then there’s Anissa. She’s… a whole different story.”

You tilted your head. “I thought you and Anissa were close?”

Michael shook his head. “Not really. She had this huge crush on me for a while. Got pretty intense. She’d wait for me after every class, call me constantly. She even tried to get a job at the diner, but Dad turned her down. I’m honestly relieved he did. Things got weird after I rejected her. She backed off for a while, but recently… she’s been around again. The other day she found me outside and things got—” He hesitated. “Awkward.”

“What do you mean, awkward?” you asked gently, sensing the discomfort in his voice.

He shifted. “She started getting too close. Touching me even when I asked her not to. I… I slapped her.” He looked down, ashamed. “I didn’t want to, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

You winced. “Jesus, Michael. I’m sorry that happened. She seriously crossed a line.”

“Yeah. She did,” he said quietly, taking a sip of his Coke. “Well, so did I. But it’s over now.”

The waitress soon returned with your food, setting the plates down carefully.

“One classic burger, one southern chicken. Careful, it’s hot!”

Michael thanked her, pulling his plate closer.

“Enjoy!” she called as she headed back to the kitchen.

The food smelled amazing, and you both eagerly dug in.

“This place is really good! You have great taste,” you said between bites.

“Haha, I knew you’d like it.” Michael laughed, watching you dip your chips in ketchup. After a moment, his tone shifted.

“Umm… Amy?”

You paused, catching the seriousness in his voice.

“I don’t want to kill the mood, but… can I ask you something?”

Your stomach knotted slightly.

“Is it something bad?” 

Michael shook his head. “Not really. Just something that’s been bothering me.”

“Okay… sure.”

“Did… did my father do anything to you at the diner yesterday?” His eyes searched yours, filled with concern. “I just have a bad feeling about it.”

You looked down, fingers fidgeting with your napkin. The truth sat heavy on your chest. He deserved to know. But how could you say it?

“He sort of did,” you said quietly.

Michael inhaled sharply, a hand gripping the side of his chair.

“What happened?”

“I was supposed to grab the keys to open Parts and Services,” you began, voice soft. “But I got curious and wandered into the backroom. I thought I might find something useful. But then your father caught me...” You hesitated. “He shoved me against the wall and started questioning me about the note. I tried to get away, but he wouldn’t let me.”

Michael dragged a hand down his face, exasperated.

“Jesus, Amy…”

“I thought he was going to kill me,” you admitted. “But then you showed up at the door, and he let me go. He threatened me not to tell you. But… here we are.” You gave a small, nervous laugh.

Michael’s grip on his chair tightened.

“I’m sorry, Amy. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have given you that note. I was just scared—scared that if he found out we were talking, things would get worse.” He sighed. “I didn’t even find anything in his office. But he caught me snooping and told me to stay quiet.”

“So, we both got caught,” you murmured.

“Yeah.” He looked at you, his voice quieter now. “But thank you for telling me. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. My dad… he’s a fucking bastard. I’m glad you felt like you could trust me.”

You looked up and met his eyes.

“I do trust you,” you said softly, offering a small smile. “And hopefully, for a long time.”

William got into his car, lighting a cigarette as he pulled out onto the road. The long hours at the office had worn him down—but it was more than that. Control was slipping through his fingers, and he felt it. It had been too long since James. The hunger was back. He needed a release.

As he cruised down a quiet street, a familiar figure caught his eye. A woman, walking alone, cigarette in hand. He slowed the car.

Anissa.

He couldn’t believe his luck.

The urge surged within him. She was perfect—vulnerable, isolated, and pathetically naïve. A loose end. A reminder of Evan. Of the diner. Of everything he’d buried under a thin veil of civility. His jaw clenched into a smirk. This was an opportunity. Too good to ignore.

He then remembered the crowbar in the trunk.

Perfect.

William pulled over, stepping out of the car stealthly. He shut the door behind him quietly and walked ahead just enough to catch her attention. When she noticed him, she stopped, her expression twisting into disdain.

“Oh. It’s you,” she muttered. “Are you stalking me now?”

He turned to face her, lips curling into a polite smile. “A coincidence, Anissa,” he said smoothly. “Though… I’ve been thinking about our conversation this morning. I may have been too harsh. Everyone deserves a second chance.”

She let out a dry laugh and looked away. Her cigarette shook between her fingers. “Is that so?” she said, taking a slow drag. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

He noticed the slight tremble in her hands. The smeared makeup. The fatigue swimming under her eyes.

“I was unprofessional,” he continued, ignoring her tone. “And I regret that. But I believe in letting people prove themselves. If you’re still interested, I’d like to reconsider you for a position at the diner.”

She stared at him for a long moment. The corner of her mouth twitched, as if deciding whether to laugh or cry.

“Really?” she asked quietly.

William nodded slowly. "Mhm. I don’t offer this kind of opportunity often.”

She hugged her arms across her chest, unsure. “So… when would I start?”

“Well, you’d need an interview first,” he said, a low chuckle threading through his voice. “Just to make sure that you'd be comfortable with what we do. In fact, why don’t we go over the details now? At the diner. It’s not far.”

She glanced back down the street. Her house—her father’s house—was somewhere behind her in the dark. And she didn’t want to go back. Not yet.

Anissa then hesitated, eyes lifting toward the darkening sky.

“Now? Isn’t it kind of late?”

He leaned in just a touch, tone gentle but insistent. “Why not? We’re both here. It’ll be quiet—no interruptions. Perfect time to talk. What do you say, darling?”

She bit her lip and looked down. Then she shrugged.

“Sure.”

His smile widened.

He walked her back to his car, opened the door and watched her climb in. She buckled up without question. He shut the door, circled the hood, and slid into the driver’s seat.

Streetlights painted shifting shadows across her face as they drove. William kept his eyes on the road, but his mind drifted to the trunk. To the weight of the crowbar.

For now, she was just a passenger in his car.

Blissfully unaware of what awaited her.

Chapter Text

PART 1

The pair drove in silence as Anissa took one last drag from her cigarette, flicking it out the window. She rested her head against the seat, half-lulled by the hum of the engine. William’s hands gripped the wheel tightly, jaw clenched.

“Hey? Isn’t the diner…” She pointed over her shoulder. “Over there? You passed it.”

William said nothing, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Hey! Mr. Afton!” she snapped, slapping his arm lightly. “I’m asking you a question.”

“Get off of me! And shut the fuck up,” William barked. His hand lashed out, striking her hard across the face.

Anissa recoiled, stunned. She knew Michael’s father was bad, but she hadn’t expected him to actually hit her.

A cold wave of dread crept over her. Something was wrong.

She looked at William again, noticing the way his knuckles had gone white on the steering wheel. The road was unfamiliar, winding into the darkened outskirts of town.

Shit.

Of course he wasn’t taking her to the diner. It was too late for interviews, too quiet for paperwork. There never was a job.

Her heart pounded. She reached for the door, her fingers scrambling at the handle—but it was locked.

“Let me out! Let me out!” she screamed, pushing herself as far from him as the seat would allow.

William didn’t even flinch. His eyes never left the road. Then, with no warning, he grabbed her by the back of the head and slammed her forward—her skull cracking against the dashboard above the glove compartment. Anissa cried out in pain, clutching her face. Her ears rang.

“You shouldn’t have been involved in my son’s murder,” William growled.

“W-What?” she gasped. “The fuck is wrong with you? I didn’t want to kill him! It was Michael’s idea! I—I didn’t know he was going to shove Evan inside the bear, I swear!”

“You had time to stop it,” William said coldly. “You could’ve said, ‘Michael, put him down—he could get hurt.’ But you didn’t. You ran, just like the others.”

“I’m sorry!” she sobbed. “I was scared! I didn’t know what else to do!”

William sneered, rolling his eyes. “Sorry doesn’t mean anything now.”

The road narrowed as they reached the base of the mountains, far from town. He finally pulled over, the tires crunching against the gravel. He reached into his coat and retrieved a pocket knife—the same one he’d once used to threaten Michael. He gripped Anissa’s face, holding the blade to her neck.

“Don’t even think about running. I know this forest like the back of my hand.”

Terror froze her in place as he stepped out, slamming his door and circling to her side. He opened the passenger door and yanked her out by the hair.

Anissa screamed, scratching at his wrists, but it was no use. He dragged her to the trunk and popped it open.

Inside: a crowbar—standard for animatronic work. But next to it, an axe. Heavy. New. Gleaming under the trunk light. Other tools sat beside them, scattered and forgotten. William followed her gaze, smiling faintly.

“You’d be surprised what you find useful out here,” he said, as if making small talk. “Picked that up today. Right after work.”

He watched her expression shift—shock to horror, panic to pleading.

“I don’t usually give people a choice,” he said, almost cheerfully. “But tonight, you’re lucky. Choose one.”

“Please,” she whispered, trembling. “Please just let me go. I’ll leave, I won’t tell anyone! I’ll move away! I swear—”

Another slap. Her head jerked sideways from the blow.

“If you’re not going to choose…” He reached into the trunk, gripping the axe handle. With his free hand, he slammed the trunk shut. “Then I will.”

He seized her arm, dragging her roughly into the woods.

“Let’s go hunting.”

You and Michael walked out of The Blue Whale, laughter still bubbling from your conversation about his high school days.

“So then I accidentally walked into the boys’ changing room and saw Vincent—completely bare. I could see everything. He just turned and looked at me, eyes wide,” Michael said, chuckling. “I just walked out. No way! I wasn’t seeing that again.”

You laughed, energy crackling between you both. “Exactly how many guys have you seen naked at this point, huh, Afton?”

He smirked. “Eh, a few. Not by choice, though. Wrong place, wrong time.”

“Mhm,” you teased. “You sure you’re not into guys?”

Michael shook his head, still grinning. “Nah. I’ve always been into girls.”

“So… how many girlfriends have you had?”

Your tone was playful, but when he fell silent as he unlocked the car, your smile wavered. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“It’s fine,” he said, brushing it off as he opened the door for you. “I’ve had one serious girlfriend. The rest were just flings. Nothing deep. Just physical stuff.”

You nodded as you slid into the seat, a flicker of unease curling in your stomach. Was that what this was to him, too?

Michael buckled in, exhaling. “I probably sound like a horny asshole. It’s not that I didn’t want something real. I did. I just didn’t want anyone knowing about my family.” He began picking at his nails, his voice dropping. “If people found out how messed up things were at home… I was scared they’d talk. I didn’t want them knowing my dad hurt my mum. That I couldn’t stop him. I didn’t want them thinking I was weak.”

He stared ahead, eyes distant. “That’s what happened with my ex, you see. She found out. Dumped me. Said I was probably... gonna end up like him.”

Michael rubbed his face, fighting the tears that had already begun to fall.

“Mike…” you whispered, reaching for him. He leaned into you, shuddering softly.

“You’re not weak,” you said, pulling him into a hug. “You’ve survived more than most could even imagine.”

Despite everything, Michael began to cry. You held him tighter, whispering for him to let it out. For a long moment, the only sound was his quiet sobbing against your shoulder.

Eventually, he pulled back, wiping his eyes. “I just… I’m such a screw-up. Anissa thinks I’m pathetic. Everyone thinks I’m a failure as a son. As a brother.”

“Forget what they think,” you said gently, cupping his face. “You’re not a failure. Not even close.”

He looked away. “I killed my brother, Amy. You saw it. I know it was an accident, but he’s dead. And Liz—if I’d been paying more attention, maybe she wouldn’t have disappeared.”

You hesitated, before you rubbed your thumbs over his skin.

“It wasn’t your fault,” you said softly. “Your dad put you in that situation. He’s the one who made you think hurting Evan was a good idea.”

Michael nodded slowly, letting you hold him again.

He gave a little sigh.

“I just… I wish things had been different. But meeting you—that’s been one of the best things in a long time.”

You smiled faintly, squeezing him. “I’m glad I could be that for you.”

The car sat in silence as the weight of everything hung in the air. You thought about how much pain he carried. How years of violence and neglect had carved deep lines into his soul.

“I’m sorry for acting like this,” he murmured, wiping his eyes. “I don’t usually cry.”

“It’s okay,” you reassured him. “You needed to. It’s good to let it out.”

“Maybe,” he said with a tired breath, starting the engine. “So… your place?”

You nodded, and he pulled away from the curb. Streetlights slid over the windshield, casting fleeting shadows across his face. You stared out the window, watching couples walking, people dining, life going on around you.

“I had a good time today,” you said. "A really good time."

“Me too.” He reached out, squeezing your shoulder. “We should do this again.”

“Yeah.”

At a red light, you both turned to the sound of yelling outside. A woman hurled a can at a man.

“Fuck you!” she screamed.

“Fuck you, too!” he shouted back, walking away.

Michael watched them with a grim expression. “Not much different from what I saw at home.”

You said nothing as his house came into view—and you both noticed the driveway was empty.

“That’s weird,” he muttered, checking his watch. “Maybe he’s still at the diner. He’s done all-nighters before. Probably sleeping in his office.”

“Maybe,” you murmured. “At least he’s got Henry.”

Michael nodded. “Yeah. Henry’s solid. He’s always been there for everyone. Like a second dad to me.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. When my parents would take Evan and Liz out, I’d usually get left behind. Henry and Ellie didn’t mind looking after me. They even taught me a bit about engineering—actually made it fun. My dad tried too, but with him, it felt like a test. With Henry, it felt like a game.”

“I’m glad you had that,” you said. “Henry sounds like the kind of parent every kid deserves.”

“He is. Sam and Charlie are lucky.”

You hesitated. “What about your mom? Does she work? You don't really mention her much.”

Michael shrugged. “She used to teach ballet to kids on weekends. Always wanted to be a dancer. Or maybe a writer too, I think. I don't know,” he said quietly, pulling onto your street. “We’re almost there.”

He parked in front of your house, then got out and opened your door for you.

“Thank you,” you said, stepping out. You both walked to the door, then turned to face each other.

“Thanks for tonight, Michael. I really enjoyed it.”

He gave a small smile, pulling you into a hug. “Me too.”

“Are you going home now?”

He hesitated, eyes searching yours. “I’d stay if I could. But if my dad finds out I’m not home…Like you know, in case he comes home now.”

“I understand,” you said softly. “Be safe.”

“Good night, Amy. Sleep well.”

You stepped inside and gave him one last look before closing the door behind you. Michael lingered for a moment, then walked back to his car, the warmth of the evening lingering in his chest. As he started the engine and turned on the radio, the music washed over him, soft and steady, as he disappeared into the quiet of the night.

William dragged Anissa deeper into the forest, her cries splitting the silence. She pleaded with him, voice raw, trembling.

“Please, just let me go! Please!”

He didn’t answer. He hadn’t answered for a while now.

Earlier, she had tried to fight—lashed out, kicked his legs. He responded with a brutal backhanded blow that sent her reeling, her nose erupting with blood. She barely had time to react before the wooden handle of the ax slammed into her temple.

Anissa hit the dirt with a thud, leaves clinging to her like desperate hands. She coughed and clawed at the earth, trying to crawl, to breathe, to live—

But then came the pressure of his boot against her spine.

Crack.

Her scream tore through the woods, echoing back at her in mockery. William leaned down, his breath hot against her skin, voice laced with cruel amusement.

“Cry all you want,” he whispered. “Nobody’s here. And nobody’s coming.”

He raised the ax, and brought it crashing down.

The blade didn’t need to pierce skin to destroy her hope—yet this time, it did. Her shriek rang sharp into the trees, cut short by gasping sobs as blood began to soak her back. The pain was unimaginable, but her terror was worse.

“Stop! Please!”

Her begging only seemed to excite him. He crouched beside her, watching her with the calm detachment of a man admiring a painting. She whimpered.

He grabbed her by the back of her neck, hoisting her upright like a limp animal.

“You know how to play ‘Tag,’ right?” he murmured, pressing a finger against her cheek. “Tag, you’re it.”

She nodded weakly, her breath ragged.

“When I was a kid,” he mused, “I always outran everyone. But now—” he grinned, feral, “now I’m the tagger. And you’re the runner. Childhood dreams really do come true, mm?”

He dropped her again.

“It’s a game,” he said with mock encouragement. “You run. I count to thirty. You win if I don’t find you. But we both know how it ends.”

He dragged the blade gently along the back of her neck—just enough to draw a trembling shiver. Then he chuckled.

“Run, bunny. Run.”

Anissa forced herself up, body screaming in protest. Every movement was pain, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. She stumbled forward, branches slashing her face, roots clawing at her ankles. Blood slicked her arms and legs, but adrenaline was a cruel, desperate fuel.

She didn’t look back.

In the distance, William’s singsong voice chased her like a ghost.

“Anissa... where are you?”

She choked on a sob, feet pounding the forest floor. A stitch burned in her side. Her body begged her to collapse, but she kept moving, pushed by something primal and ancient—survival.

She saw a path. Maybe it led somewhere—maybe nowhere—but she took it. 

God, run! Don't stop!

Her hair caught on certain branches, she could feel the blood trickling down, staining her clothes. 

Nearly... there...

She thought the road was close. Safety. Maybe someone would hear her.

But she was wrong. And what she didn’t know was that William had already cut her off. He knew these woods—every rock, every root, every twist in the terrain.

She didn’t hear him until it was too late.

William exploded from the darkness, shirtless, soaked in sweat, the ax gleaming in his hands like something ancient. With a roar, he swung it.

The blade bit deep into her stomach.

Anissa dropped, her scream dissolving into a wet, gurgling cry. She tried to crawl again, but her limbs betrayed her. She was choking on blood, on fear, on the knowledge that this was it.

“You fucking bitch!” William snarled.

He tore the ax from her body and kicked her onto her back. Blood poured from the gaping wound. She gasped for air, eyes wide, arms flailing weakly.

He raised the ax again—and again—and again.

It hacked into her arms, her chest, her legs. Flesh gave way beneath it like paper. Blood sprayed across his chest. The earth drank it greedily.

“You fucking whore! You killed my son!"

Slash.

“You—” another strike.

“And—” a third.

“Your—”

“Fucking—”

“Friends!”

He then picked up a rock, brought it down on her hand. Bones shattered. She screamed again, barely audible now.

Another blow. And another. Her fingers bent the wrong way. Her vision blurred and she couldn’t breathe.

William loomed over her, breathing heavily, face splattered in crimson. Scars carved down his torso and arms caught the moonlight, like a sickening sculpture.

“Guess I won,” he murmured, voice almost tender. A twisted parody of victory.

Anissa’s lips moved, a whisper caught in a prayer.

“No... no, please…”

He leaned in close, smiling like a child about to blow out birthday candles.

“Tag,” he said softly. “You’re it.”

William brought the blade crashing down onto her face, silencing her instantly.

Back in Hurricane, Henry lay beside Ellie, eyes wide open in the dark.

Sleep had abandoned him tonight.

Something about the diner… something small, some detail he couldn't quite grasp… was gnawing at his brain like a thread that wouldn’t stop pulling.

He sighed, turning to face her.

Ellie slept soundly, her hair a cascade of blonde curls across the pillow. He reached for her gently, pulling her close, her warmth grounding him.

The rise and fall of her breathing was steady. Familiar. Real.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on that rhythm—the comfort of a quiet life. His thoughts wandered, unbidden, to the old days. The dreams he and William once shared. Back when the diner was nothing but an idea sketched on a napkin. The late nights, the optimism…

It felt like a lifetime ago.

And it was...

“Will, how does this one look?”

Henry held up a newspaper clipping, his eyes scanning the property listings. He and William were determined to open a diner—a place where families could eat together, where children would laugh and parents could relax. William leaned over Henry’s shoulder, cigarette dangling from his lips. He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, frowning.

“Not convenient, Henry. Rent’s high—it’s smack in the town center. And the space is too cramped.” He flicked ash into a nearby tray and offered Henry the pack. Henry hesitated, then took one. William lit it for him.

“Thanks,” Henry said, taking a tentative drag. He coughed slightly. “Alright, well…” He sighed, eyes scanning further down the page.

“Let me see it.” William took the paper and scanned it quickly. He jabbed a finger at a listing. “This one. Not far, rent’s better, and the place seems decent enough.”

Henry read the address and nodded. “Yeah. That’s a good spot. Cheaper, too. Feels like a fit.”

“You want to call them? I’ve gotta check on the kids. They’re wrecking the place,” William said, already heading toward the kitchen where the Afton children were causing chaos.

“Sure thing.” Henry picked up the phone and dialed.

“Hello, Quentin’s Rents and Services. How can we help you?”

“Hi, I’m Henry Emily. My friend and I are looking to open a business—interested in the Oakridge Center property.”

“Of course, Mr. Emily. When would you be available to view it?”

Henry checked the calendar on the fridge. “Tomorrow morning at ten?”

“One moment… hmm. Yes, that works. We’ll see you then. But before, we just need a few details.”

Henry gave the requested information, ending the call with a polite, “Thank you, goodbye!” He hung up and headed toward the kitchen. William was in the middle of scolding Michael. Elizabeth stood nearby, her dress torn and a scuff on her knee, sobbing.

“You idiot, why’d you do that?” William snapped.

“I didn’t touch her! I wasn’t even near Elizabeth!” Michael retorted.

“That’s not true, Daddy! He’s lying!” Elizabeth cried, clutching her father’s leg.

“Stop blaming and hurting your sister,” William growled, glaring at Michael.

Henry cleared his throat, feeling slightly awkward. “Everything’s set. We’re meeting them at ten tomorrow.”

“Oh? Good.” William nodded. “I’ll just take Clara from Ellie. We should head out soon anyway.” He brushed past him.

“Alright,” Henry said.

Michael sat slumped in a chair, chewing his gum loudly, shoulders tense. Henry hesitated, then approached.

“Hey, kiddo. You okay?”

“No,” Michael mumbled, clearly holding back frustration.

“I heard about what happened with Lizzie.”

“She fell and blamed me. She always does. And Dad always takes her side. I’m sick of being blamed for everything.”

“You’re sure that’s what happened?”

Michael shot him a look. “Yes. But no one ever believes me.”

Henry noticed the bruises on Michael’s arms, dark and fresh. He sat across from him, his tone gentler.

“You get into fights?”

“Yeah,” Michael muttered.

“They look recent.”

“Got in one a few days ago.”

“Did you win?”

“I lost,” Michael admitted.

“Oh.” Henry paused. “Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s nothing. I’ll beat him one day.”

“‘Him’?”

“Just some kid at school,” Michael lied quickly, his voice colder now.

Before Henry could press further, Clara called from inside. “Evan! Lizzie! Let’s go!”

William joined her, collecting the kids.

“Thank you for having us,” Clara said politely as she approached Henry. “Ellie and I caught up.”

“No problem! Glad you two had time together.” Henry smiled, but his gaze lingered on the faint bruises around Clara’s arms and neck. His eyes flicked to William, who met his stare with a smug smile.

From upstairs, Ellie’s voice called out, and she bumped into William on her way down.

“Oh! Sorry!”

“It’s alright,” William replied smoothly. "Don't even stress about it."

Henry caught the irritated look Clara threw William’s way as she gathered her children.

“Tomorrow at ten, yeah, Henry?” William asked.

“Yep,” Henry confirmed.

William’s expression turned cold as he barked, “For the last time, Michael, let’s go.”

Michael got up silently and followed without looking back. As the door shut behind them, Ellie sighed in relief, dramatically throwing her arms up.

“Peace at last,” she muttered with a small, tired laugh, heading into the kitchen.

Henry followed, grabbing a bottle of wine. “Hey… Did you notice the bruises on Clara?”

Ellie stopped dead in her tracks, her hand resting on the counter. Her eyes drifted toward the window, unfocused.

“Ellie?”

She didn’t respond right away. Her gaze was vacant, mind clearly elsewhere—something had surfaced.

“Ellie,” Henry repeated softly. "Tell me..."

"You're having an affair with my husband?"

The bedroom door slammed shut behind Clara, the sharp bang echoing in the quiet room. She stood rigid, eyes blazing, fists clenched at her sides as she stared down her best friend.

Ellie turned quickly, alarm flashing across her face.

“Clara—what? No! What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Clara spat, taking a step forward. “You think I don’t see the way he looks at you? The way he talks to you, touches your shoulder, leans in too close when he thinks I’m not looking?”

“Clara, I swear, I don’t know why he’s doing that,” Ellie said, her voice shaking. “I’m not encouraging him! I’ve never—Clara, you know I’d never—”

“Oh, please,” Clara snapped, bitterness thick in her voice. “He’s affectionate with you, but not with me. And I’m supposed to believe it means nothing?”

Ellie backed away, her heart pounding against her ribs. “I love Henry. You’re my best friend. I would never betray you like that!”

Clara’s laugh was hollow and bitter. “You think that matters to a man like William? He fooled me too, Ellie. He made me feel special, important, loved. And now? Now he barely touches me unless it’s to hurt.”

She yanked down the neckline of her dress, revealing the stark, dark bruises blooming along her chest and shoulder. Ellie’s breath caught in her throat.

“Clara…” Her voice cracked. “Oh my God, Clara, I—I didn’t know!”

“Of course you didn’t,” Clara hissed. “You were too busy basking in his attention. But let me tell you something—he was just as charming with me, once. The compliments, the soft smiles, the pretending. And then one day, it changed. Just like that.”

Ellie swallowed, her chest tight. Slowly, she stepped forward, her voice gentler now.

“I’m not the enemy here,” she said, quietly but firmly. “And right now, you’re sounding like him. Accusing, twisting things. Please, Clara—don’t do that to me.”

Clara stared at her for a long moment, breathing hard. Her anger faltered—replaced by something deeper. Hurt. Exhaustion. Shame. Her shoulders sagged.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Ellie reached out, gently taking her hand. “You got carried away. I understand. You’ve been carrying this alone, haven’t you?”

Clara nodded, and the motion seemed to drain the rest of the fire from her. Ellie guided her to the edge of the bed, and they sat down side by side.

“I just don’t know when things changed,” Clara said after a moment, her voice trembling. “One day, he was holding my hand, saying he’d build a life with me. The next, he’s... slamming doors. Snapping at the kids. And then it got physical.”

Ellie squeezed her hand. “People change. That’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything to deserve this.”

Clara looked away, eyes distant. “I’m thinking of leaving him. Filing for divorce.”

Ellie blinked, surprised, but nodded slowly. “Because of the abuse?”

Clara gave a soft, broken laugh. “It started as slaps. Then shoves. Now? Closed fists. I'm... I'm scared of what’s next. And the worst part is—I don’t even think he’d care if I left.”

Ellie’s throat tightened. “You might be right that he’d pretend not to care, but I doubt he’d take it well. He’s the kind of man who needs control, not love.”

Clara gave her a tired smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “The kids would stay with him. Michael doesn’t talk to me anymore. Elizabeth hangs off his every word. And Evan... he’s just a baby. If I left, they wouldn’t notice.”

“No, Clara,” Ellie said firmly. “That’s what he wants you to think. He’s isolating you. They’re young, and they’re scared too. But they love you. I see it in Evan’s smile when you pick him up. Michael watches you when you’re not looking. I know he cares about you too.”

Clara closed her eyes. “I don’t know if I have the strength.”

“You do,” Ellie said gently. “And you’re not alone.”

There was a knock on the door, then it creaked open. William leaned against the frame, his expression unreadable.

“We’re heading out soon,” he said, casually. “You want to come downstairs?”

Ellie turned to him, voice neutral but edged with ice. “We’ll be down in a minute.”

William gave a short shrug, then disappeared back down the hallway.

The moment the door clicked shut, Clara let out a shaky breath and dropped her face into her hands.

Ellie sat with her, saying nothing at first, just letting her cry in peace. Then, after a few minutes, she reached over and wrapped her arms around her best friend.

“You’re not crazy,” she whispered. “You’re not weak. And you don’t deserve this.”

Clara didn’t respond right away. But she leaned into Ellie’s embrace—and didn’t pull away.

“Ellie?”

Henry’s voice was gentle as he reached out, sensing her distraction.

“Huh? Oh.” Ellie bit her lip and looked away. “The bruises... I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Henry set the bottle on the counter and took her hands in his, gently tracing the edge of her wedding ring.

“Please,” he said softly. “Tell me. I need to know.”

Ellie’s eyes brimmed with worry. “Henry, I—I really don’t want to say...”

He hesitated, then asked what he feared most. “Is William hitting her?”

Ellie looked down. After a long pause, she gave a reluctant nod. Her voice was low and strained.

“He is. It wasn’t always like this—just slaps, at first. But lately, it’s worse.”

Henry leaned back against the counter, stunned. His hands gripped the edge.

“Jesus… I thought he treated her well. I mean—he’s cold, sure, but this?”

Ellie shrugged faintly. “I don’t know why he changed. Clara told me she’s thinking about leaving him. She’s had enough. She’s planning to file for divorce.”

Henry frowned. “And the kids? What’s she going to do about that?”

“She’s not sure,” Ellie murmured. “She’s so tired, Henry. I don’t think she even knows what she wants anymore. She said they don’t want her. That they’ve already chosen him.”

Henry exhaled sharply and rubbed his forehead.

“Jesus Christ. Ellie, I had no idea it was this bad.”

“I didn’t want to keep it from you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I also didn’t want to stir more tension between you and William.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing.

“Yeah. I’ll keep my temper in check—for now. At least until we’ve sorted everything with the diner. But, Clara doesn’t deserve this.”

Ellie nodded. “It’s not fair. She doesn’t even realize how strong she is, putting up with all of this.”

Henry pulled her into a warm, steady hug.

“If things get worse, I’ll step in. I mean it. But for tonight... let’s try to focus on something good.” He turned back to the counter, uncorking the wine bottle with a soft pop. Then he wandered into the living room, flipping through the stack of VHS tapes. “It’s movie night, after all. How about something fun?”

Ellie offered a faint smile as she set out the snacks.

“Comedy or horror?” Henry held up a tape. “Meatballs. Bill Murray. Camp chaos. What do you think?”

Ellie took a deep breath, her smile growing slightly.

“Sounds good.”

They both knew their worries wouldn’t disappear overnight, but for now, they could at least try to lose themselves in a quiet evening together.

*

“And this, gentlemen, is the main area.”

The realtor, a broad-shouldered man named Donald, gestured around the open space as he led Henry and William through the dusty building.

“Typically used for entertainment, but feel free to design it however you like.”

The pair had met at ten that morning to tour the property. William’s hands stayed in his coat pockets as he observed the space with calculating interest. Henry followed behind, nodding along politely. They paused at a hallway branching off the main room. Two smaller doors stood across from one another. Opening the doors, they noted that one of the rooms had a door at the back. Henry questioned it to Donald, who replied:

"Washroom. Say, if any of you would like to wash your hands privately, or store cleaning products, you can use it."

“Well, I guess these could work as offices,” William murmured to Henry. 

Henry glanced in and nodded. “Plenty of potential.”

Donald continued, leading them into a smaller, oddly placed room tucked behind a set of old utility doors.

“This one’s strange. It's rarely used. Some call it a ‘safe room,’ or just the backroom. Could be good for storage, depending on your plans.”

William stepped inside. Something about the space made his skin prickle—cold concrete, no windows, oddly quiet. He couldn’t explain why, but the room stirred something in him. Possibility. Power.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

Donald moved on. “And here we’ve got the bathrooms. A bit dated—tiles are peeling—but serviceable.”

Henry peeked in, noting the grimy corners and old fixtures. Definitely in need of renovation.

“Finally, the kitchen.”

Donald pushed open the last door. The smell of rusted metal and stale oil hit immediately.

“Previous tenant, I think name of Edwin or Murray, nearly blew himself up with a busted oven, so if you’re planning on serving food, upgrade everything. Safety first.”

William and Henry nodded. They followed Donald back to the main office, where the final paperwork waited.

They signed the documents, exchanged a firm handshake with the realtor, and accepted the keys.

“I hope you make the most of it,” Donald said, grinning.

William glanced at Henry, then turned back with a cool smile.

“Oh, we will.”

Henry managed to fall asleep after his daydreaming and snuggled Ellie, breathing in her musk.

PART 2

William washed himself in a nearby stream that wound through the forest. He scrubbed his hands, arms, and face rigorously, letting the cold, rushing water cleanse away the blood that had splattered during the act. The axe, once stained with Anissa’s blood, now gleamed under the faint moonlight as he rinsed it carefully.

Once satisfied that both his hands and the axe were clean, William returned to his car. From the trunk, he retrieved a spare set of clothes he’d stashed earlier. He changed quickly, bundling the bloodied garments into a bag—something he’d burn later, far from here.

Back at the site of the murder, small pools of blood stained the dirt—remnants of the struggle. He couldn’t leave them exposed. Kneeling, he kicked loose soil, leaves, and forest debris over the patches, camouflaging the evidence.

He returned to the shallow grave, checking that Anissa’s body was fully covered. Before sealing it with the final layer of dirt, he placed a rotting animal carcass—found earlier—on top of her. The putrid smell would confuse any search dogs. Stepping back, William examined the ground. The soil was uneven, but in the darkness and underbrush, it would be near impossible to find unless someone knew exactly where to look. He scattered more leaves and branches across the disturbed earth, blending it into the forest floor.

He stowed the axe in the trunk and drove off, navigating winding, deserted roads. The long drive gave him time to rehearse a story: if anyone asked where he’d been, he’d say he went for a drive to clear his head—or stopped at a gas station for cigarettes. Something simple, something that could explain the smell of smoke or dirt on his clothes.

Eventually, William turned onto a narrow, unmarked dirt path deep in the woods. The headlights cut through the darkness, revealing a secluded clearing. Perfect. Quiet. Isolated.

He killed the engine and stepped out into the cool night air. The only sounds were the breeze rustling the leaves and a distant owl’s call. From the trunk, he pulled out a metal container and stuffed the bloodied clothes inside.

The forest was still as he poured gasoline over the fabric, the sharp stench mixing with the earthy scent of moss and bark. He flicked his lighter. Fire roared to life, casting an orange glow across the trees and illuminating his face in flickering shadows. As the flames consumed the clothes, William watched with a cold intensity. He stirred the fire with a stick, ensuring everything burned to ash.

When the fire died down, he scooped the charred remains into a plastic bag—he’d dump them later, far from here. To cover his tracks, he kicked dirt over the scorched spot, erasing all signs of his presence.

Satisfied, he got back into his car and drove away, leaving behind nothing. 

Michael stepped into the house and trudged to his room, sidestepping the empty bottles scattered across the floor. Without a second glance, he walked into the bathroom and brushed his teeth, scrubbing away the remnants of the day. As he glanced out the window, he noticed the first drops of rain beginning to fall. Within moments, the drizzle turned into a downpour.

Finished, he flicked off the lights and collapsed into bed. Within minutes, he was asleep.

*

“Michael! Come on, let’s dye your hair!”

“What? Hell no!”

Michael was backed into the bathroom corner, Elizabeth clutching a bottle of dye like a weapon. Evan sat nearby, thumb in his mouth.

“C’mon! You might get a girlfriend if you tried!” Elizabeth squealed, waving it around.

“Liz, get off! Why does it have to be my hair?”

“How about... his face?” Evan mumbled.

“Good idea!” Elizabeth giggled.

“No way! You’re not putting shit on my face,” Michael snapped.

“That’s a swear word! I’ll tell Daddy!”

“If you do, I’ll tell Mum you’ve been messing with her makeup," he retorted. "And you know that is expensive.”

Elizabeth pouted. “Well, I’m bored. I want to do something fun with paint.”

“Draw a picture or something?"

“No! I want to paint on you!” Her eyes fell on his nails. “Can I paint them?”

Michael blinked. “My nails? Liz, no offense, but only gay dudes paint their nails.”

She stamped her foot, annoyed. “You can take it off after! Please? If not, just admit you're lame! He's lame, isn't he, Evan?”

Evan nodded, feeling slightly overwhelmed.

Michael sighed. “Ugh, fine.”

Elizabeth squealed and rushed off, returning with black nail polish.

“When did you get this?”

“Uhh…” She avoided his gaze.

“Liz.”

“I might’ve... borrowed it.”

“You stole it?”

Elizabeth stamped her foot again. “I just wanted to be like you! All my friends have cool colors and show them at school. Mum said I’m too young.”

Michael sighed again, crouching beside her. “You can’t steal just because I do. It’s wrong.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Please don’t tell Dad. I just wanted to fit in with them...”

Michael softened. “If you want some, just ask. I’ll get it. But no more stealing from now on, do you hear me?”

“Okay…” she said, giving a small shrug. "I promise."

“Well, that's settled then. Now, Miss Afton,” Michael said, holding out his hand, “make my hands look fabulous.”

The three kids huddled together, perched on the bath. Elizabeth painted with a shaky hand, but it didn’t take long before the black polish coated his nails neatly.

Michael looked at his fingers. “You know what? Not bad. Black suits me.”

Elizabeth stuck her tongue out. “Happy early birthday. Keep the bottle.”

Michael chuckled. “Thanks, Liz.”

She turned to Evan. “Want me to do yours?”

Evan shook his head.

“Please?” she asked.

“Hey!” Michael winced as Elizabeth stepped on his foot.

*

Chapter Text

PART 1

"Missing?" Michael asked, his mouth still full of food, as he and Wilson walked out of the shop.

"Yeah," Wilson replied, his voice tense. "She didn’t come home last night. Her dad's really strict about her curfew, too. Like… weirdly strict. Like she’s ten years old or something.”

"Yeah, he does seem pretty controlling," Michael agreed as the diner came into view. He playfully punched Wilson in the shoulder. "Don’t worry, she’ll turn up. You know how Anissa is—she might’ve just taken off for a bit."

"Let’s hope that’s all it is," Wilson muttered. "Anyway, I’ve got to head over to Nathan’s soon." Nathan was one of Wilson's closest friends. Michael nodded in acknowledgment.

"Yeah, see you around," he said, already half-turning to leave.

"Mhm. Bye." Wilson watched him walk away, narrowing his eyes. With a slight scowl, he pulled a cigarette from his back pocket. He’d never really liked Michael—he didn’t trust any of the Aftons, for that matter. There was just something off about them. Turning on his heel, Wilson headed off to meet his friends.

Michael pushed open the diner's doors, stuffing a fresh pack of cigarettes into his pocket. Inside, he spotted his father, busy setting up the animatronics.

"Took you long enough," William grumbled, flicking a switch to test Freddy’s movements. "I told you to hurry."

"There was a line at the counter," Michael lied, brushing crumbs off his hands. William didn’t respond, and Michael wrinkled his nose at the strong smell wafting from Freddy.

"Dad, why do these things always smell so bad? They could use a wash."

"If you’re that bothered, clean them yourself," William snapped.

"Seriously," Michael said, leaning in closer to inspect Freddy. "How can they stink this much? They’re on stage all the time."

William ignored him, a satisfied grin spreading across his face as Freddy started singing and dancing.

"Well, they’re working just fine. Now, let’s get these decorations up." He grabbed balloons and lights to brighten the place. "Michael, get over here and help me."

Reluctantly, Michael joined in, setting up for the birthday party. The sight of the paper napkins, party hats, and colorful tablecloths brought back memories he’d rather forget.

"We should probably box up this old stuff," Michael said, kicking some dusty decorations aside.

"There are some boxes in Henry’s office. Go grab one," William said.

As his son headed to the back, William made his way to the kitchen to turn on the ovens. Checking his watch, he knew it wouldn’t be long before you arrived.

Michael walked into Henry’s office, glancing around but not finding any boxes. His eyes landed on a photo of Henry with his children. For a moment, he wished he could have been part of that family. He gently put the frame down and noticed the comforting smell of coffee mixed with a hint of caramel lingering in the room. Henry had always had a sweet tooth, and Michael couldn’t help but smile, remembering sneaking treats from the Emilys’ candy jar hidden in their cupboard.

The office had a warm, inviting feel. But with a sigh, Michael left and returned to his father.

"There aren’t any boxes in the office," he reported.

"There are some in the backroom," William grumbled, leading the way with Michael trailing behind.

"I’m assuming I can’t go inside," Michael muttered under his breath.

William smirked discreetly, confident there was no evidence of James.

"Oh, you can," he said, almost tauntingly.

Michael raised an eyebrow but said nothing more. William stepped aside, letting him into the backroom. Michael scanned the dimly lit area, his eyes darting around for anything suspicious—but nothing stood out. He crouched, grabbed a few boxes, and turned to see his father lighting a cigarette. William took a deep drag, closing his eyes as he exhaled a plume of smoke. Michael rolled his eyes and carried the boxes out of the room.

"Got them," he said, dropping them onto the table.

William glanced at the stack, his eyes then catching a faint bloodstain on the corner of one of the boxes.

Shit ...

He took a deep breath and grunted.

"Well, I’ll just put this stuff away," he muttered, reaching for the stained box—just as the door opened.

You entered the diner, talking with Rudy. William cursed silently but forced a neutral smile.

“Morning, Amy. Rudy.”

“Morning, Mr. Afton,” you replied, struggling to keep the disdain out of your voice. Rudy gave a short nod, and headed towards the changing room. You glanced around at the decorations. “Another big party?”

“Mm, you should know by now that this place is popular for that kind of thing,” William replied casually. His eyes then scanned you for a moment longer than necessary. “You look tired.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Didn’t sleep well,” you muttered, brushing past him.

“Long night?” he asked, tone light but probing.

“Something like that.”

You headed to the staff room, tossing your bag into one of the battered lockers. Clearly, more than one employee had lost their temper with it. After securing your stuff, you adjusted your hair in the mirror, trying to shake off the unease he left behind, then stepped into the dining area.

“Oh, Amy, be a doll and help Michael and Rudy with the food prep,” William called out.

“Huh? You’ve never asked me to—” Michael began to protest.

“Just deal with it,” William snapped, giving him a slight shove.

Rolling his eyes, Michael trudged into the kitchen, offering you a sympathetic smile as he passed. You gave a nod and followed him, silently grateful for the brief escape.

*

William dumped the boxes filled with junk into the bins behind the diner, determined not to leave anything to chance. A single speck of blood, and the pair of you would be on his heels like a rabid dog. He slammed the bin lids shut in frustration—only for a sharp piece of metal to jut out and slice his hand.

He glanced down at the cut, watching as dark red blood slowly seeped out. Strangely, the sight of his own blood calmed him. He brought the wound to his mouth and sucked on it, the metallic taste spreading across his tongue.

It took him back to his younger days—when he would hurt himself to pass the time.

Not out of misery. Not even anger. Boredom was what started it. Long stretches of silence, dull voices, blank rooms. A needle, a wire, a razor—anything sharp would do. The sting broke the monotony, and the blood reminded him he was real.

Henry had been the only one who ever caught him...

William sat on the closed toilet lid in a cramped bathroom, the dull thrum of the party outside barely registering. He stared at the razor blade in his hand, the metal catching the light. His face was unreadable as he pressed it against his skin, dragging it slowly across his arm. The sting was sharp, but the blood—that slow, steady trail of red—was what held his interest.

It fascinated him. 

A bead rolled down his skin. Then another.

He watched them drip onto the tile floor like ink on paper. Clean. Controlled. Almost... meditative. A quiet, controlled form of chaos.

He felt nothing—but watched everything.

The buzz from the alcohol had started to fade, leaving behind the usual emptiness. This? This was something to do. A ritual. A secret routine.

A knock broke his concentration, and he eyed at the door.

“William? Are you in there?” Henry’s voice, muffled but concerned.

William didn’t respond.

Of course it was Henry.

He always noticed. Like a bloodhound for problems.

William rolled down his black sleeve, unfazed. He tucked the blade into his coat pocket and stood. In the mirror, a pale reflection met his gaze. Unblinking. Unbothered.

“William?” Henry knocked again, this time jiggling the handle. “I know you're in there. Matt told me.”

Fucking nosy cunt.

William rolled his eyes and opened the door to find Henry waiting, eyes scanning him. The music vibrated the whole building.

“Hey,” Henry said, cautious but kind. “You okay? You’ve been in here a while.”

“I'm fine. Had too much to drink,” William replied, voice dry. He didn’t look at Henry. Just brushed past him like nothing mattered.

But Henry’s eyes caught the slip of red beneath the sleeve. He reached, his hand brushing William’s arm.

Sticky. Fresh.

“William, what’s this? Are you hurt?”

William’s jaw clenched. “It’s nothing. Don’t touch me.”

Henry frowned, undeterred. “That doesn’t look like nothing. Let me see.”

William sighed, slow and annoyed. He rolled up his sleeve—not to confide, but to shut him up. Several fresh cuts marked his arm.

Henry’s face went pale. “Oh my God, William! What did you do?”

William looked at him coolly. “What does it look like?”

“You—” Henry’s voice cracked. “Why?”

William blinked, bored. “Because I felt like it.” He moved to walk away, but Henry blocked him. "Get out of my way, Emily."

“This isn’t normal, William!" Henry said, raising his voice. "You need help.”

William hissed. “Will you shut up? I don’t need anything from you.”

Henry pulled him to the sink, fumbling to turn the water on. “You can’t just leave this. Hold it under here.”

"For fuck's sake, Hen-"

“You’re not okay!" Henry cried. "You can’t pretend this is nothing.”

“I can, Henry. And I will," William seethed.

Henry then guided his friend's arm beneath the warm water. William let him—only because resistance would create more noise. The water stung, yet he didn’t flinch.

“This is serious. You need this treated,” Henry mumbled, watching the blood swirl down the plug.

William rolled his eyes. “Later. You’ve got Ellie waiting. Don’t let me ruin your night.”

“No, William, you don’t get it,” Henry snapped. “You need to treat this. What if it gets infected? You could need stitches—”

“It’s mine to deal with,” William cut in. “Stop acting like this is your job.”

“I care about you, Will!”

A smirk almost touched William’s lips. Of course you do. That’s what made Henry predictable. And manipulable. William turned his head.

“That’s your problem. Not mine.”

Henry recoiled slightly, hurt visible in his eyes.

“Stop worrying. I’ll take care of it,” William said after a moment, the words cold, almost mocking. “You’ve done your good deed. Go play hero somewhere else.”

Henry stared at him, jaw tense. “Fine. But if you don’t, I’m coming back.”

William gave a single, dismissive nod.

The moment the bathroom door opened, a group of students loitering nearby perked up, trading smirks.

“Look who we’ve got,” one of them sneered. “Some kind of secret rendezvous?”

William exhaled sharply through his nose, already tired of the conversation. Henry stepped in defensively.

“He was sick,” he said, sharply. “I went to check on him. That’s it.”

“Sure,” another guy laughed. “But you two are close, huh?” He stepped toward them. "A little... too close."

Before William could snap back, Ellie and Clara approached.

“What’s going on?” Ellie asked, eyeing the group.

“Why do you care?” one of the students spat, stepping toward her.

Ellie ignored them. “Come on, Henry, let’s go,” she said, grabbing his hand.

Henry hesitated, glancing at William.

“Go,” William said smoothly. “You don't want to disappoint her.”

As they walked off, Clara lingered behind. She stepped toward William and held out her hand. With a tired exhale, William took it, and they headed outside.

*

The air was cooler, and he slightly shivered. Clara placed her hand gently on his shoulder.

“Will?”

“Mhm?”

“You okay?” she asked, soft and searching.

He lit a cigarette with one hand. “Sure.”

“What happened? Were you sick?”

“Something like that,” he replied, indifferent. “Henry helped clean me up.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Will. I hope you feel better soon,” she sighed. She then glanced at the sky, admiring the stars that dotted all around. “It’s beautiful tonight, isn't it?”

He looked up. Then at her. Her dress was soft pink—sweet, like everything else about her. Delicate. Breakable.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he said.

“I had the dance performance,” Clara replied. “But it ended earlier than I expected. I found Ellie and she said you were here.”

William nodded slowly. “Right.”

She placed a hand gently on his cheek. “William?”

“Hm?”

She kissed him. Quick. Sweet.

He didn’t react at first. Then, slowly, he smiled.

“You suit a blush,” she teased, eyes bright.

He should’ve pushed her away. But warmth was warmth. And her affection was easy.

He kissed her again. This time longer.

When they parted, he let out a quiet chuckle. “I suit a blush?”

“Yeah. It’s nice,” she said shyly, holding out her hand. “Want to come to my apartment? Lucy’s out.”

William shrugged, cigarette still smoldering between his fingers. “Lead the way.”

*

After leaving the party, William and Clara arrived at her apartment. It was quiet and was dimly lit by the soft hum of a lamp tucked in the corner. The faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air, clinging to the curtains. Clara shut the door gently behind them, her heels tapping lightly against the floor before she kicked them off and padded toward the bedroom.

He followed wordlessly, taking in the space with detached interest. Neat. Personal. Lived-in. The kind of place that told him she liked comfort, routine, softness. He filed that away. Might be useful.

They sat at the edge of the bed. Clara turned to him slowly, studying him in the warm half-light. Her fingers touched his shoulder, featherlight.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said softly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. Just needed some air. It was loud.”

She watched him, searching his face. “It was more than that. You looked... off. I thought maybe something had happened with Henry.”

William’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Of course it would come back to Henry. Everything always did.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, more firmly this time.

Clara hesitated. “Will, you don’t have to shut me out. If something’s wrong, I want to know. You can talk to me.”

There it was again. That voice—gentle, persistent, too sincere. He could feel her probing for something underneath the surface, something she would never find. People always wanted to peel back layers, thinking they’d find a hidden softness. But with him, there was nothing there.

"Will?"

God, just stop talking. You're ruining it. Shut up.

"Please?"

Shut up! 

“No,” he said shortly.

Clara blinked. “No... you don’t want to talk?”

He gave a quiet exhale, more annoyed than tired. “No, I don’t want to talk.”

She opened her mouth again, and he didn’t let her finish.

He leaned in suddenly and kissed her. Firm, deliberate, an effort to silence her mouth with his own. A smooth redirection. Not affectionate and not tender. Just effective.

She tensed for a split second, caught off guard. But then she returned the kiss, slowly warming to it. Her hands slid over his back, shoulders, into his hair.

When they parted, Clara looked up at him, breathless and uncertain.

“Will... I—”

“Shh,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-smooth as he eased her backward onto the bed. His hands wrapped around her wrists, gently but firmly pinning them above her head. “Don’t think. Just be here. That’s all I want.”

She stared at him for a moment, eyes wide, lips parted. Then she relaxed under his touch, letting him take the lead.

He kissed her again—this time slower, more possessive. Intentional. He caught her bottom lip between his teeth, giving it a firm nip before kissing her deeper still. The taste of her lips dulled the noise in his head. She melted beneath him, her breath quickening, her skin heating under his hands.

And still, the thoughts lingered behind his calm exterior.

She always wanted answers. Feelings. Connection.

It was exhausting.

At least now, she was quiet...

William entered the diner, immediately hit by the familiar stench of cheap pizza. The usual low hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Most of the snacks were already laid out on the table—thanks to you and Michael.

Glancing at the time, William walked over to the front doors and unlocked them for the public. Task done, he slipped away from the noise and retreated to his office.

The door clicked shut behind him. He sank into his chair, dragging a hand down his face and gripping his hair tight, as though he could yank the thoughts from his skull. When he finally let go, he noticed the small cut on his palm.

Dried blood.

He didn’t need to hurt himself anymore.

Hurting others had replaced it.

And he’d stuck to that—for as long as he could remember.

"Mouldy pizza? What are you talking about?" you asked, approaching Michael, who was holding a grotesquely rotten pizza slice like it was fine cuisine.

"Care for a slice, ma'am?" he grinned, putting on a bad waiter voice and pretending to drop it on your head.

You squealed, dodging. "Ugh! No! Get that thing away from me!"

Michael laughed, tossing it back into the box. "Relax, relax. I’ll bin it. Probably cursed anyway."

Rudy peered, shaking his head. "You better bin that shit, before I shove it into your mouth, Afton."

Michael chuckled, gathered the pizza, cartons, and wrappers into a trash bag and slung it over his shoulder. Heading out the back kitchen door, he opened one of the large metal bins.

As he lifted the lid, the usual scent of rot and cardboard wafted up. He tossed the bag inside, but something caught his eye—a dark stain on one of the boxes at the bottom.

"Ugh." He wrinkled his nose. Probably just old grease. Or soda.

Either way, not his problem.

Michael shut the lid with a loud clang and headed back inside.

William swirled a half-glass of gin as the phone rang in his hand. His other hand casually flicked a scuff off his slacks before tossing his feet up onto the desk with a loud thud. When the line clicked open, he didn’t wait.

"Clara? It’s me."

A sigh. Tired. Sharp. "What now, William?"

"It’s the weekend. You know what that means, right?"

"No, I don’t," she replied flatly, the sound of a makeup brush flicking in the background.

“Michael,” he said, drawing the name out slowly, as if she were slow to catch on. “It’s your turn to deal with him. I mean, you should’ve been more involved the past—what? Four years? Or is that too much to ask?”

"That’s rich, coming from you," she said bitterly.

"Oh, forgive me if I don’t have any sympathy," he smirked, reclining further in his chair like he was on a sunlounger. "Try stepping up for once."

"Michael’s eighteen. He doesn’t have to come over."

"Maybe if you acted like more of a mother, he’d actually want to."

He could practically hear her teeth grinding.

"And maybe if you’d been a better father, the other two wouldn’t be gone," she snapped, voice breaking. "One is missing. The other’s dead. The only one left is Michael—and it’s a miracle he’s still breathing."

William raised his eyebrows slightly. The grin vanished.

His jaw tensed.

He took a long, silent sip of gin.

“Too late for that now, isn’t it?” he said softly, more venom than volume.

"Don’t you dare blame me," Clara spat. Something slammed on her end—a drawer, a bottle, maybe the whole goddamn vanity.

“Pick up Michael this afternoon,” he said coldly, setting the glass down and brushing ash from his sleeve. “That’s your damn job.”

"Did you even ask him?"

He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.

"He’ll do what I tell him."

Click. The line went dead.

William stared at the receiver for a long moment, then slowly returned it to the cradle. No anger. No guilt. Just the faint glimmer of amusement returning to his eyes—like a magician who already knew how the trick ended.

He took another drink. Feet still up. 

But he couldn't deny the burn in his throat did nothing for the one in his chest. He gripped the empty glass, his knuckles twitching.

He didn’t throw it.

But God, he wanted to.

"Bitch."

Pete managed to arrive at the diner just in time for his lunchtime shift. As he walked in, he noticed you laughing at something Michael said near the arcade machines. Of course. With Michael being the Afton heir, he had both the money and the looks to charm anyone. Pete shook his head, muttering something under his breath, and walked to the till. He checked the cash float, counted the notes with practiced fingers, and nodded to himself. Satisfied, he moved toward the back counter and began making himself a slushie.

"Hey, Pete," Michael called out with a lazy wave.

"Hey, Mike. How’s it going?"

Michael leaned on the counter, his usual cocky grin in place. "Good, not bad. Getting through."

"Looks like there’s gonna be another party this weekend, huh?" Pete asked, organizing the crooked pen near the register.

"Yeah, place is booked. Can’t believe people are still obsessed with this dump," Michael said, gesturing vaguely at the run-down décor.

Pete shrugged, glancing toward the arcade again before returning his attention to Michael. "Done much this week?"

Michael smiled to himself. "Went on a date on Friday."

"Oh, nice. Someone from college?"

Michael’s grin widened. "Nah. Closer than that."

Pete’s interest sharpened. He leaned forward slightly. "Who? Anissa? Daisy?"

Michael chuckled, shaking his head. "Try again."

Pete hesitated, then asked, “Amy?”

Michael gave a small nod. "The Blue Whale. Same old joint. She enjoyed it."

Pete forced a smile. "That's… cool."

"Yeah. We had fun," Michael said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out and put it between his lips. "What about you? Still working the café job?"

"Yeah. Nothing exciting." Pete picked at a scratch on the counter. “That place near the drugstore’s dead most days. But it pays, I guess.”

Michael lit his cigarette, nodding, then took a drag and said, "I’m gonna check on Dad. Henry’s off today. Lucky guy."

"Yeah. Catch you later," Pete muttered, watching Michael walk off. The resentment burned a little deeper today—he hated working two jobs just to scrape by, hated that his feelings were tangled up in someone who clearly didn’t feel the same, and hated how Michael had the luxury of doing nothing while he had only tired smiles.

He turned back toward the counter where a mother and daughter waited patiently.

"Hi, what can I get you guys?" he asked with a smile, hiding the storm behind his eyes.

Michael knocked on the office door, quickly tucking the lit cigarette into his palm to kill it against his jeans. William’s voice called out, low and firm.

"Come in."

Michael stepped inside and shut the door. William sat behind his cluttered desk, the overhead lamp throwing his sharp features into harsh contrast. One hand rested near a half-empty glass of gin.

"Hi, Dad," Michael said, clearing his throat. "Everything’s set for the weekend party. Amy finished decorating the arcade too. Anything else you want done?"

William glanced up. "No. That’s fine for now. Your mother’s picking you up later, by the way. Don’t forget."

Michael blinked. "Oh. Okay. Is she doing alright?"

William shrugged, swirling the gin in his glass. The familiar smell of smoke clung faintly to Michael, but William didn’t comment.

"Your mother is your mother. Annoyed as usual."

Michael didn’t respond. He glanced toward the filing cabinets at the edge of the office. "Wilson said Anissa never came home last night."

William's expression didn’t change. "Did she not? Probably just blew off some steam. That girl is well... you know how it is. Troubled."

Michael didn’t answer. He watched his father sip from the glass and felt a chill settle into his spine.

You finished stuffing another bag of trash and dragged it out to the bins behind the diner. The lid was half-open, already overflowing with cardboard and sticky soda cups. With a grunt, you hoisted the black bag and tossed it inside, the crunch of plastic and bottles echoing in the alley.

As you turned to head back in, footsteps behind you made you pause.

You thought it'd be one of the Aftons.

"Okay, you don’t have to sneak up—" you began, but stopped when you saw Pete. He stepped out from the shadows, hands jammed into his jacket pockets.

"Hey."

"Oh, Pete." You offered a cautious smile. "You alright?"

His eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned against the wall. “I've seen you hanging around with Michael again.”

You frowned. “What about it?”

Pete gave a humorless laugh. “You’re really doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Pretending he’s not the same guy who shoved his little brother into a robot’s mouth like it was a party game,” he snapped.

You flinched. “I’m not pretending.”

Pete took a step forward, lowering his voice. “You saw it, Amy. So did the others.”

“Look, I know," you muttered. “The other parents and their kids. Anissa and Jacob.”

Pete pulled a disgusted face. “Yeah. His little pack. Wilson was practically cheering him on.” 

You crossed your arms. “They were laughing. They thought it was a joke—just like Michael did. Until it wasn’t.”

"And how sure are you about that?" he asked.

"He’s not like that, Pete." You looked behind you. "Look, I need to head back."

"Just wait a second."

He pulled something from the side of the dumpster—a dented cardboard box. On one corner, a long, dark smear was marked faintly.

“This,” Pete said, holding it up. “I found it while disposing some rubbish after I clocked in. Look at it.”

You stared. It could’ve been anything. Paint. Sauce. Oil. Right?

You reached out, brushing your fingers over it. The stain was dry, grainy. It didn’t smear.

“Feel that texture?” Pete asked. “Tell me that doesn’t feel wrong.”

You swallowed. “It's a stain. Could be from the animatronic's parts. They use weird stuff to fix their hinges. Might have leaked.”

Pete shook his head. “They don’t use those. No oil, no paint, no grease like this. They run on motors. Electricity.”

“Then what are you saying?” you whispered.

Pete hesitated, jaw tightening. “I’m not saying I know. But this just looks odd.”

You looked at the box again, panic slightly rising. 

Pete ran his fingers along the edge. “I’ve done trash runs here for a year. I’ve never seen boxes like this in the bin. This is the kind of stuff that gets stashed in the backroom, not tossed out.”

You glanced toward the diner. “Then who would’ve thrown it out?”

Pete shook his head. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. But someone wanted it gone.”

You crossed your arms, defensive. “You think it was Michael, then?”

“I think it came from somewhere near him. Or his dad.” Pete's voice dropped slightly. “You ever notice how stuff just... disappears when they’re around? Things get moved. Locked up. Quietly thrown out. Nobody asks questions.”

The hairs on your neck rose. You thought of the backroom. Of the way William never let anyone else in there for long. Of how he nearly strangled you to death because you had gotten curious. 

Pete gestured at the stain again. “I can't say what it is. But it doesn’t look like anything that should be here.”

You didn’t reply.

“I just think,” he said quietly, “we should start paying attention.”

He left the box resting on the edge of the bin and walked back inside, leaving the door swinging slightly in his wake.

You stayed there for a moment, staring down at it. That stain wasn’t just dark.

It looked old. Like something someone had wanted to forget.

PART 2

Clara Afton walked into the diner around five. She spotted William leaning against the office door, a smirk plastered on his face. With a look of disdain, she approached him, her hair tightly pulled back.

"You're finally here to pick up your son," William said, the smirk widening. "I almost lost hope."

Clara stepped in close, glaring at him and catching the faint smell of alcohol on his breath. "Don’t think this will become a habit," she spat. William’s smirk wavered as he struggled to keep his anger in check.

"I think it will."

Clara's eyes were locked on Michael and you as you walked through the dining room. Her eyes were fixed on Michael and you as you worked with the animatronics. She recognized you from Evan’s funeral.

"I wasn’t aware that Michael had a girlfriend," she said, taking a deep breath. William glanced at you both and shrugged.

"He’s old enough to be responsible for his actions," he said nonchalantly.

Clara watched her son smile at you, holding Chica’s head while you fiddled with a wrench, trying to fix loose screws. Despite her loathing, she couldn’t help but notice how long it had been since she had seen her son genuinely smile.

"You know, you can approach him," William said, opening his office door. "I’ve got work to do."

Clara mimicked his voice, "Oh, Clara, I have to work late tonight. Oh, love, I just need to finish these blueprints! Oh, darling, it’s only going to be a short while!" She switched back to her own voice and spat. "You were always a liar."

William seized Clara’s arm and dragged her into his office, indifferent to who might see. He slammed the door shut and pushed her against it.

"You know, I never lied about work. Ask goddamn Henry if you don’t believe me," he sneered, pointing a finger at her face.

Clara shot back. "Perhaps I should tell him that his best friend tried to sleep with my friend while he was..." She made quotation marks with her fingers. "...at work."

William exhaled sharply. "Are you still so insecure that you think I tried to sleep with Ellie? Well, compared to you, she’s an angel." Clara’s hand struck William’s cheek, leaving a red mark. He gritted his teeth, feeling the sting. "Did that make you feel better?"

"Yes. Yes, it fucking did," she said, glaring. "You know you tried to have sex with her! All while I had to take care of your fucking kids."

William smirked, leaning in closer, his breath hot with alcohol. "You really think that’s the case? You think I’d sleep with Ellie? I think you’re a bit delusional. I’m not the type to sleep with my best friend’s wife, no matter how tempting."

Clara’s eyes flared with anger. She shoved him away, yanked open the office door, and stormed out to her son, leaving William alone in the office with a satisfied grin on his face. He had flirted with Ellie during a rough patch in his marriage but never crossed the line. Leaning against the wall, he pulled out his last cigarette, lit it, and took a drag.

"What a damn shame..."

He closed his eyes, lost in thought...

A few years ago, it was at another party that William found an opportunity to spend time alone with Ellie. She was holding a glass of rosé in the kitchen, while Clara lounged in a chair in the back garden. The party was to celebrate the diner’s success, and Henry had gone out to fetch some extra bottles of alcohol. William glanced at his wife, who was preoccupied with her gin, and then at his eldest son, who was tackling his sister on the grass.

Before William could intervene, he heard a familiar voice.

"Hey, Will!"

Ellie walked into the living room, her sunny smile lighting up her face.

William smiled back. "Hey, El."

Ellie stood beside him, the top of her head barely reaching his upper arm. She was no taller than five foot two. She gave a little giggle, catching William off guard. He looked down at her, noticing her blonde curls and feeling a wave of thoughts and emotions.

"Hm?" he asked, a smile creeping onto his face. "What are you giggling at?"

"I don’t know," she said lightly, glancing up at him. "Maybe I’ve just had a bit too much to drink!"

William chuckled and placed his hand over her glass. "Once you finish that, take a break. Eat something."

"I will," she said with a smile. "I’ve heard Henry is cooking up some ribs."

"Mm, true."

They walked toward the kitchen door that opened onto the back garden. The sun shone brightly, and Ellie shaded her eyes. William looked down at her, admiring her presence. There was something about Ellie that drew him in—a naive charm, much like Clara’s, but with a joyful aura that seemed to fill the emptiness inside him. He glanced back at Clara, who was still sitting in the chair, miserable. Ellie let out a worried sigh as she looked ahead.

"Mike’s gonna hurt Lizzie!"

William discreetly rolled his eyes and continued walking into the garden, with Ellie following. She glanced at him again, giving him a smile, and then turned to Clara. Clara's eyes fixed on them, her lips pursed. She muttered something under her breath and finished her drink angrily. Ellie bit her lip, concerned.

"Will, is Clara okay?"

"Hmm?"

"Clara," she whispered. "She seems upset about something."

William shrugged. "When isn’t she? I’m not sure about this one, honestly."

They reached the scene where Michael had his leg on Lizzie’s back. Her clothes were stained by the freshly cut grass, and she was shouting.

"Mike, get off me!"

William usually would have berated his children, but this time he crouched down and whispered very quietly into Michael’s ear, making sure only he and his son could hear.

"Get off Lizzie now. When we get home, you’re going to be taught a fucking lesson." Michael looked up with fear in his eyes, and William relished the moment. He then shifted to a kinder, louder tone. "Come on, Michael. Let go of her and have some orange juice."

Michael stood up, giving Lizzie a discreet kick, and made his way to the drinks. William turned to Ellie, offering one of his infamous smiles.

"Kids, huh?"

Ellie shrugged, a friendly gesture. "My kids are with my parents right now. They get all excited and giddy."

William laughed lightly. "So true." He turned back to see Clara watching them, her gaze sharp. A smirk crept across his lips as he placed a casual arm around Ellie, both of them facing the back of the garden. Ellie flinched slightly, but William kept his grip firm. If Clara hated him so much, he decided to push the boundaries.

'If this is how you're going to play, bitch, then so be it.'

They stood close until they heard the familiar rumble of Henry’s car engine pulling into the driveway.

You finished up with Chica and moved on to Bonnie, with Michael assisting by tightening any loose screws. As you held Bonnie in place, you noticed Clara approaching. You offered her a quick smile, but she simply pursed her lips and glanced around.

"Hey, mum," Michael greeted. "How are you feeling?"

Clara barely acknowledged Michael, her attention fixed on you. "I don’t think we’ve met."

You pointed at your badge. "Amy. I’ve been working here for a bit." Clara gave a curt nod and checked her watch, the gold gleaming under the lights. "Well, Michael’s shift ends soon, so whenever you finish fixing," she said, glaring at Bonnie, "that, I'll take him home." You noticed Michael rolling his eyes behind her back and gave him a sympathetic look. It was clear that Clara and William’s interactions with Michael were mostly negative, often tinged with hostility.

"Right."

Clara nodded and turned her attention to the children playing nearby. You wondered if she missed her other kids. Michael snapped his fingers in front of your face, breaking your reverie.

"Earth to Amy, hello?"

"Sorry, I, uh..."

"It’s fine. The quicker we finish this, the sooner I can get home and eat. I don’t think I can stomach another Freddy Fazbear Pizza," he joked, chuckling as he worked with increased speed on Bonnie, finishing up faster than you had with Chica. You chuckled, watching as his hands worked swiftly. In just minutes, he had Bonnie reassembled. Slightly impressed, you teased, "Show-off."

He smirked, wiping his hands on his shirt. "Hey, you learn a thing or two when you do this every day."

You both carefully placed Bonnie back on stage and walked over to Clara, who was engaged in conversation with another mother.

"Ms. Afton?" You called out, and Clara paused her conversation to acknowledge you.

"Hm? Oh, wonderful, thank you." She glanced at her son. "Let’s go." Clara and Michael exited, and you noticed William emerging from the office with his usual smirk. His grin widened upon seeing his family leaving. His gaze then met yours, but he said nothing and continued to speak with the parents in the lobby about how things were going.

Ignoring him, you turned your attention to tidying up, preparing to finish your shift.

Chapter Text

PART 1

William lounged on the sofa, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He’d picked up a fresh pack on the way home, and now, as he inhaled deeply, the nicotine lit up his bloodstream like electricity. For once, the house was quiet—Michael was out. He was finally alone.

Alone.

How long had it been since he’d had the place to himself?

He stood, the cigarette still smoldering between his fingers, and made his way to the bedroom. Kneeling, he reached under the bed and pulled out a black box. The lock clicked open, and inside were old photographs.

He sifted through them without care, thumbing glossy paper like files in a cabinet. They were in the snow, once—Clara kneeling beside Evan, Michael and Elizabeth mid-snowball fight, faces half-blurred in motion.

He stared. Not at them, but at himself. Smiling.

Such a convincing smile.

He let out a low exhale, smoke curling past his lips as he flipped to the next few ones. A younger version of himself cradling baby Evan. Clara beside him, glowing with some fragile warmth he never quite understood.

He tilted his head.

“Funny,” he muttered. “None of you ever saw it.”

Without warning, he shoved the photo back into the box, snapped it shut, and slid it under the bed with one hard kick.

The house was silent again. 

Wilson climbed into Nathan’s car, settling into the back seat where Ruby and Marie were laughing together.

“Hey, guys,” he greeted, pulling out a cigarette.

“Will! How you been, dude?” Nathan grinned, stroking his beard. His look was unmistakable—sunglasses, rings, and tattooed arms on full display. Marie, his girlfriend, was curled up beside him, her freshly dyed blue hair catching the afternoon light. She wore flared jeans, a crop top, and towering platform heels.

“I’m good. You?” Wilson asked, flicking his lighter.

“All good here. Ruby’s been wanting to catch up with you forever,” Nathan said, starting the engine.

Ruby laughed, her pendant swinging in the sun. “It’s been ages! And you’ve grown!” She reached over to ruffle his hair, and Wilson grinned, leaning back as he took a drag.

Nathan cranked up the stereo, and the car filled with music as they rolled out of the city, voices rising to sing along. The dark blue car sped down the highway, wind whipping through open windows.

“Where are we going?” Marie asked, sticking her head out like a dog enjoying the breeze.

“Somewhere I used to go with Wilson,” Nathan replied, smirking.

“Where?” Wilson asked, exhaling smoke as he leaned forward between the seats.

“Blackway Forest. Remember when you got stuck in that tree?” Nathan burst out laughing, taking a sharp turn that had everyone grabbing for the handles.

“Jesus, dude!” Wilson barked. “Who gave you your license?”

“Relax, Wilson Blake,” Nathan said, smug as ever. “You won’t be complaining once you see what I’ve got in the back.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?” Wilson asked, watching Ruby adjust her psychedelic shirt against the breeze.

“Beer, whiskey, weed… little bit of blow,” Nathan said casually, glancing at him through the rearview mirror. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“Maybe.” Wilson shrugged, flicking ash out the window. “Don’t really remember.”

“Well, it’s all here,” Nathan said as they crested a hill. His eyes locked with Wilson’s in the mirror. “By the way, heard about Anissa? She’s missing. Her dad’s plastered posters everywhere.”

Wilson shrugged again. “Yeah. I asked Jacob and Michael, but they haven’t seen her.”

“Michael?” Nathan rubbed his nose. “Weird. I thought he would’ve. Weren’t they close?”

“She liked him,” Wilson said, flicking his lighter again. “But he’s into someone else now. A girl named Amy.”

“Amy?” Ruby perked up, examining her nails. “You met her?”

“Yeah, briefly. Evan’s birthday. Anissa kind of ruined the moment. She was being bitchy.”

Nathan snorted. “Sounds like Anissa. Jealous type.”

“How do you know that?” Ruby asked.

Nathan laughed. “I hooked up with her once. When she found out I liked Marie, she flipped. Called me an asshole. Told her to fuck off.”

“She sounds like she’s got attachment issues,” Marie muttered, yawning as she stretched out the window.

“Babe, you’ve got no idea how clingy she was,” Nathan said, shaking his head. “Anyway—we’re almost there.”

The road narrowed as they entered the forest, trees growing denser, shadows stretching across the windshield. Eventually, they pulled up to the top of a hill and parked.

“Alright,” Nathan said, hopping out and rubbing his hands. “The good stuff’s in the trunk. There’s a chill spot just up ahead. Grab something!”

They unloaded crates of alcohol while Nathan slipped the drugs into his pockets.

“Let’s get shitfaced!” he yelled, and the others whooped in response, ready to dive headfirst into the night.

As you arrived home, the weight of the day pressed heavily on your shoulders, and the thought of cleaning felt overwhelming. The house was gradually slipping into disarray, but you couldn’t muster the energy to care. As you passed by James's room, a familiar ache settled in your chest. You always kept the door shut now.

After brushing your teeth, you slumped onto the couch and turned on the TV. A romance movie was playing, but your mind was only half-focused on the screen. The phone rang, pulling you from your thoughts. With a groan, you got up and answered it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Amy, it’s me, Michael," came the familiar voice on the other end.

"Oh, hello. How are you?" You wrapped the phone cord around your finger.

"I’m good. Uh, well, I’m at my mum’s house, and I thought I’d call to check on you," Michael said.

"Ah. Yeah, I’m okay. Is everything okay with your mom?"

"Surprisingly? We’re getting along," he said, as if the idea still baffled him.

"Really?" you asked, genuinely surprised. "That’s new, huh?"

"Yeah. I think she’s finally realizing how... distant she was. How neglectful, honestly." He hesitated before adding, "But, hey, better late than never, right?"

"Right." Relief mixed with something else—unease? You weren’t sure.

"Are you working tomorrow?" he asked.

"Yeah. What about you?"

"I’m going for a walk with my mum, catching up with her, you know? But don’t worry. I’ll be back with my dad on Monday, so you’ll see my charming self there," he said with a chuckle.

A small laugh escaped you. "Yeah, wouldn’t want that."

But before the lightness could settle, Michael’s voice turned quiet. "Hey… about that box." Your stomach tightened. "I can’t shake this feeling, Amy. My dad—he’s involved. I know it. He’s done things before. Awful things." A beat of silence stretched between you. "But let’s not focus on that now."

You swallowed hard. "Mhm."

"Don’t worry," he said, voice softer now. "We’ll figure this out."

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, almost reluctantly, he added, "I’ll let you rest. Have a good night, Amy."

"Night, Mike."

"See you."

He hung up, and you slowly placed the phone back in its holder. With a long sigh, you returned to the couch and tried to immerse yourself in the movie again, but your mind kept drifting back to the conversation and the unsettling feeling it left behind.

Marie, Nathan, Wilson, and Ruby sat in a loose circle around the dim glow of a campfire, laughter and conversation flowing freely. The girls initially stuck to the alcohol, sipping from cans, while Nathan snorted a few lines off Ruby's compact mirror. His high hit fast, and soon he was up on his feet, dancing erratically, his movements sharp and uncoordinated. Ruby and Marie exchanged amused glances, their giggles echoing through the clearing.

As the evening deepened into dusk, the energy around the group began to shift. Nathan, still riding his high, stumbled toward the car and cranked up the stereo, letting the music blast out into the encroaching darkness. He looked over at Marie, his eyes wide and unfocused, and extended a hand. “C’mon, babe! Dance with me!”

Marie hesitated, glancing back at Wilson and Ruby, who were perched on the hood of the car, looking up at the sky. “I don’t know, Nate. Maybe we should start heading back?”

Nathan shrugged off her concern, his hand still outstretched. “Leave them for a bit. I just want some time alone with you.”

With a soft smile, Marie took his hand, and the two drifted into the shadows of the trees, leaving Wilson and Ruby behind. The pair on the car roof chatted quietly.

“So, Wilson, what do you want to do when you’re older?” Ruby asked, her voice light as she passed him the blunt Nathan had rolled earlier.

“Something in business, I guess,” Wilson replied, taking a drag before passing it back. “What about you?”

“Film,” Ruby said, her eyes lighting up. “I want to capture people’s lives and their stories, you know?”

Wilson nodded, though the thought of being on camera made him uncomfortable. He shifted his gaze to the night sky, letting the conversation fade into a comfortable silence. A long while later, Nathan and Marie emerged from the woods, their hands intertwined, faces flushed. Ruby spotted them first, waving her arms in greeting. “Hey, lovebirds! How was your little stroll?”

Marie smiled, but her expression quickly turned serious as she noticed how late it had become. “Come on, we should get going. It’s getting dark.”

Everyone piled back into the car, with Wilson taking the driver’s seat. As he adjusted the mirrors, he glanced back at his friends. “Everyone buckled up?”

“Yeah, yeah, just drive, Dad,” Nathan mumbled from the back seat, slurring slightly as he fumbled with his seatbelt.

Wilson started the engine, and the car rumbled to life, the headlights piercing the darkness of the forest. They had been driving for only a few minutes when Nathan groaned, leaning forward and clutching his stomach.

“Ugh, I think I’m gonna be sick,” Nathan muttered, his voice strained.

Wilson glanced at him in the rearview mirror, concern crossing his face. “Do you need me to pull over?”

“Yeah, yeah, do it quick,” Nathan replied, already fumbling with the door handle.

Wilson pulled the car to the side of the narrow dirt road, the tires crunching over the gravel. Nathan stumbled out of the car before it had fully stopped, heading towards the edge of the woods. He doubled over, bracing himself against a tree as he retched.

The others sat in the car, watching him with a mix of sympathy and mild disgust. “He always drinks too much,” Marie muttered, shaking her head.

As Nathan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he took a few unsteady steps away from the car, trying to catch his breath. His foot caught on something, and he nearly tripped, stumbling forward. He looked down, confused, and saw that he had stepped on a patch of earth that felt oddly soft underfoot.

“Guys?” Nathan called back towards the car, his voice shaky. “There’s something weird over here.”

Wilson sighed, thinking Nathan was just being dramatic. “What now?”

“No, seriously,” Nathan insisted, stepping back and looking down at the uneven mound of dirt. “This... this doesn’t look right.”

Wilson and Marie exchanged a glance before both of them got out of the car. They walked over to where Nathan was standing, the headlights from the car casting long shadows across the ground. As they reached him, they saw it too—a mound of disturbed earth, covered with leaves and branches. It looked out of place, unnatural.

"Shall we dig it up?" Ruby asked, hopping out of the car.

Before Wilson could respond, Nathan grinned weakly, still pale. “If it’s a body, don’t worry. Wilson here has seen one before.”

"Hey, shut it, dude. That shit wasn't funny," Wilson grumbled.

Marie crouched down, brushing aside debris. “I don’t know... this seems weird. Help me dig.”

“Really? Just leave it,” Nathan said, rubbing his nose.

“If it’s nothing, then it’s nothing. Just help!” Marie insisted.

Nathan reluctantly joined in, and Ruby followed.

“Don’t make me do all the work!” Nathan joked, though he felt uneasy.

As they dug, Marie noticed a strong, unpleasant odor. “I think there's something here,” she said. They soon hit something soft, prompting Ruby to squeal. Nathan quickly adjusted the car’s headlights to their brightest setting, flooding the area with light. Under the dirt lay the crumpled form of a dead fawn.

“It’s just a dead animal,” Nathan said nervously.

Marie frowned, still staring at the shallow grave. “But why go through all this trouble to bury it? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe someone hit it and felt guilty,” Wilson suggested, though his voice lacked conviction as he scratched his head. “You know, like trying to give it a proper burial.”

Ruby, still shaken, chimed in. “But look at how it’s buried... It’s not just a little dirt thrown over it. It’s like someone wanted to hide it.”

Nathan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Guys, it’s just an animal. We should get out of here. There’s nothing else to see.”

Marie wasn’t buying it. “No. Something’s off about this,” she insisted, her eyes fixed on the uneven mound. “I want to dig more. I feel this weird energy.”

Nathan sighed, frustration mixing with fear. “Marie, come on. You and your fucked spiritual shit. This is messed up. What are you expecting to find?”

Marie shot him a determined look. “I don’t know, but I need to be sure. If I’m wrong, then fine. But if I’m right...”

Wilson hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “She’s right. Let’s check it out. Better safe than sorry.”

They dug deeper into the earth. As they worked, the tension in the air grew thicker, with each scoop of dirt revealing more of what was hidden below. Marie suddenly froze, her hand brushing against something unusual. She jerked back, her breath catching in her throat. “Hair,” she whispered, her voice trembling. She looked up at the others, fear evident in her eyes. “There’s hair.”

Nathan’s face drained of color. “Are you serious?”

Wilson leaned in closer, his heart pounding as he flicked his lighter. “Let me see.”

The light revealed a patch of hair and, further down, a disfigured head.

“Oh my God,” Marie gasped. "Oh my God!"

Wilson’s face went pale as he saw the grim discovery. “That’s... oh, Christ. That's Anissa!” he said, his voice hollow. "That's motherfucking Anissa!"

The sight of her head, deformed and partially exposed brains, sent the group into a frenzy. Ruby and Nathan scrambled away, their screams piercing the night.

“What the fuck!” Nathan shouted, running back to the car. “What the fuck?”

Marie fell to his knees, horrified. “We need to call the police. Like now!"

“Who could have done this?” Ruby cried out. "Who?"

Wilson’s voice was grim as he replied, “I...I don't know," though his mind lingered on a single name.

Michael Afton.

PART 2

Michael woke up to a sunny day and smiled as he opened the curtains to reveal a clear blue sky. He stretched and made his way downstairs to prepare breakfast. As he sat enjoying his meal, his mother, Clara, came downstairs dressed in a formal outfit.

"Morning, Mum," Michael greeted with a grin. "You look nice."

"Thank you," Clara replied, grabbing a mug and preparing herself a cup of coffee. "I’m just about to call Ellie to check on the job. Once that’s done, we can go for a walk."

"Sounds good."

While the coffee brewed, Clara picked up the phone and dialed Ellie’s work number. She bit her knuckle, waiting anxiously for an answer. Soon, a familiar, cheerful voice came through the line.

"Hello? Harold’s Enterprise, Ellie speaking."

"Hi, Ellie, it’s Clara," she said, keeping her tone light.

"Oh, Clara! How are you?"

"I’m well. Listen, remember you mentioned a job opening? Is it still available?"

"Let me check," Ellie replied. "I’ll put you on hold for a moment while I ask Mr. Harold."

"Sure, take your time."

Ellie pressed the hold button and walked over to Mr. Harold’s office. He was at his desk, munching on donuts.

"Mr. Harold, do we still have that office assistant position available?" Ellie asked.

Harold looked up, briefly distracted, then met her eyes. "Yes, we do. Why?"

"I have someone interested in the job," Ellie said, smiling. "Would you be willing to meet her for an interview? I think she’d be a great fit."

Harold sighed and adjusted his suit. "Alright. I’m free this afternoon. Ask her if she’s available. Make sure she gives you her contact details so I can follow up."

Ellie nodded. "Got it. I’ll let her know."

Returning to her desk, she took Clara off hold. "Clara?"

"Still here."

"Mr. Harold is available this afternoon. Does that work for you?"

"Hm, I suppose," Clara replied, her tone noncommittal.

"Perfect! I’ll need your contact details and resume. Fingers crossed! By the way, what’s prompted the sudden interest in working? I thought you weren’t keen on it."

"Things have changed," Clara said quietly, picking at her nails. "I need to make some changes in my life."

"Understood. I’ll see you this afternoon then."

"Thanks, Ellie. See you later."

"See you!" Ellie said before ending the call.

Clara turned to Michael, who had just finished his breakfast. "I’ve got the interview this afternoon, so if you still want to go for a walk, we should go now. Or do you want to adjust the plans?"

"We can walk now, then I can help Dad this afternoon," Michael suggested.

Clara shrugged. "That works for me."

Michael rinsed his bowl and placed it in the sink, while Clara quickly finished her coffee. They got ready and headed out into the bright morning, ready for their walk.

"Amy! Did you hear the news this morning?" Pete rushed toward you, thrusting a newspaper into your hands. As you glanced at the front page, your breath caught in your throat. Anissa's face dominated the cover, and the headline was chilling:

Young Woman Found Dead in Blackway Forest

"Oh my God… she was Michael’s friend," you whispered, struggling to process the shock.

Pete nodded grimly. "Yeah, it’s unreal."

"But what about the other kids who’ve gone missing? Why aren’t they getting this kind of attention?" you asked, handing the paper back to Pete.

"They’ve been in the news," Pete said softly. "I think Mr. Emily or Mr. Afton might have those stories in their office."

You nodded absently, your mind clouded with questions. The image of Anissa’s face haunted you as you continued serving customers. Who could be capable of something so horrific? As you set down a plate, you felt a hand on your shoulder. Turning, you met Henry’s warm, familiar smile.

"Hey, how are you holding up?" Henry asked, his voice full of concern.

"I’m… managing," you replied, offering a small smile. "How are you?"

"I’m better. I had a great day with Sammy yesterday, so I’m feeling refreshed and ready to work."

"That’s great to hear," you said, giving him a smile.

"Yeah. And listen, you’re doing an excellent job here. I’m really glad we brought you on board," Henry said, his eyes twinkling slightly. His encouragement lifted your spirits, and you thanked him before returning to your tasks.

A little later, John, the cleaner, showed up around half-past twelve. He gave you a playful salute as you were fixing the arcades. Despite being older, John’s energy made him seem like a big brother to you and Pete. You laughed and saluted back, just as Michael walked into the diner. Your heart leaped, and you hurried over to greet him with a hug.

"Mike! I thought you’d be with your mom today!"

Michael grinned. "We went for a walk this morning, but she had an interview later, so I thought I’d drop by and see you."

Your cheeks warmed, and Michael chuckled, lightly tapping your nose with his finger. Across the room, Pete rolled his eyes, but Michael paid no attention. Instead, he guided you toward the back area near the bins.

"Pete really doesn’t like me, huh?" Michael said with a wry smile.

"Ignore him," you said with a laugh. "Not many girls work here, so he’s just a bit territorial."

Michael wrapped his arms around your waist, laughing. "Oh, Amy, what am I going to do with you?"

You giggled back, but something else caught your eye—the box, still sitting by the bins from yesterday. Michael noticed your gaze and followed it, his expression darkening.

"The box?" he asked quietly, a subtle tension creeping into his voice. He paused, as if grappling with whether to share something he’d been holding back. "There’s more to this than I let on last night… something about my father. Things you don’t know. Things… I wish I didn’t."

You felt a knot tighten in your stomach. The shift in Michael’s tone was unmistakable—this wasn’t just about the box anymore. "Michael, what are you saying?"

He gave a firm shrug. "I think my dad's a killer."

You stood shocked. "Why would you even think that? He was cleared when those kids went missing."

Michael looked down, his hands gripping your waist a little tighter. "It’s not just about those kids. It’s about a pattern. My father… he’s always been obsessed with his work, with these animatronics. And sometimes, things… go wrong. But instead of fixing them, he covers them up, like they never happened."

Your heartbeat quickened. "What do you mean, ‘covers them up’?"

Michael hesitated, the words clearly difficult for him to say. "Do you remember hearing about Circus Baby’s Pizza World? It was supposed to be the next big thing, but it shut down almost as soon as it opened. The official story was a gas leak, but… that’s not what happened."

You could feel a cold dread creeping in. "What really happened?"

"Elizabeth was there that day. She loved the animatronics, especially Circus Baby. My dad told me to keep her away from it, said it wasn’t safe, but… I didn’t listen. She snuck off to see Circus Baby perform. And then… she never came back."

You stared at him, horror dawning. "What are you saying, Michael?"

"My dad found her," Michael continued, his voice cracking with the weight of the memory. "But not… not alive. Circus Baby… it wasn’t just an animatronic. My father had built it with all these strange features—things that shouldn’t be inside a machine meant to entertain children. It malfunctioned and… it took her. Crushed her."

You felt a wave of nausea. "Oh my God…"

"I found her too. He told me to keep quiet, to never tell anyone. And then he shut everything down, buried it all under lies and excuses. But I know what happened to Lizzie. And now, seeing that box… the blood… I can’t help but think he’s involved in this too. He’s hidden things before, Amy. He could be hiding something now."

Tears stung your eyes as you processed his words. "Michael, that’s… horrific. But if he’s capable of covering up something like that…"

"Exactly," Michael interrupted, his voice urgent. "If he can do that to his own daughter, what else is he capable of? I know it sounds insane, but I’m scared, Amy. I’m scared that this isn’t just some random act. That maybe my father is behind all of this. That he’s the reason these kids are missing."

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "We can’t jump to conclusions, Michael. We need to find out more. If your father is involved… we need to be sure before we do anything."

Michael nodded, his expression a mix of fear and determination. "You’re right. But we have to keep our eyes open. We can’t let him get away with this if he’s involved."

As you stood there, absorbing the information that Michael had just shared, neither of you noticed Henry lingering nearby, his face pale as he accidently overheard every word.

Henry quickly retreated back inside the diner, his heart pounding as he replayed the conversation he had just overheard. He waited anxiously for you and Michael to return, and when the two of you finally walked back in, Henry watched from a distance, waiting for the right moment.

He slipped out to the bins. The box was still there, and he reached for it, hesitating just before his fingers touched it. The stain sent a shiver down his spine, and he clenched his teeth in frustration.

"Could it be true?" he muttered under his breath. William’s name echoed in his mind, aligning with the suspicions that had been gnawing at him for weeks. He forced himself to place the box back in the bin, his hand trembling slightly as he let go.

With a heavy sigh, Henry made his way to his office. He sat down at his desk, opening the drawer and from it, pulled out his worn diary.

He flipped to a blank page and began to write:

*

Bloodstain on a box. Michael and Amy found it shoved carelessly in the bin behind the diner. That box was supposed to be in the backroom, a place only a few of us ever go, and even fewer should have any business in. But William? He’s the one who’s always there, always finding reasons to be alone. It’s a space without distractions, without witnesses.

The more I think about it, the more certain I become. The five children who disappeared… William was there every time. James? He was there. And my Charlie… He. Was. There.

If what Michael said is true—if Elizabeth Afton really died because of one of William’s machines—then it all starts to make a sick kind of sense. But w as it really an accident, or did he plan it that way? He’s smart enough to create something so twisted, and it all feels too convenient, too calculated. But there’s something more… something I’m missing. What is it?

William’s always been secretive, but there’s a difference between privacy and hiding something monstrous. He used to talk about his creations with such pride, but there was always an undercurrent of something else—something I dismissed as eccentricity, but now I see it as something far more dangerous.

And then there’s the way he reacted when those children disappeared. It wasn’t just concern—it was something else. Almost as if he was playing a role. Was it guilt? Fear of being found out? I can’t shake the feeling that he knows more than he’s ever let on. But why? Why would he do this? And why would he target these children? Was it some twisted experiment? Some sick game?

Or am I just wrong?

*

Henry’s pen hovered over the page as he paused, memories of his daughter, Charlie, surfacing unbidden. He remembered her, so small and full of life, talking about William. There had been something in her voice, something he’d dismissed at the time but now gnawed at him like a forgotten warning.

God, why hadn’t he taken it seriously?

With a deep breath, Henry set the pen down, remembering her words...

“Dad? Daddy?”

Henry looked up from his designs to find Charlie standing in the doorway, her small face pinched with concern. He immediately set his work aside and knelt to her level, offering a warm smile.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?”

“Uncle Will keeps giving me dirty looks.”

Henry’s smile faltered.

“William? What do you mean?”

Charlie bit her lip and furrowed her brow. Then she pulled her eyebrows down and pursed her lips into a deep, stern frown—the face that William always pulled when he was annoyed. It was unmistakable.

Henry blinked, taken aback.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I was playing with Sammy, and I said hi to Uncle Will, but he looked at me like that!” She mimicked the scowl again. “Is he having a bad day?”

Henry forced a gentle tone, though something cold began to settle in his chest.

“Maybe he is. Sometimes grown-ups have tough days, and their faces forget to be kind. I’m sure it wasn’t about you.”

Charlie didn’t look convinced.

“Will you tell him that I was scared when he did that?” she asked softly.

“I will,” Henry promised. “Don’t worry about it, okay? Just keep being your bright self.”

She nodded, a little reassured, and wandered back out. Henry watched her go, the weight of her words lingering like a bad aftertaste.

When break time rolled around, he pushed back his chair and headed into the main room.

William was sitting on the floor with Evan and Elizabeth, playfully tapping toy blocks together. His expression was uncharacteristically tender—eyes crinkled in a soft smile, voice low and sing-song. It was a rare moment of genuine affection.

Henry hesitated.

Then:

“Hey, Will, got a minute for a quick chat?”

William looked up, the warmth draining from his face in a blink. A guarded mask slipped into place. He gave Elizabeth’s head a parting pat before rising.

“Mm? What’s up?”

Henry kept his voice casual, though tension curled under every syllable.

“Charlie said you scowled at her earlier. She seemed pretty rattled.”

William raised an eyebrow, eyes widening slightly in faux surprise.

“Oh? Did she now?” He gave a short chuckle. “I must’ve been lost in thought. You know how I get. Was she upset?”

Henry nodded. “Yeah. She thought you were annoyed with her. I told her you might’ve just had a rough moment, but I figured I should check in.”

William gave a light shake of his head, smiling thinly.

“Not at all. I’ll be more mindful. I don’t want to scare her.” He clapped Henry on the shoulder with practiced ease. “Thanks for telling me.”

Henry gave a slow nod, but something about the exchange sat wrong. William turned and returned to the children, crouching beside Evan with renewed cheerfulness.

Charlie, watching quietly from the hallway, caught the flicker in his eyes—a glint of cold amusement beneath the warmth he projected.

That scowl had been no accident.

It had been a warning.

A message, sent only to her.

If your father keeps doting on you, if he keeps trying to be the man I’m not, there will be a prize to pay.

Henry was brought back to his senses and, with a scraggly hand, wrote one final sentence in his diary.

Or is it even worse than that?

William’s eyes scanned the newspaper—and his stomach dropped.

They had found Anissa.

Fuck.

He had been so careful. No witnesses. No traceable patterns. But if something had slipped through—anything at all—he was in deep trouble.

Her face stared back at him from the grainy photo, smiling as if she knew. As if she mocked him.

Rage surged. He crumpled the paper in one hand and hurled it into the bin with a snarl. It was always teenagers. Always poking their noses where they didn’t belong.

He shot to his feet, his body screaming for a drink like a smoker clawing for a lighter.

He didn’t hesitate.

The whiskey bottle was already on the desk, waiting. He twisted the cap off and poured a heavy measure into a glass—far more than a typical “drink.” Liquid gold filled the rim.

With clenched teeth and a trembling jaw, he threw it back in one brutal gulp.

The fire lit his throat, spreading through his chest. It didn’t soothe him. Not really.

But it helped.

His mind raced, hot and vengeful.

Once he figured out who those teenagers were—once he found them—he’d make sure they never had the chance to talk again.

Wilson stormed into the diner, his face twisted with fury.

"Afton! Where are you?" he barked, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.

Michael, standing beside you and sipping from a water bottle, barely had time to react before Wilson closed the distance. He grabbed Michael by the collar and slammed him against the wall. Spittle flew from Wilson’s mouth as he roared, “You fucking killed her, didn’t you?”

Michael grunted, trying to push him off, but Wilson headbutted him, drawing a sharp cry of pain. “Admit it! You killed her!”

You lunged in, your fist connecting with Wilson’s jaw. He stumbled back, stunned.

“What the hell are you talking about?” you demanded. “Who did Michael kill?”

Wilson clutched his face, eyes blazing. “Ugh! Fuck! Anissa, you bitch! Michael’s the only one who had a motive. She rejected him, and now she’s dead!”

Michael coughed, wincing. “I didn’t kill Anissa, Wilson. Jesus Christ. You have to believe me.”

“Believe you?” Wilson snarled, punching him in the gut. “Why the hell should I? You’re the only one who had a reason!”

You pulled Wilson off with a furious grip, shoving him hard against the wall.

“If you touch him again, I swear I’ll break your fucking nose,” you growled.

Wilson shoved you away. “Why are you defending him? He’s a murderer! He killed his own brother and now he’s playing buddy-buddy with you. What makes you think you’re not next?”

“He didn’t intentionally kill his brother,” you snapped. “And he didn’t kill Anissa either.”

“Oh really?” Wilson scoffed. “And what proof do you have?”

You stepped forward. “When was Anissa killed?”

Wilson blinked. “What the fuck does that matter? Friday. It’s in the damn newspaper.”

“It matters,” you said sharply. “Because Michael and I were together the whole time that day. We worked a shift at the diner, then had dinner at The Blue Whale. We’ve got an alibi.”

Wilson let out a dry, mocking laugh. “That’s your proof?”

“Yes,” you said firmly. “Michael even told Henry to let his dad know where we were going. Ask at the restaurant. Ask Henry. Ask anyone. He couldn’t have done it.”

Wilson’s face turned a deeper shade of red. “So what, you expect me to believe you just because you say so? Maybe you're both in on it. Maybe you helped him kill her.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you snapped. “Ask around if you don’t believe me. Ask at the Blue Whale. Go ahead.”

Wilson leaned in, eyes full of venom. “Well if you're that sure, then who did it, huh? If it wasn’t him?”

A voice cut through the rising tension like a razor.

“I think that’s the question we’re all asking,” came William Afton’s calm, cold voice from the doorway.

He stepped inside, cigarette hanging from his lips, his eyes flicking over each of you. “I’m not here to say whether my son’s guilty,” he said slowly. “But…” His gaze locked on Michael, sharp and chilling. “He does have blood on his hands. Metaphorically speaking.”

Michael’s fists clenched at his sides. His father’s words landed like a slap.

Wilson’s face lit up with vicious satisfaction. “Even your own dad thinks you did it.”

Michael glared at William, trembling with fury.

William’s lips curled into a smirk. “Michael’s a box of surprises,” he said, voice low and taunting. “You never know what he’s hiding.”

PART 3

Taking a deep breath, Clara stepped inside and made her way to Mr. Harold's office. She knocked briskly.

“Come in,” a gruff voice called out.

She pushed open the door and found a heavy-set man slouched behind a cluttered desk, his shirt stretched taut across his gut. He looked up, his small, beady eyes narrowing.

“You are?”

“Clara Afton. I’m here for the interview.”

“Right, right. Have a seat, Ms. Afton.” He gestured to a battered chair that gave a soft creak as she sat. Shuffling through a stack of papers, he eventually produced a form. “I’ll need your details and resume.”

Clara handed over her resume, watching as his eyes skimmed it.

“So, dance instructor,” he muttered. "School teacher before that.”

“Yes,” she replied calmly.

“Mhm.” He leaned back with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Y’know, I usually only tolerate dancers after hours. Ha!” His laugh was thick with implication.

Clara didn’t react. Her silence cut the joke short, leaving him to clear his throat and shift awkwardly in his seat.

“Anyway,” he grumbled, “I need an office assistant. Realistically, it’s a simple job—answer phones, sort papers, make coffee. As long as you can read and write, you’ll do fine.” His gaze lingered a moment too long before he turned back to the papers. “I was going to call later in the week, but…” He eyed her again. “You seem like a fit. You can start tomorrow. We’ll train you on the basics.”

Clara gave a slight nod, masking her relief. “Thank you. I’m ready to begin whenever you need.”

“Splendid.” With some effort, Mr. Harold rose from his chair and motioned for her to follow. “You’ll be working with Ellie Emily. She knows the ropes and’ll help get you settled.”

Clara kept her expression neutral as she followed him.

“Nine to five,” he continued. “Hour lunch break. I expect all your tasks done by end of day. Clear?”

“Crystal,” she replied.

“Good. See you tomorrow, Ms. Afton.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harold. Have a good day.”

As she stepped out into the hallway, she nearly collided with a young woman juggling a teetering stack of files.

“Clara!” Ellie exclaimed, grinning. “How’d it go?”

Clara allowed herself a small smile. “I got the job. I start tomorrow, apparently working with you.”

Ellie squealed, hugging Clara tightly—files and all. “That’s amazing! I can’t wait to show you around!”

Clara chuckled as she returned the hug. “Looking forward to it.”

Ellie stepped back, beaming. “Alright, I better get back to the grind. See you tomorrow!”

“See you,” Clara echoed.

As she watched Ellie disappear down the corridor, a flicker of something warm settled in her chest. For the first time in months, she felt it—hope. Maybe this place wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The diner was thick with tension as the four of you stood in silence, locked in a hostile standoff. William and Wilson glared at you and Michael, while you both stood your ground, neither willing to flinch.

Mr. Afton finally cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the silence. “I don’t want any more fights in this diner. So either get back to work, or get out.”

You could feel Michael’s anger simmering beneath the surface, coiled tight like a spring. You reached out, placing a calming hand on his shoulder—he shrugged it off.

William caught the movement and smirked. “Got something to say, Michael?” He turned, already walking toward his office. “You know where to find me.”

“Mike,” you said, grabbing his shoulder again, trying to stop him.

He shook you off more forcefully this time. “I’m going to fucking talk to him.”

“Mike, let it go!” you pleaded—but Michael was already storming off, ignoring your voice as he headed straight for William’s office.

*

Michael didn’t care if his father was busy. He flung open the office door, revealing William hunched over blueprints, cigarette smoke curling lazily around him. With his back turned, arms braced against the table, William’s posture exuded control.

“You’re a fucking hypocrite,” Michael growled, voice raw and trembling with rage.

William turned slowly, eyes narrowing into a cold glare. “Am I now?”

“Blood on my hands?” Michael spat. “You’re the one who caused this mess.” His fury exploded. He grabbed William by the shirt and slammed him against the wall. “You told me to scare Evan! You told me to do things to him!” His eyes brimmed with angry tears. “You killed Elizabeth! Your damn animatronic killed her, and now you have the nerve to accuse me?”

William stared at him with detached amusement. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, then began to laugh—low and wheezy, building into a sharp, manic cackle. But then, just as abruptly, the laughter stopped.

In a flash, William’s demeanor shifted. He grabbed Michael by the neck and slammed him down onto the desk, sending blueprints and papers flying. Michael cried out, William’s smoky breath hot against his face.

“I told you to handle Lizzie,” William snarled. “And you failed. I told you to scare Evan—not kill him.” His grip tightened like a vice. “I apologize if I embarrassed you... in front of your friend.” A sneer curled his lips. “And your girlfriend.”

Michael struggled beneath him, gritting his teeth. “You know you killed Lizzie. And I know you’re involved with those kids!”

“Kids, huh?” William’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. He held Michael down with one hand, the other bringing the smoldering cigarette inches from his face. “You think I’m involved with the kids?” His tone was mocking. “What makes you so sure?”

Michael gasped for air. “It was always convenient... that you were around... when they went missing…”

William’s eyes hardened. Without warning, he lifted Michael’s shirt and pressed the burning cigarette to his lower abdomen.

Michael screamed.

William clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling the sound. “Have you forgotten Henry was around too? Or someone else from the diner?” The cigarette hovered again. “Maybe it’s just some freak. Some lunatic stalking this place.”

Michael thrashed violently.

William didn’t flinch. “Did you ever think about that?” he whispered, before pressing the cigarette to Michael’s stomach again.

Michael let out another strangled scream, smashing the back of his head against the desk.

Finally, William pulled back, removing his hand and dropping the cigarette into the ashtray with a lazy flick. He jabbed a sharp finger at the fresh burn on Michael’s skin.

“Consider that a warning. Accuse me again, and you’ll pay more than that.” His eyes flicked coldly over Michael’s contorted face. “And if you’re thinking about telling Amy—don’t bother. She was begging you not to come after me. She probably blames you for being stupid enough to try.”

Michael’s tears finally spilled over, his chest heaving, face twisted in fury and pain. “I fucking hate you.”

William leaned back in his chair, exhaling smoke, unmoved. “I’ve always hated you.”

You were busy scrubbing down the tables, as you focused on a stubborn streak of grease. Just as you reached for the spray bottle, the bell above the door jingled.

You looked up.

A newcomer had stepped inside—tall, striking, with long blonde hair that framed his face and fell just past his shoulders. He was lean, not as broad as Michael, but still toned in a way that caught the eye. Light blue jeans clung to his frame, paired with a white top that set off the sharp green of his eyes. He scanned the room with easy confidence before his gaze landed on you.

He smiled—open, friendly. “Hey, could you point me to Mr. Emily’s office? I’ve got an interview with him today.”

For a moment, you were caught off guard, caught in the brightness of his gaze. You blinked, clearing your throat as you straightened up.

“Oh! Mr. Emily’s office? Yeah, it’s just this way,” you said, gesturing toward the back.

As you walked together, he fell into step beside you. “Thanks a lot! By the way, what’s your name?”

“Amy,” you replied, eyeing him curiously.

He smiled again, even warmer this time. “Nice to meet you, Amy. I’m Jeremy. Jeremy Fitzgerald.”

Chapter Text

PART 1

Michael and Jeremy sat opposite each other. Michael scrutinized Jeremy, trying to read past the bright smile he wore.

“So, you say you've been here for a long time. How long exactly have you been working here?” Jeremy asked, flashing a wide, genuine smile.

Michael stifled a quiet yawn. “Ever since my dad opened the diners. He owns them.”

“Diners? There’s more than one?” Jeremy looked surprised.

“There used to be,” Michael replied, his voice tinged with reluctance. “Three, to be exact. But the other two closed down due to... events.” He avoided Jeremy’s curious green eyes.

Jeremy leaned forward, his curly hair falling into his face. “What happened?”

Michael hesitated. He could lie, but the truth was public knowledge. Articles, stories, whispers—they were everywhere. Staff like John and Pete were aware of at least some version of it, and if Jeremy wanted to know, he'd find out eventually.

“Well...” Michael began, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie. “There was a place called Circus Baby’s Pizza World. There was a—" he swallowed hard, censoring the truth. "A gas leak, and my father couldn't keep it open. So he shut it down.” He paused, his voice dropping. “Then there was the other diner. The one where… my brother... he didn’t make it. Because of me.”

Michael could barely bring himself to look at Jeremy. “It was supposed to be a joke. A stupid, harmless prank. But I— I pushed too far. And he… he died because of it.”

A heavy silence hung between them. Michael braced himself for disgust, for judgment—for horror. But Jeremy just blinked, his expression softening.

“Michael...” His voice was quiet. “That’s... that’s horrible. I’m really sorry.”

“I’d do anything to take it back. Anything...” Michael's voice cracked. "But I can't. After what happened, I guess my dad just couldn’t keep the place open anymore. Shutting it down felt like the only way to move on."

Or maybe, he just needed time to rip out the wiring of the animatronic, scrub the reports, and manipulate the truth—counting on the kids to forget and the few adults to believe whatever story he fed them.

Jeremy’s expression faltered for a moment. “I can’t imagine how that must feel. I mean, that’s… a lot.” He glanced at the floor. “It doesn’t erase what happened. Nothing will. But if you’re serious about being better… then I think you owe it to yourself—and everyone else—to try. It's a harsh lesson."

Michael let out a hollow laugh, without humor. “Oh, I’ve learned my lesson, alright.” His thoughts drifted to darkness, to his father—demanding, relentless. Guilt had shaped him. Years of manipulation had taught him that people deserved pain, even if they were vulnerable. Learning a lesson? That didn’t even cover it.

Jeremy noticed the shift, the sudden glare in Michael’s eyes. He hesitated but chose not to pry. Instead, he cleared his throat and gently redirected the conversation.

“Hey, uh... do you think this place would be good for my sister? She’s been looking for a new place to eat.”

Michael blinked, dragged out of his spiraling thoughts. For a moment, he just stared at Jeremy, then exhaled slowly. “Hm? Sister?” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I have a little sister,” Jeremy said with a fond smile. “Sadie. Sadie and I have this little routine. We play board games on weekends, and she always beats me at Monopoly. It’s like her specialty.”

Michael snorted softly. “Sounds like she’s got quite the knack for winning.”

“Yeah, she's a funny kid.”

Michael listened, but his thoughts were drifting—to Evan, quiet and withdrawn, and to Elizabeth, loud and defiant. As Jeremy talked, Michael was pulled into a blurry flashback, the edges of memory softening the room, Jeremy’s voice becoming a distant murmur...

"William, please, not in front of the kids!" Clara’s voice trembled as she raised her arms in a futile shield.

"Why are you never satisfied, Clara?" William hollered his words slurred with alcohol. "I bust my ass for this family, and all you ever do is whine!" He staggered forward, bottle in hand, his eyes wild with fury. “You never listen! You never listen! That’s the problem with you! You think..." He hiccuped. "You think you’re so perfect, huh?" A sharp punch landed, followed by a yelp of pain. "Huh, bitch? Answer me!"

Upstairs, the children cowered, the sounds of violence echoing through the walls. Evan buried his face in his pillow, sobbing quietly. Fifteen-year-old Michael sat at the top of the stairs, holding his seven-year-old sister Elizabeth close. They could hear their mother’s desperate cries, punctuated by the sickening thud of William’s blows.

"Mike, do something! He's hurting her!" Elizabeth whimpered, her small hands clutching her brother’s shirt as she tried to block out the noise.

Michael’s grip tightened. “Lizzie... I can’t. Remember what happened last time I tried?” He pointed at the fading bruise around his eye, a painful reminder of his last attempt to intervene. "If I go down there, he'll just hurt me again. And you, too."

"But why does he do this to Mum? I thought he loved her!" Elizabeth exclaimed in confusion.

Michael stroked her hair gently. "Sometimes... grown-ups fight. It doesn’t mean they don’t love each other. They’re just... angry and hurt, and they take it out on each other." He paused, hating how hollow his words felt. "But it’s not right. Dad shouldn’t be doing this."

Elizabeth hesitated, before whispering again. "Could we call Uncle Henry? He could stop Dad, I know he could."

Michael shook his head, the fear in his eyes mirroring hers. "You know what Dad said. We’re not allowed to call Uncle Henry. It would just make things worse, Lizzie. He’d get even angrier, and then..." He didn’t finish the thought, but the look in his eyes said enough.

Elizabeth shivered, hugging her knees to her chest. "I’m scared, Mikey. I don’t understand why he’s doing this. I love Dad, but he’s so different now. It’s like he’s not even the same person anymore."

"I’m scared too, Lizzie," Michael said, as he tried to comfort her. "But we’ll get through this, okay? We have to stick together. Maybe we can do something to take our minds off it? How about drawing? You've always liked drawing."

Elizabeth sniffled. "I’m not very good at drawing... Last time I drew an animatronic that looked like me and showed it to Dad. But... he just pushed me away. He said I was annoying him." Her voice faltered as she recalled the hurtful memory. "I thought he’d like it... but he didn’t even look at it properly."

Michael’s heart ached for his sister. "That’s not fair, Lizzie. You’re really good at drawing. Do you still have it? Maybe we can look at it together."

Elizabeth nodded slowly, wiping her eyes as she led Michael to her room. It was filled with stuffed animals and toys. She began rummaging through a stack of papers on her bookshelf, finally pulling out the crumpled drawing. Her eyes brightened as she showed it to him, the paper slightly worn but still vivid with the colors she had used. The character had bright red hair and wide green eyes—just like her. The proportions were off, but the personality leapt off the page. 

"It’s really good, Lizzie!" Michael said, genuinely impressed. "What does she do? What’s her job?"

Elizabeth's face lit up as she described her creation, momentarily forgetting the terror downstairs. "She sings and gives out candy to children. She’s beautiful and shiny, and everyone loves her! She’s like... like a princess, but in a robot form!"

Michael nodded, encouraging her imagination. "I think it’s a great idea. You’ve really thought about it, huh? Maybe when Dad’s in a better mood, you can show it to him again. I’m sure he’ll see how amazing it is."

"Maybe... But what if he doesn’t? What if he just yells at me again?" Elizabeth murmured, uncertainty creeping back into her voice. She began biting her nails.

Michael gently took her hand, trying to reassure her. "You just have to wait for the right time. Sometimes... people need space to calm down. When Dad’s not so stressed, you can try showing him. I know he’ll love it once he really looks at it."

Elizabeth bit her lip, her fingers playing with the edges of the paper. "I hope so... I just want him to be happy with me again."

"He will be, Lizzie. Just give it time," Michael said, squeezing her hand gently. He could see the doubt in her eyes, and it tore at him that he couldn’t promise more.

They sat together in silence for a moment before Elizabeth spoke again, trying to change the subject. "Did I tell you that a boy in my class said he liked me?" Her voice was shy, but there was a glimmer of curiosity in her eyes.

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Oh? When did this happen?"

"Last week. He came up to me after school and said he liked me. It made me really happy. But... I didn’t tell Mum or Dad. I didn’t think they’d like it."

Michael forced a smile, trying to hide his worry. "It’s probably best you didn’t. They might not understand."

"But why?" Elizabeth tilted her head, confused.

Michael hesitated, then decided to keep things light. "They’d probably think you’re too young to have a boyfriend, Elizabeth Afton!" he teased, playfully tapping her nose.

Elizabeth giggled at that, her laughter a brief respite from the tension. "But I’m not too young! I’m a grown-up girl, Mikey!"

Michael chuckled, grateful for the distraction. "Oh, really? A wise old woman, are you? Full of wisdom and knowledge?"

Elizabeth laughed again, playfully nudging him. "No, not that old! You’re the old one, Mikey!"

Michael pretended to be offended, grinning at her teasing. "Oh, really? I think I'm way younger than that!"

The pair burst into quiet laughter, but it was abruptly cut short by a loud crash from downstairs. Something—or someone—hit the floor hard. Michael’s heart froze as he heard his father’s voice, now filled with angry desperation.

"Clara, wake the fuck up! I said, wake up! Fuck, Clara! Get up!"

Michael’s grip tightened around Elizabeth, both of them going silent as the reality of the situation sank in. An hour later, the wail of sirens pierced the night, growing louder as they approached the house. The flashing lights of the ambulance and police cars lit up the street.

William was taken away in handcuffs, his eyes dazed and unfocused as the police led him out of the house. Clara was unconscious, blood seeping from a wound on her head where she had fallen. As the paramedics rushed in to attend to her, Michael held Elizabeth close, both of them trembling.

“Hey, Earth to Michael! Did you hear a word I said?” Jeremy snapped his fingers right in front of Michael’s face, jolting him back from his daydream.

“Huh? Sorry, what were you saying?” Michael blinked rapidly, shaking off the fog.

Jeremy chuckled, leaning casually against the break room table. “Man, you were miles away. I was asking—what do you think about Amy?”

Michael cleared his throat. “Oh, right. She’s cool. We met at Fazbear’s Family Diner.” He began to rub the back of his neck sheepishly. “At first, I didn’t really think we'd get along—kind of butt heads or something. But then over time, we grew closer.”

Jeremy’s eyebrows lifted with interest. “Really? What changed?”

Michael shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I guess we started understanding each other better. Found out we had more in common than I thought. Shared a few laughs, went through some tough times—that sort of thing.”

“Sounds like a good foundation for a solid friendship,” Jeremy said, eyes narrowing teasingly. “Or maybe something... more?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “You’re reading too much into it.”

Jeremy smirked, undeterred. “Come on, a handsome guy like you must have someone special at least. So… have you got a girlfriend?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Michael muttered, absently chewing his knuckle, avoiding Jeremy’s gaze.

“Because it’s a valid question!” Jeremy laughed, crossing his arms. “You’re a catch. Or maybe there’s someone you like but haven’t asked out yet?”

Michael finally met Jeremy’s teasing eyes with a skeptical one of his own. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. What about you? Got someone?”

Jeremy sighed theatrically, hand over his heart. “Alas, still searching for the right one. But hey, good things come to those who wait, right?”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Michael replied. His gaze drifted toward Henry, chatting with a group of parents, orange checkered shirt unmistakable. Seizing the chance to change the subject, Michael stood. “Speaking of work, better get back before Henry thinks I’m slacking.”

Jeremy glanced at his watch and stretched. “Mr. Emily said I can officially start tomorrow morning. Today, I’m just observing. Mind if I tag along?”

“Sure, why not?” Michael replied. “I was about to fix an arcade machine that’s been acting up.”

“Sounds good. I’d like to see what goes on behind the scenes.”

They navigated the busy dining room, dodging kids and tired parents, the cheerful jingles from animatronic shows filling the air. Michael grabbed the toolkit from the Parts and Service room, then they headed to a corner where an old arcade machine flickered an “Out of Order” sign.

Michael knelt down, setting the toolkit on the floor. “This old thing’s been shorting out all week. Kids aren’t happy.”

Jeremy crouched beside him, peering through the vented panel. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Be my guest.” Michael handed over a screwdriver. “Any help’s appreciated.”

Jeremy removed the panel, revealing tangled wires and layers of dust. He whistled low. “Wow, this hasn’t been cleaned in ages. No wonder it’s acting up.”

Michael chuckled, grabbing a damp cloth. “Yeah, these older machines get overlooked with all the new attractions coming in.” He carefully wiped the components.

Jeremy studied the wires. “Looks complicated. Do you fix these often?”

“Pretty often,” Michael said, examining them. “They need a lot of TLC to keep running. Not glamorous, but part of the job. Same with animatronics—they get temperamental.”

Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Temperamental how?”

“Oh, glitches, mechanical issues,” Michael said, dismissively. “Nothing too crazy, but it keeps us on our toes.”

Jeremy nodded thoughtfully. “I never realized there was so much behind it. I guess every job has challenges, huh?”

“That’s one way to put it.” Michael tightened a screw, then softened his tone. “But yeah, it’s not bad. Plus, it keeps the kids happy—that’s what really matters.”

Jeremy smiled, watching Michael work. “I get that. In catering, it’s similar. You put in a lot of effort behind the scenes, and seeing people enjoy it makes it worth it.”

Michael glanced at him, appreciating the comparison. “Yeah, exactly.”

They continued side by side, exchanging light banter as Michael brought the arcade machine back to life. The screen flickered steadily, then a cheerful 8-bit tune filled the corner as the start menu appeared.

Michael grinned. “There we go. Good as new.”

“Nice work!” Jeremy said.

“Yeah,” Michael agreed, a genuine smile crossing his face as he stood and dusted off his hands. Nearby kids cheered and lined up to play. The two stepped back, watching their work being appreciated.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Jeremy mused.

“Yeah, it does,” Michael replied softly, pride shining through.

*

Sipping your coffee, you stepped outside and noticed the two boys working side by side. A small smile tugged at your lips as you watched, then you took another sip before heading back to the kitchen to help with serving.

William sat in his office, swaying back and forth in his chair with one foot propped up on the desk. His eyes were half-lidded, distant, as he mulled over Henry’s bubbling enthusiasm for the new animatronics. They were sleek, state-of-the-art, and showcased technology far more advanced than anything him and Henry had done.

But as William stared at the schematics tacked to the wall, a darker thought began to take shape in his mind.

What if he built more animatronics—his own designs—and quietly stored the older ones, the ones with... inconvenient contents, in the family diner? People would assume they'd been scrapped. No questions. No prying. No smell. Better reviews. More money. More chances of getting what he wants.

The thought bloomed into a plan, winding its way through his brain. A glint of excitement sparked in his eyes, and a sly smirk curled on his lips.

Control. Deception. It always came down to control.

And he knew that he was very good at pretending.

Michael spotted you across the diner as you carefully balanced a tray of drinks. After handing the drinks to a family, you noticed him approaching and set the empty tray down on the counter.

"Hey," Michael said as he reached you. "Arcade machine’s fixed. Looks like you’ll have fewer complaints today." He gave a small chuckle.

You giggled, a hint of teasing in your voice. "Finally. Maybe now I won’t have to deal with kids yelling about their quarters getting eaten."

Michael smiled, glancing around the diner to ensure it wasn’t too busy. “Hey, want to take a quick break?”

You nodded, and the two of you walked over to a quieter corner of the diner. As you both sat down, neither of you noticed the two men in plainclothes who had entered, their eyes scanning the room until they settled on him. They exchanged a brief look before approaching.

"Michael Afton?" one of the men asked, his tone professional but not unkind.

Michael looked up, startled. The man was in his late thirties, with a square jaw and a calm, serious expression. His partner was younger, with curly ginger hair.

"Uh, yeah, that’s me," Michael replied, his heart beginning to pound. He didn’t need them to introduce themselves to know who they were.

The older detective nodded and slid into the seat across from Michael, glancing at you briefly before focusing on him. "I’m Detective Harlan, and this is Detective Marshall. Mind if we ask you a few questions?"

Michael swallowed hard. He knew this was coming, but it didn’t make it any easier. "Sure," he said.

Detective Marshall remained standing, his presence looming as he pulled out a small notepad. Harlan leaned forward slightly, his voice gentle but probing.

“We understand you knew Anissa Hartley,” Harlan began, his voice low and non-confrontational. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

Michael’s stomach clenched. “Yeah. We were friends.”

“Just friends?” Marshall asked, scribbling something down without looking up.

Michael hesitated. “Yeah. That’s all.”

“She ever say anything to you recently that stood out? Seemed upset, paranoid, anything like that?”

Michael shook his head. “No, she seemed… normal.”

Harlan watched him carefully for a beat, then nodded. “Alright. We’re going to need you to come down to the station with us. It’s just a routine procedure, nothing to worry about. We need to get a formal statement, and we might have a few more questions."

Michael swallowed. “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” Harlan said, standing. “Just tying up loose ends."

Marshall looked at Michael. "Don't worry. We just need to do our job, make sure we have all the information we can."

Harlan gave Michael a reassuring nod. "Let’s head out. We’ll make this quick."

Michael followed, his mind racing as he walked out of the diner with the detectives.

PART 2

The interrogation room was sterile and unwelcoming, lit by a single overhead light. Michael sat at the table, trying to calm his racing thoughts. His fingers twitched in his lap. Detectives Harlan and Marshall entered quietly. Harlan took a seat while Marshall remained standing, flipping through a manila folder.

Harlan cleared his throat. “Alright, Michael,” he began calmly. “Let’s talk about Anissa a bit more. You said you saw her on?"

Michael tilted his head, trying to remember. "Thursday. Outside the diner. Just caught up for a bit.”

“What time was that?” Marshall asked without looking up.

Michael hesitated. “Uh… around two. Maybe a little later. It was an afternoon.”

Harlan leaned forward slightly. “And how did she seem? Anything strike you as unusual or off?”

Michael shifted in his seat. “No, she seemed fine. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Harlan nodded slowly. “Some of her friends have said she was going through a tough time. That she might’ve been dealing with personal issues—particularly at home. Did she ever talk to you about anything like that?”

Michael’s eyes flicked down to the table. “She didn’t really open up about her family. She was private like that.”

Marshall finally looked up. “You’re saying she never mentioned her father? Or hinted at trouble at home?”

Michael shook his head. “No. She barely brought him up. I never really wanted to pry into her life.”

Marshall paused, studying him. “We’ve also been told Anissa had feelings for you. Did she ever express those to you directly?”

Michael flushed slightly. “No. I mean... not directly. I got the sense, maybe, but we never really talked about it.”

“Why not?” Harlan asked gently.

Michael swallowed. “I didn’t want to make things complicated. We were friends. That was all.”

Harlan’s tone remained calm. “Did anything happen between you two that day? An argument? Something that upset her?”

Michael blinked. “No. We just talked. That’s all.”

But his foot tapped faster under the table.

Marshall chimed in, glancing back at his notes. “Did she talk about her other friends? Anyone she mentioned seeing later that night?”

Michael frowned, trying to sound casual. “She had a lot of friends. She didn’t mention any plans to me. If she had, she would have told me.”

“So she didn't say where she was going after she left you?” Harlan asked.

“No,” Michael replied. “She didn't mention anything. We just talked about summer stuff. It was just a brief passing by.”

Marshall asked, “In that case, did she ever mention Blackway Forest to you? Either before or after she was found dead?”

Michael shrugged. “No. Why would she?”

“Just covering all possibilities,” Marshall said. “We’ve had some tips. Can’t ignore anything.”

Michael gave a small shake of the head. “I haven’t been out there in years. Perhaps her other friends might know more.”

“Well, speaking of her friends, do you know if Anissa kept journals?” Harlan asked next. “Anything she might’ve written things down in. Thoughts, drawings, stuff like that?”

Michael looked confused. “Not that I know of. She never said anything about that.” But the moment the words left his mouth, a jolt of dread crept up his spine.

Oh, God. Was I mentioned in them damn books of her? Did she write about me slapping her? Maybe the time I ignored her calls, laughing it off? Shit! What about the amount of times we had sex last year? 

He forced his hands to stay still in his lap, resisting the urge to clench them. There was a pause. Harlan glanced at Marshall, then stood. “Alright, Michael. Let's wrap it up.”

Marshall pulled a form from his briefcase and laid it on the table. “Before you go, we’ll need you to fill out a written statement. Just detail your last interaction with Anissa. Like, what was said, how she seemed, anything you remember. Even the small things might help.”

Michael took the paper, nodding stiffly. “Sure.”

“You can hand it in now or drop it off at the front desk later,” Marshall added.

“Thank you,” Harlan said, standing. “If we have any more questions, we’ll be in touch.”

As both detectives left the room, Michael sat still for a moment, staring at the blank form. His grip tightened on the pen.

*

Michael made his way back to the diner, quickening his pace as he approached. The neon sign buzzed overhead, casting a warm red glow onto the pavement. He pushed open the door, letting the rich aroma of coffee and the sound of children laughing wrap around him like a warm blanket. Scanning the room, he spotted you near the window, your bag propped on the seat beside you. Relieved, he crossed the floor and slid into the booth across from you.

"Hey," he said, his voice weary but sincere. "Sorry it took so long."

You reached out, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "No problem. I’m just glad to see you. How did it go?"

Michael took a deep breath. "It was pretty intense. They asked a lot of questions—about Anissa, her family, her friends. They didn’t let anything slide."

You pursed your lips, blowing out a slow breath. "I can only imagine how stressful it was. Want to ease your mind and hang out for a bit?"

Michael managed a grateful smile. "Hell, yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the lingering tension. "I was thinking… maybe we could spend the evening together. How about a walk around a lake? If you’re up for it."

Your heart fluttered. "Sure. I’d love to."

Michael’s eyes lit up. "Awesome. I’ll just let my... uh, dick of a father know, and then we can head out."

"Sure thing. What about your mom? Shouldn't she know?"

Michael shrugged. "Dad can fill her in. I’m supposed to be at his place this afternoon anyway, so it’s fine."

"Okay, I’ll wait outside the diner," you said.

Michael watched you step outside before turning toward the back hallway, dread settling in as he approached his father's office. He knocked three times and waited. When the door creaked open, his father stood there holding a wrench—an image that triggered a painful memory.

"Yes?"

Michael squared his shoulders. "I’m going out with Amy tonight. Just letting you know. Could you tell Mum?"

William frowned, then reconsidered. "Fine. Just don’t stay out too late. If you do, don’t expect me to open the door. Either sleep outside or at her place."

"Right. Thanks," Michael muttered, tugging his hoodie tighter around him. As he turned to leave, William grabbed his wrist roughly. His silver eyes bored into his son's blue ones.

"Behave yourself. I don’t want any petty arguments between you two around me, or at the diner. Your problems are yours alone to deal with. Got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," Michael replied, rolling his eyes. He yanked his wrist free.

"Good."

The door shut behind him. Michael stood there for a moment before brushing himself off and heading outside. The afternoon breeze brushed against his face as he spotted you waiting.

"Everything alright?" you asked, noticing his expression.

"Yeah. Just had to, uh, deal with the usual," Michael said, managing a small smile. "Anyway, let’s get going."

"Sure, lead the way," you replied, striding ahead in an exaggerated march before slowing to match his pace. Michael chuckled at your antics.

You parted ways briefly to change clothes, agreeing to meet up again in half an hour. When you returned, Michael had cleaned up, now wearing a navy blue collared shirt and jeans. He looked at you with admiration.

"You look great, by the way."

"Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself," you teased, giving him a playful nudge. "Not smelling like food for once."

Michael smirked, pretending to be honored. "Appreciate it. Anyway, ready to see that lake?"

"Definitely."

He led you to his car and opened the door for you. As you slid into the seat, your eyes landed on a couple of cassette tapes resting near the gearstick. Michael noticed your glance and picked one up, giving you a small smile before sliding it into the player.

“Hope the mixtape isn’t too much of a surprise,” he said. “I’ve been working on it for a while.”

"Really? I didn’t know you were into making mixtapes," you said. "What’s on it?"

"A bit of everything," Michael replied, starting the engine. "Some of my favorite songs, a few that remind me of us, and a couple I thought you’d like."

"You’ve been thinking about this for a while, huh?"

Michael shrugged. "Yeah. I wanted it to be special."

As he drove, his chosen music filled the car. Billy Idol’s “White Wedding” burst through the speakers, the guitar riff cutting through the hum of the engine. You grinned.

"Now this is my kind of music. I knew you had good taste."

Michael glanced over with a shy smile. "Thanks. I’m glad you like it. Figured we could use some good tunes for a nice evening out."

"It’s perfect," you said, closing your eyes to soak in the sound. "It’s been a while since I’ve had a date like this."

Michael nodded, eyes on the road. "Yeah. I’m glad we’re spending it together. The lake’s supposed to be really pretty at sunset."

You nodded in agreement, then started singing along to the chorus.

"Oh, it's a nice day to start again. Come on, nice day for a white wedding. Ooh yeah, a nice day to start again."

Michael glanced at you, impressed. "You know, you’ve got a great voice."

Warmth crept up your neck. "Oh, please. I was just messing around."

"Still," he said sincerely. "It suits you. I like it."

You smiled, letting the words settle. As the song played on, the car rolled down a winding road.

"So, have you ever been on a date like this?" Michael asked. He then smirked, teasing. "Hot guy like me taking you on a drive?"

"Not really," you admitted, chuckling. "Never went out much, you see. Maybe a date somewhere in town, or a home movie night. But not like this."

"Fair enough. I’ve only been here with friends before, anyway," he said.

The lake came into view just as the sun began dipping below the horizon, casting streaks of amber and violet across the Wasatch mountain range in the distance. Red rocks framed the shoreline, and cottonwood trees rustled gently in the breeze. The water reflected the sky like a sheet of polished glass.

Michael parked the car and glanced at you, a spark of excitement in his eyes.

“Amy, look.”

You both stepped out. As your fingers intertwined, the silence between you was comfortable, golden. The moment felt suspended—timeless. The lake stretched out in front of you, bathed in sunset light, quietly waiting for your footprints.

Meanwhile, as Michael and you enjoyed the lake, William was busy with his own tasks. The dim light of his office spilled over the scattered parts on his desk. He worked with quiet precision. He assembled each animatronic by screwing, wiring, and configuring them into new forms. Programming was laborious, but he used a previous voice test as a template to ensure functionality. He was already planning future upgrades: fresh paint, new voice boxes, improved commands—all of which Henry would help him implement when the time came.

He ran movement tests to confirm the success of his adjustments. The new plastic demo version of Chica, more lightweight compared to the old fur-covered models, was programmed to pick up objects and place them on a table. She performed the task, her movements slightly smoother and more precise than the original suit's had been. Satisfied, William began prepping the older, worn-down units for relocation. He was planning to move them to the abandoned family diner.

It was half past twelve when William glanced at the clock. He stood, stretched his back, and started loading the animatronics into his car. Two fit into the trunk with slight difficulty, but the other three would require additional trips. After slamming the trunk shut, he slid into the driver’s seat, lit a cigarette, and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life.

The streets were eerily still—deserted save for the distant shimmer of restaurant neon signs. As he drove, he passed familiar landmarks and allowed his mind to drift to Clara. He recalled better times—when she was still under his thumb, when things were easier. But their relationship had soured. Her temper had grown shorter, and he’d long since lost interest. He exhaled slowly, as the car rolled to a stop in front of the old family diner.

The parking lot was empty. A lone homeless man lingered in the distance, stumbling, barely a shadow against the night. William stepped out, retrieved the keys from the glove compartment, and unlocked the front door of the building.

One by one, he carried the animatronics inside, placing them in the backroom, adjacent to James’s old body. He ignored the lingering stench that clung to the air, refusing to acknowledge it. Chica and Bonnie were secured first.

He returned to the car, and drove back to collect the others. The night grew lighter very slowly. Finally, he hefted the last one—A golden version of the bear—into the backroom. A quiet chuckle escaped him as he looked over the group, now assembled in the dark.

But he knew better than to grow complacent.

One wrong move, and everything he had worked for could collapse.

When William returned to his office, the telephone was ringing incessantly. With a sharp, annoyed sigh, he snatched the receiver, already knowing who it would be.

“Hello?”

“William! Where is Michael? Is he with you? I’ve called you over and over!” Clara’s voice was tight with panic. He had completely forgotten to notify her about Michael’s whereabouts.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, William exhaled through his teeth.

“He’s out with his girlfriend. Clara, it's one in the fucking morning. Are you mad?”

“Well, why didn’t either of you call me? I was worried sick when I got home!”

He cursed under his breath. “Jesus Christ, shut up! It slipped my mind. And frankly, why weren’t you keeping tabs on him? He was at the diner today.”

“I had an interview this afternoon.”

William raised an eyebrow. “A job interview?”

“Yes. I’m starting at Harold’s Enterprises. The same company Ellie works for?”

His lips curled into a smirk. “So you’re finally going to bring in some money, huh? That’s a relief. I was starting to wonder how much more strain my wallet could handle from your... expenses.”

Clara didn’t respond. She recognized the bait in his voice and refused to take it.

“Well,” she said forcefully, “just let me know when he gets home. Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. You know how it is—always lost in work, losing track of time,” William replied, tone thick with sarcasm. “But if I forget, don’t hesitate to ring me up again. Alright? Good. Goodbye.”

He hung up without waiting for an answer, cutting the conversation off as coldly as it began.

Running his fingers through his hair, William glanced around his office. The adrenaline rush from earlier—the thrill of hiding the animatronics—had already worn off. Now he felt bored. Restless.

His curiosity shifted, sharpening into something darker.

Henry.

That name surfaced again.

Henry had been acting... strange lately. Distant. Taking more days off. Spending more time with his son. There was a nervousness in his posture, a distracted tension. Almost as if he were hiding something—or worse, afraid of something.

William’s eyes narrowed. Whatever it was, he wanted to know.

Driven by a malicious urge, William left his office and made his way down the hall. He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, found the one he needed, and unlocked Henry’s door. The hinges creaked slightly as he stepped inside. The air was tinged with a sickly sweet smell—inviting in the most unsettling way. He flicked on the lights.

The office was a mess. Legal documents and lawsuit warnings littered the desk. Children’s drawings were tacked to the walls, curling at the corners. William’s black shoes made soft sounds against the linoleum as he prowled the room.

He tore open drawers and filing cabinets with increasing impatience. Most of the contents were dull: past performance reports, engineering manuals, more childish doodles.

Then, under the desk, he spotted two drawers.

He yanked open the first one.

Inside was a chaotic pile of newspaper clippings. The top article bore Anissa’s face.

William eagerly sorted through the stack, slamming the papers onto the desk. Beneath Anissa’s story were articles about the five missing children.

Kids vanish at local pizzeria - bodies not found.

Five local children were reportedly lured into a back room during the late hours of operation at Freddy Fazbear's Family Diner on the day of July 26th. While eyewitnesses may have accused the man responsible, the children themselves were never found and are presumed dead. Police think that the suspect dressed as a mascot to earn the children's trust, but they cannot acquire enough evidence to make an arrest. Freddy Fazbear's Pizza has been fighting an uphill battle ever since to convince families to return to the pizzeria.

"It's a tragedy."

William’s eyes narrowed as he read the next entry in the pile, a mix of relief and worry churning inside him.

Local pizzeria threatened with shutdown over sanitation.

Local pizzeria, Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, has been threatened by the health department over reports of foul odors coming from the much-loved animal mascots. Police were contacted when parents reportedly noticed what appeared to be a black substance and mucus around the eyes and mouths of mascots. One parent alikened them to "reanimated carcasses".

Typical… William thought, sneering. Nosy media bastards.

He was about to return the scattered newspapers to their original place when a faint sound made him freeze—a child’s cry.

His heart skipped a beat.

It was distant, barely a whisper, but unmistakably there. William stood motionless, ears straining. The cry faded almost as quickly as it came. He turned toward the darkened dining area, eyes scanning the shadows. Nothing moved. No sign of anyone.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, brushing it off. Just the building settling… or my mind playing tricks again.

Pushing the unease aside, he returned to the desk, his curiosity reignited. His eyes drifted to the last unopened drawer—the only one locked. He pulled at the handle, only for it to rattle stubbornly.

Of course.

Irritation flared. William searched the desktop for a key but found nothing obvious. Crouching down, he ran his hand along the underside of the desk—and paused. A corner of the carpet was slightly lifted.

He peeled it back.

Something small and metallic glinted beneath. He hooked it with his fingers and pulled it out: a tiny key on a worn metal loop. William blinked in brief disbelief, then smirked.

Don’t tell me this actually goes to the drawer…

He slipped the key into the lock—and it clicked. The drawer creaked open.

William let out a dry, sarcastic chuckle.

“Oh, Henry… you silly, silly little man.”

Inside, there was only one item: a book. Plain, leather-bound, unmarked.

A diary.

William’s eyes gleamed. He lifted it carefully, noting its position—he’d put it back exactly how he found it. Flipping to the first page, his smirk returned in full.

So this is what you've been hiding…

Henry’s handwriting greeted him, neat but pressed in places as though penned in haste or frustration.

William pulled the desk chair toward him and sat down, fully intent on reading.

William sneered at the glowing praise scrawled across the diary’s early pages. Henry’s optimism, his faith in their partnership—it was sickening. But as he flipped toward the final entries, William’s expression changed. His smirk faded. His jaw tightened.

The tone in Henry’s writing had shifted—curt, guarded, almost fearful. Mentions of Michael. Of you. Of subtle glances, quiet suspicions. William’s eyes scanned every word, each one stoking the fire already simmering beneath his skin.

They knew.

Michael. You. Henry. The three of you, whispering behind his back, peering into shadows you didn’t understand. William slammed the diary shut, his teeth grinding with fury. He wanted to scream. To tear the room apart. To strangle every last one of you.

But instead, he breathed slowly through his nose. In. Out. Rage had its time. But not now.

He slid the diary back into the drawer and locked it. He then knelt, returned the key beneath the frayed carpet corner, and smoothed it down. Everything exactly as it had been.

With one last glance at the room, William flicked off the light and pulled the door closed, locking it behind him.

No one could know he had been here. Not yet.

Let them think they were clever. Let them keep their secrets.

When the time came—when all the pieces were in place—he would tear their little world apart. Unleash hell. And when the dust settled, they’d know exactly what it meant to cross William Afton.

Chapter Text

PART 1

Michael carefully picked you up from the bench, cradling you gently in his arms as you slept. He moved quietly, his steps soft against the pavement, shielding you from the chill of the night. When he reached the car, he opened the passenger door and eased you inside with delicate care, adjusting your seatbelt without disturbing your slumber.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Michael cast a glance your way. The moonlight filtered through the windshield, casting a faint glow across your face. You murmured something in your sleep, unintelligible, shifting slightly to your side so your back faced him. A few strands of hair fell across your face. He reached out instinctively—then paused, his hand hovering. He let it drop.

You were comfortable. That was all that mattered.

He leaned back in his seat, the silence of the night settling around him like a blanket. Slowly, his eyes closed.

Meanwhile, William returned home, the sound of gravel crunching under his tires as he pulled into the drive. Michael’s car wasn’t there.

Staying at her place again, he thought with a sneer, stepping out of the car.

Unlocking the door, he stepped into his house. He kicked off his shoes with a grunt and let out a wide, bone-deep yawn. The day had been long, exhausting in ways he couldn’t quite put into words. Still, something tugged at him as he ascended the stairs. He had a twitch of curiosity that he couldn’t ignore.

He stopped outside Michael’s room.

"I wonder..." he murmured, glancing at the doorknob.

The door creaked open, and he stepped inside.

The room still held the faint traces of his son’s presence. On the desk, scattered papers—some rough, some refined. A particular drawing caught William’s eye. He approached, his fingers brushing over the sketch of a yellow touch-screen keyboard with a handle labeled “Hand Unit.”

He let out a low hum.

It was good. Surprisingly good.

Despite his frequent belittling of Michael’s “artistic nonsense,” William couldn’t deny the technical clarity in the lines, the thoughtful design. It wasn’t just doodling. There was engineering behind this.

A memory flickered. Michael as a boy, tugging at his sleeve, beaming as he held up a crooked drawing of an animatronic. Most were poor, childlike, but every now and then... there was something. One of those sketches had even inspired the final design for an animatronic still in use today.

William stared at the “Hand Unit” sketch again.

Maybe the boy wasn’t a complete waste of time after all...

"Dad! Look! I drew a foxy animatronic! How does it look?"

A young Michael burst into his father’s office, beaming from ear to ear, practically throwing the paper onto William’s desk.

William pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled sharply. “Michael, not now. I’m trying to sort out some things for the diner.”

“But, Dad! Look! My drawing might help!”

Michael’s enthusiasm was undeterred, bright and oblivious to his father’s growing frustration. William sighed and reluctantly picked up the sketch. It was a fox animatronic, drawn with detail. It had an eye-patch, pirate hook, a little cap, and even a parrot on its shoulder.

"Hmm. It’s an okay concept," William muttered, more to himself than to Michael. His tone was flat. He gestured at the blueprints spread across the desk. “But I’ve already got these—Bonnie, Chica, Freddy. They're all planned out.”

“But there’s that empty space next to the stage!” Michael pushed, nearly bouncing in place. “You’ve got the dining area and the arcade, but nothing there! You could add another animatronic. Please?”

His words spilled out faster than William could light his cigarette. He took a long drag before responding.

“Michael. Not now. I said I’ll think about it.”

“Please? It’s just a quick—”

“I said, not now!” William snapped, slamming his palm onto the desk. “Go away! I’m busy! We’ll talk about it later.”

Michael’s face fell. With a huff, he turned and stormed out, shouting at Elizabeth to move as he passed her in the hall.

William rolled his eyes.

Silence returned to the office, yet, his gaze wandered back to the sketch. He stared at it longer this time.

He pulled the paper closer and grabbed a pencil. The parrot was scribbled out first. Then came new details: a velvet coat labeled “blue,” torn breeches, a ruffled pirate shirt, and a differently shaped eyepatch. He kept the hook, appreciating the rich red shading his son had given to the fur. It had character.

When he finished tweaking the design, William leaned back.

He set the drawing aside and returned to his blueprints.

*

Later that afternoon, after dinner, William called Michael into his office.

“I gave some thought to your drawing,” he said, sliding the altered version across the desk.

Michael’s eyes lit up the moment he saw it.

“Dad! It looks really good! Are you really going to use my idea?”

“Mhm. I didn’t waste time fixing it for fun,” William replied, tapping the desk.

Michael’s grin stretched wide, oblivious to the gruff affirmation. “Awesome! Thanks, Dad! I really appreciate it!”

“Yeah, yeah. Stop jumping up and down, you’ll knock something over,” William muttered.

As Michael bounced on his heels, lost in his excitement, he didn’t notice Elizabeth standing in the hallway.

She lingered just beyond the doorway, her emerald eyes locked onto the sketch. Her fists clenched at her sides, jealousy burning low and quiet in her chest. Michael had gotten their father’s attention. His approval.

But her scowl slowly faded into something sharper. 

If Michael could impress him... so could she.

William casually picked up another drawing from Michael's desk, noticing a neatly drawn portrait of you. It was accurate—your eyes, your mouth, the way your hair fell just so. Next to it was a Polaroid photograph. William paused. When did his son have this picture?

He picked it up, inspecting it carefully. Your side profile was captured mid-turn, with only your upper half was visible. A faint bruise marked your lower lip.

William tilted his head.

Had you bitten it too hard? Or had someone hit you? 

A smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth. Maybe it was an ex of yours who had done it.

He dropped the photo back onto the desk and began to rummage through the room.

Drawers. Clothes. A mess, as expected. Nothing of interest.

He checked beneath the mattress and found a red Swiss army knife. Shrugging, he left it as it was. There was also a small envelope—thirty dollars inside. Nothing worth noting.

William then got on his knees, and peered under the bed. He instantly regretted it. Rolling his eyes at the sight of the magazines stashed there, he straightened up and ran his fingers through his hair.

Nothing.

He left Michael’s room and wandered down the hallway to Evan’s. Pushing the door open, he stepped into the room, his gaze falling on the wardrobe.

William walked over and opened it. The hulking animatronic, Nightmare Freddy, stood in eerie silence. William stared at it—at the sharp teeth, the dead eyes. A mix of emotion stirred in him. Pity, perhaps. Anger. Something like... nostalgic fondness, twisted by something.

With an annoyed sigh, he slammed the doors shut. His palms rested on the wood for a long moment.

He then let out a slow breath, noting the time on his watch.

It was late. He hadn’t eaten, and for once, he was actually starving.

He headed downstairs and opened the fridge, the cold light illuminating his face as he scanned the shelves for anything edible.

"Michael! Michael!"

Michael jolted awake in a pitch-black void. He was on the ground, his hands wet and slick with some unknown liquid. Puddles surrounded his feet, soaking through his worn-out shoes. He staggered upright, heart hammering, eyes darting through the darkness.

"Hello?"

His voice echoed, swallowed by the emptiness. Then, faint and distant. A cry.

Evan’s cry.

His heart sank.

"Evan! Where are you?"

"Over here, Mikey! Please, help me!"

The desperation in Evan’s voice cut through him. Michael broke into a sprint, his shoes slapping against the wet ground. Water splashed up, soaking his jeans. His legs felt heavy, like lead, but he pushed forward, fear biting at his heels.

"Evan? Talk to me! Where are you?"

"I'm here, Mikey! Can't you see me? Please, hurry!"

Michael’s breath came in ragged gasps as he ran, the distance stretching endlessly. Then—crack. He slammed into something solid. A wall, invisible until the moment he hit it. The force knocked him backward, and he crashed to the ground, pain lancing through his skull.

He groaned.

"Oww..."

Michael pressed a hand to his head, wincing. His vision blurred, swimming with static and spots—then slowly, it began to clear. Still dazed, he blinked up at the shadows swirling around him. Within moments, the void was gone. Four black walls now surrounded him. Smooth. No way out.

He was trapped.

"Mikey..."

That’s when he saw it.

In the far corner, hunched, was a small figure. Curled into a ball. So still it almost didn’t look real.

Michael’s heart stuttered in his chest.

"Evan..." Michael forced himself to his knees. The figure slowly uncurled and stood, head bowed. Michael stumbled toward him. "Evan, is that really you?"

Evan’s voice was soft, yet every word landed like a blade.

"Why, Mikey? Why did you kill me?"

Michael froze, throat tight. The guilt was unbearable.

"I—I didn't mean to, Evan. Dad, he... he made me bully you..."

"But, Mike, I was so scared," Evan whispered. "I begged you to stop. I begged you, but you didn’t listen."

The memory slammed into Michael. That day. The screaming. The helplessness. The moment everything shattered. He squeezed his eyes shut, but Evan’s voice kept coming, cutting through the darkness.

"And Amy tried to stop you too. But you pushed her away."

Michael flinched. He remembered the fury in your eyes. The way you had yelled at him to leave Evan alone. The way he called you a bitch.

"Evan, I know I was wrong. I can’t forgive myself. But please... please forgive me." His voice cracked. "I’m sorry, Evan. I’m so sorry."

The silence was suffocating.

"Why did you listen to Dad?" Evan asked softly. "Why did you go along with him. Why, Mike?"

Michael’s tears fell freely now. His fists trembled.

"I was selfish, Evan. I was jealous of you. I wanted Dad to be proud of me—for once. Like he was of you... and Lizzie. But now..." He choked. "Now he hates me more than ever."  His voice dropped. "Do you hate me too, Evan? Do you?"

Evan was quiet for a long moment. Then he spoke softly again.

"No, Mikey. I don’t hate you. I can forgive you... But I can't forget. You need to fix this. Everything that’s been happening. You have to make it right."

Michael looked up, desperate, confused.

"Fix it? How, Evan? What do you mean?"

Evan finally lifted his head and Michael felt the blood drain from his face. Red tears bled from Evan’s eyes, streaking down his pale skin. 

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me… but you have to stop this. Before more kids end up dead. Help them, Mikey. Please.”

Michael’s heart pounded.

"What? Who else, Evan? Who's with you? Please! Tell me!" He scrambled to his knees, grabbing Evan’s hands. "I need to know! Who did this to them?"

But Evan gently pulled away.

"You're running out of time, Mike. You have to hurry."

Michael looked down. His hands were no longer wet—they were soaked in blood. The puddles weren’t water. They were pools of crimson.

Panic surged.

"Evan—"

But Evan was already changing. His mouth stretched impossibly wide, curving into a nightmarish grin—Fredbear’s grin. Before Michael could react, Evan lunged at him, his mouth exposed, elongated. Pain exploded through his skull. Jagged teeth tore into flesh and bone. Michael screamed.

Everything went black.

"Michael! You're yelling! Wake up!"

You shook him in the car, heart pounding as his frantic, guttural shouts filled the space. His fists clenched at the air, legs twitching like he was trying to run through whatever nightmare had him trapped.

"Michael!" you said again, louder now, hands gripping his shoulders as he thrashed. "It's just a dream! Wake up!"

He jolted upright with a choked gasp, eyes wide and disoriented. It took him a second to realize where he was.

"Amy! Fuck, Amy!" He reached for you blindly, grabbing your arm like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. You let him lean into you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His sweat soaked through your sleeve, while you instinctively placed a hand on his head.

"Shh… It's okay. You’re awake. I’ve got you."

Slowly, his breathing began to ease. You felt him start to pull away, though his hands lingered at your elbow, grounding himself. His eyes still had that haunted look.

"I… I had a nightmare. About Evan," he said finally, whispering. "God, it felt so real."

You waited. You knew better than to rush him.

"He told me something," Michael continued. "In the dream. He… he said I need to fix everything."

You frowned. "What?"

He looked down, hands resting in his lap. One was shaking.

"He said..." Michael swallowed hard. "He said I need to fix everything. Before more kids end up dead."

You sat still, processing what he had said.

"He said that? Those exact words?"

Michael nodded slowly. "Yeah. Like he was warning me. Begging me, even."

You stared at him, unable to speak for a moment. He took a breath and added, softer this time:

"And… he said he wasn’t alone. That there were others with him."

You felt the blood drain from your face.

"Others?"

"Yeah. He didn’t say names. Just that he wasn’t alone anymore. That there were these kids with him." He looked up at you. "That’s what scared me the most. Because if that dream meant anything—if it was more than just my head—I think I know who those kids are."

You then remembered the news reports. The police. The diner. James.

Your stomach turned.

"That's what he meant by the dead kids. The missing kids, right?" you said. "What if they’re not just missing but...?"

"Yeah... likely dead," Michael finished for you. "Let’s face it, Amy. No five children go missing in one day without a trace." He exhaled, pursing his lips like a funnel. "I just have no idea where they are. No one does."

He turned on the engine and pressed down on the gas, pulling away from the lake. The two of you remained quiet, the music from the mixtape still playing. Eventually, Michael broke the silence, his voice softer this time.

"My father told me to stay over at your place tonight. I know it’s just an excuse to get rid of me, but... is that okay?"

"That’s okay, don’t worry," you reassured him quietly.

Michael drove through the darkened streets, the tension from his nightmare still lingering in the air. When you reached your home, you both stepped out of the car, a cool breeze lifting the edges of your clothes. Michael glanced at your beat-up car parked beside his.

"How come you never take your car out for a ride?"

Shrugging, you mumbled, "It’s a piece of junk. It runs out of gas quickly, and the gears don’t work right. I hate driving it."

Michael chuckled softly. "Well, maybe one day you’ll get a nicer one."

You sighed as you unlocked the door. "Not with the job I have, no." You wiped your feet on the mat and stepped inside. "I mean, I could have a worse job, but the diner doesn’t pay much now."

"Why’s that?" Michael asked, slipping off his shoes.

"Henry lowered my salary when Jeremy joined," you explained, dropping your keys in the bowl near the door.

Michael snorted. "If you want him fired, just say the word."

"Mike..." you scolded, rolling your eyes.

"Okay, okay, I won’t!" he laughed. But when he saw you collapse onto the sofa, your shoulders tight and your nails picking at your lips, his smile faded.

"Hey, Amy, are you feeling okay?"

You forced a smile. "Yeah, I’m fine. Just... not very hungry. You can help yourself to something if you want. I’ll just sit here for a bit."

But Michael wasn’t fooled. He could see it—the strain in your eyes, your eyebrows furrowed. He crouched beside you, concern softening his features.

"Hey. You can talk to me, you know? I can tell when someone’s holding something in. Trust me. I’ve done it enough myself."

His voice was gentle, coaxing. Your chest tightened, and the tears that had been pressing behind your eyes for days finally surged forward.

"I guess I’m just... tired. And worried. About James," you whispered, your voice cracking. "After what we talked about in the car... I can’t stop thinking. What if he’s not just missing?" You swallowed hard, breath hitching. "What if he’s... dead?"

The words shattered the dam. Hot tears spilled over, fast and silent at first, then sobs. You buried your face in your hands.

"There’s been no sign of him anywhere. No one’s called about the flyers. I keep telling myself he’s still out there, but... I think he’s gone, Michael. I... I really think he’s gone."

"Amy," he whispered, sitting beside you and pulling you into his arms. You clung to him as he rubbed your back. "We don’t know that for sure. There’s still a chance."

"But where could he be?" you choked. "I just wish I hadn’t told him to go to the damn diner that day. Sammy wasn’t even there that morning, and that’s when James went missing." You wiped your face with the back of your hand. "I shouldn’t have taken that job. I knew it was sketchy. I mean, five kids went missing there! But I needed the money, and now... now my brother’s gone. I failed him. If my parents knew—they'd kill me."

Your voice broke again, and you buried your face in Michael’s chest, sobbing.

"Hey, look at me." Michael gently lifted your chin, making you meet his gaze. His eyes were soft but serious. "This isn’t your fault. You moved here on your own, with no help, and you did what you could to take care of both of you. You were doing your best."

You averted your eyes. "But I could’ve chosen somewhere safer. I could have chosen some other place. There were options, Michael!"

"Most places have a past, Amy," he said, brushing a tear from your cheek. "But you didn’t know. You’re not the reason James is missing. And you’re not a bad sister. I’ve seen how much you love him."

You shook your head, disagreeing. 

"No, really," he insisted. "If it weren’t for James, Evan and I might’ve never met you. We used to talk about you two all the time at home. You and your brother were a comfort to us both. We had someone to hang out with."

"You're kidding," you murmured. "You're just saying that to be nice."

Michael shook his head. "Amy, I—" He paused, gathering his thoughts. "I care about you. A lot. You’re stronger than you think. Brave, too. Everything you’ve been through, and you're still standing. I admire that."

"But you’ve been through a lot too," you said quietly. "Probably a lot more than me."

"Maybe. But that’s why we need each other," Michael said. "Whatever happens next... we face it together. We will find answers."

You nodded slowly, leaning into his touch.

"I still feel awful," you whispered. 

Michael said nothing, yet you felt the tension in your hands begin to ease as his touch soothed you in a way words couldn’t. The room around you seemed to quiet, your breaths mingling in the small space between you.

For a moment, you simply stayed like that—foreheads resting together, listening to the rise and fall of each other’s breathing. The world outside faded into a dull hum, and all that mattered was the feel of Michael’s steady heartbeat beneath his skin, syncing with your own.

Slowly, his fingers intertwined with yours, loosening your clenched fists.

The simple gesture held so much kindness, so much unspoken care.

When was the last time someone had looked after you like this? Like you were the most important person in the world?

You met Michael’s gaze. His pupils dilated, shimmering with a mixture of warmth and something deeper—vulnerability, maybe, or hope. You swallowed the lump in your throat, and then, slowly, almost hesitantly, your lips brushed against his.

The kiss was tentative at first, a gentle exploration. Your breath caught as the softness of his lips pressed against yours. You leaned in a little more, encouraged by the way his hands cupped your face. Your hands found their way to his chest, fingertips brushing over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath. The world shrank until there was only you two—connected, fragile, real.

When you slowly pulled back, Michael rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm and uneven. A small smile tugged at his lips.

“That was… really nice,” he whispered, voice tender. “But I just want to take things slow, you know? Make sure we’re both ready.”

You nodded, cheeks slightly flushed with warmth, pulse still racing. You didn’t want to break the moment, but you understood. There was something tender in his caution—a desire to protect, not rush.

"I’m better... for now," you whispered, the vulnerability still clear in your eyes.

He brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek.

"I care about you, Amy. More than I can say. But I want to make sure you’re really okay."

You offered him a small, shaky smile.

Michael pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head before standing.

"I’m going to make us something to eat. You just relax, alright?"

Before you could answer, he was already moving toward the kitchen. The faint sizzle of something hitting the pan was soon followed by the sound of whisking and the oven door opening.

While Michael cooked, you tidied up the living room. You fluffed cushions and swept the floor, trying to push away the heaviness that still clung to your chest. When Michael called you to the table, you blinked in surprise at the meal he’d prepared. It was warm and inviting. A small act of care.

"It’s not the fanciest," he admitted, shrugging. "Just something quick my mum taught me."

"Your mom?" you asked, curious.

"Yeah," Michael said, smiling as he sliced the bread. "She was a good cook. Not perfect, but she tried. Definitely better than my dad, who never bothered with the kitchen. But I bet he knows how to. I had to learn early on how to feed myself and my siblings."

You mimicked your mother’s stern voice.

"'Only girls should know the basics—cooking and cleaning.'" You then rolled your eyes. "She drilled that into me. But I know that's bullshit."

Michael shook his head. "Jesus, that’s old school. But honestly, knowing how to cook’s a lifesaver. And I think it’s fucking hot when women do ‘manly’ jobs. So keep fixing those animatronics," he said with a wink.

You gave a small snort, smiling. The two of you ate slowly, savoring the food and the rare normalcy.

You dipped your fork into the crispy hash browns, the golden edges giving way to soft, warm potato inside. The smoky bacon in your sandwich was perfectly balanced by buttered white bread. The subtle tang of a thin smear of yellow mustard added just the right kick, while the scrambled eggs were deliciously creamy and fluffy.

Later, upstairs, you noticed Michael didn’t have a toothbrush. Without hesitation, you handed him yours, the small gesture sparking a playful chase around the room. Laughter finally bubbled out as you dodged and weaved.  Eventually, you collapsed on the bed, both of you catching your breath and grinning.

Once ready for bed, you curled close under the covers. The warmth of Michael’s body pressed against yours was a balm for your aching heart.

He whispered softly in your ear, "I love you so much."

A slow smile spread across your face as you whispered back, "I love you too. Sleep well."

"You too, love," Michael murmured, pulling you even closer as you both drifted off into a peaceful, shared sleep.

PART 2

William Afton awoke the next morning, his routine automatic. After checking Michael’s empty room, he had a quick breakfast and drove to the diner, noting Henry’s car already in its usual spot. Flicking his cigarette to the ground, William crushed it underfoot, glancing at his reflection in the car’s side mirror as he adjusted his tie.

Stay calm. Stay composed. Don’t lose your temper, he reminded himself, squaring his shoulders before heading inside.

As he entered, William spotted Henry playing with his son, Sammy, who was gleefully leaping for a comic book that his father held just out of reach.

“Dad! Give it back!” Sammy laughed, his small hands grasping at the air.

“Come on, you can reach it!” Henry teased, his smile wide, until his son finally snatched the book.

William arched an eyebrow at the display, his gaze sharp. Henry caught the look and quickly sobered, sending Sammy off to the arcade. “Go on, Sammy. Play for a bit.”

The boy dashed away, and Henry turned back to William with a grin. “So, Will! How are you?”

“I’m fine, Henry. And you?”

“Good! But where are the animatronics? Shouldn’t they be on stage by now?”

William placed a hand on Henry’s back, guiding him toward the office. “They’ve been scrapped.”

Henry’s face darkened. “Scrapped? William, you should have told me! Why?”

“They were old, broken, and reeked. Besides, the new ones are finished and look much better. They’re in my office. Come take a look.”

William led Henry inside. The new animatronics stood in a neat row, their vibrant colors and design catching Henry’s eye.

“They do look better… a lot better! But there are some adjustments we could make.”

William nodded. “We can finish polishing and assembling the outer shells before opening. Shouldn’t take too long.”

Henry sighed in relief, nodding in agreement. “That sounds perfect. Let’s get started.”

They spent the next two hours carefully polishing the animatronics and snapping on their outer shells, making sure each piece was securely attached. William worked on wiring and programming, while Henry tended to the finer details.

“So, Henry, any new ideas for the diner?” William asked, breaking the silence as he adjusted a wire inside one of the machines.

Henry paused, hands hovering above the surface as he thought. “Nothing major, just that the old suits smelled bad. But that’s fixed now.”

William nodded, satisfied. “Good. One less thing to worry about.” His voice was calm, but beneath the surface, his mind raced with a thousand thoughts. He glanced at Henry, noticing the distracted, far-off look in his eyes.

“Something on your mind, Henry?”

Henry hesitated, the weight of recent tragedies pressing down on him. He sighed. “Yeah, I suppose there is. Just thinking about all the bad luck this town’s had lately. Missing kids, dead teenagers… it feels like something’s wrong here. Like the town’s cursed or something.”

William’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The town seems cursed?” His tone was almost mocking, but an edge lingered that Henry couldn’t place.

“Yeah,” Henry continued, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s hard not to think about it. I mean, first it was my Charlie… then all those other kids went missing. And now that poor girl they found dead last week. It’s like… it’s like this town is rotten to the core.”

William walked around and leaned against the desk, fingers tapping a steady rhythm. “Rotten to the core… That’s an interesting way to put it. You think it’s the town, Henry? Or maybe it’s the people in it?” His eyes bore into Henry’s, trying to peer into his very soul.

Henry shifted uncomfortably under the gaze. “I… I don’t know, Will. I just know it’s not right. Kids disappearing, people dying… it’s like someone, or something, is out there, tearing this place apart from the inside.”

William’s eyes gleamed. “Well, Henry. I think it’s the people. People with secrets… people who hide things…” His words hung heavy in the air.

Henry’s heart skipped a beat, a cold chill running down his spine. There was something in William’s tone—something that made his skin crawl. “What are you getting at, Will?”

William chuckled softly, a sound anything but comforting. “Nothing, Henry. Just making conversation. Many people have their own demons. Things they don’t talk about. Things they don’t want others to know.”

Henry swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah, I guess they do,” he said, voice steady despite the racing thoughts. Did William know? Did he suspect something?

William pushed off the table, looming with cold intensity. “Secrets don’t stay buried forever, Henry. No matter how deep you try to bury them, they always find their way to the surface.” He tilted his head. “All this chaos… the missing kids, the dead teenagers… it’s not just bad luck, Henry. It’s because the people here are rotten.”

Henry forced a nervous cough, trying to shake the unease settled deep in his gut. “Yeah… I suppose you’re right. But we’ll be okay, won’t we, Will? We’ll keep this place running, no matter what happens.”

William gave a calculated smile. “Of course, Henry. We’ll keep it running. After all, this is our place. We built it together. Nothing’s going to tear it down… not while I’m around.”

Henry nodded, but the knot in his stomach tightened. Something unspoken gnawed at him—something dark in William’s words. He recalled his daughter Charlie’s murder. A terrible suspicion crept into his thoughts. Could William be involved? But he had no proof—just a gut feeling and his daughter’s fear-filled memories of William.

Henry whispered, almost to himself, “I guess you have a point. Maybe.”

“Mm…” William’s grip tightened on a nearby screwdriver, mind spinning with dark visions.

He saw himself lunging forward, driving the tool deep into Henry’s eye socket with a sickening crunch. The bone would resist for only a moment before the metal tip shattered through, sending hot blood spraying across his hand and face. The warm, sticky blood would seep through his fingers as he twisted the screwdriver. He could almost hear the wet squelch of tissue and the muffled, agonized screams of his foe.

Henry’s eye would burst under the pressure, viscous fluid leaking down his cheek as his body convulsed. Blood poured in thick rivulets down his face, soaking his shirt. William would continue, pushing deeper, until the handle was flush against Henry’s face, the pointed end scraping the back of his skull. The sound of crunching and tearing muscle and bone echoed in his mind. The tremor of Henry’s body as life drained away, leaving only a limp, blood-soaked husk.

Henry turned, sensing something, and caught William standing over him.

“Will?”

William blinked, then chuckled, easing back into role. “Just checking how the polish looks. We’re almost done.”

Henry checked the time. “We should open soon. Amy and Pete should be here by now.”

“And Jeremy,” William added flatly. “Let’s get Bonnie and Fredbear out front. The others can stay on stage for now.”

They finished setting up, placing the animatronics in their spots. William’s eyes tracked Sammy at the arcade. As the ‘Open’ sign flipped to welcome the first customers, William positioned himself by the door, ready to greet them.

Half an hour passed, and you still hadn’t arrived. William’s eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced at the clock, then back to the entrance.

Too busy with Michael, as usual…

You woke up nestled in Michael’s arms. His gentle snoring filled the room, his messy brunette hair falling across his forehead. You smiled, brushing the strands away gently before your gaze drifted to the wall where your photos were displayed.

On the far left, a Polaroid was missing. You blinked, puzzled.

Had it fallen off?

You made a mental note to check later. Then your eyes landed on the clock. Half past ten.

Half past ten.

You were late. Super late.

Adrenaline surged through you. You scrambled out of bed and dashed to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face. You raced back to the bedroom, yanking on your uniform and tying your hair into a quick ponytail. Scribbling a hasty note, you left it beside Michael’s sleeping form.

Heading to the diner now. Woke up late. Make yourself at home!

Without another glance, you grabbed your bag and bolted out the door, skipping breakfast in your rush.

*

The diner's doors swung open as you burst in, breathless and flushed. William Afton stood near the entrance, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. He turned sharply at the sound. His dark hair, unkempt and tousled, hung low over his forehead, adding to his already dangerously captivating presence.

"Well, well, what time do we call this?" he asked, his voice remarking with irritation.

"I'm—I'm so sorry," you panted. "I overslept."

"Mm, I can see that." His tone was sharp. "Staying up late, were we?" There was something so venomous behind the question, that it made you shrink back.

"Just a bit. I'm really sorry. It won't happen again," you said quickly, trying to sound as apologetic as possible.

"Mm. Run along then. Don’t let it happen again." His patronizing tone stung, making you feel like a child being scolded. Cheeks burning, you hurried over to Jeremy, who was manning the coffee machine.

"How are you doing?" he asked, glancing at you with a kind smile.

"Good, but tired," you admitted with a sigh. "I ran so fast. I'm out of breath. But, oh well, I’m here now."

"Yeah, take it easy. I’ll handle these few orders," he said, nodding. 

"Thanks, Jeremy. I appreciate it." You smiled gratefully, beginning to organize the plastic cups by size.

From across the diner, you felt William’s gaze on you. He had a fresh cigarette between his fingers, and his expression was dark. You tried to shake the uneasy feeling, but when you glanced up again, he was already striding toward you. His shoes echoed on the black and white tiled floor. He gave a smirk.

"Amy, can you come to my office? I want to show you something."

"Your office? Now?" you asked, surprised. Jeremy looked over.

"Mm. Once you’ve finished your tasks, of course. I’ll be waiting."

William turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall, leaving you standing there with a knot in your stomach. You exhaled slowly, finished arranging the cups, and headed toward the office with a mixture of dread and curiosity.

Michael woke up with a stretch, his hand brushing against a piece of paper. He squinted at the note beside him, reading your hurried scrawl. With a sigh, he flopped back against the pillow for a moment, rubbing his eyes. His father wouldn’t be happy about this.

Grumbling under his breath, Michael sat up and began making the bed, but without your usual finesse. He tugged the sheets half-heartedly, tucking them in at odd angles. The duvet landed in a wrinkled heap on top, and the pillows ended up stacked in a lopsided pile. It wasn’t neat, but it would do.

His gaze wandered around the room, settling on your bookshelf. A mix of classic literature and more risqué titles filled the shelves. Curious, he pulled out a book titled: Naked Lunch. He flipped through the pages idly. A small card slipped out and fluttered to the floor.

Michael picked it up, unfolding it carefully.

My dear Amy,

I finally found the book you were after. Took some hunting. Most places wouldn’t carry it, said it was too political, too provocative. But you’ve always been curious, always searching. Don’t ever let anyone shame you for wanting to know more. You have a whole future ahead of you. Make the most of it, sweetheart.

–Dad xx

Michael’s throat tightened. His eyes welled slightly as he read the handwritten message. It was soft, personal. Proof of the deep bond you had with your father. No wonder you spoke of him with such warmth.

Quietly, he slipped the card back inside the book and returned it to the shelf, suddenly feeling like he’d seen something he wasn’t meant to. He let out a slow breath, casting a glance around your room once more—now with a respectful distance.

Then, rubbing the back of his neck, Michael made his way out and downstairs, hoping you’d made it to the diner okay… and that the day wouldn’t turn to shit before it even started.

It was the day of a little girl’s birthday party, and William Afton was sweating inside the Spring Bonnie suit.

The room echoed with laughter and shrieking children, cake being passed around on paper plates. Henry, ever the calm host, moved between tables, making sure every child had a slice. William, meanwhile, had retreated to the staff room, tugging at the heavy costume with growing frustration.

He hated this part of the job.

The suit was stifling, the thick fabric soaked with heat and sweat. His skin itched, his nerves felt raw, and the cramped, metallic interior of Spring Bonnie was beginning to feel like a coffin. William had been on edge all day. The laughter grated on him.

“Goddamn kids…” he muttered, fumbling to find the hand crank. “Stupid, bloody suit…”

He yanked it out of the locker and shoved it into the mechanisms at his side, trying to release the springlocks. He’d done this countless times before. He knew the procedure. But today, his hands were slick with sweat. His breathing was too fast. He didn’t bother to turn the crank all the way—just enough to hopefully get out quickly.

But the moment he moved, something caught.

A flash of searing pain tore through his torso as the metal clamps sprang back into place.

William screamed.

The teeth of the springlocks sank into his flesh like steel traps, slicing through skin and muscle. Blood oozed into the suit’s inner workings, and the moisture only made it worse—click, snap, slam—one by one, the remaining locks failed, snapping shut.

“Henry! Help! HENRY!” he shrieked.

He thrashed, trying to pull the headpiece off, but every motion made the pain worse. The suit was a cage now. Every inch of metal bit deeper with each movement. His arms were going numb. His legs wouldn’t cooperate.

Back in the party room, Henry was wiping frosting off a kid’s face when he paused.

Something wasn’t right.

William had been gone too long. Normally, he’d be back out with a concealed alcoholic drink in hand quickly, grumbling about the heat or muttering sarcastic things about parents. But the staff room was silent.

Too silent.

Henry’s brows furrowed. With a sinking feeling, he set the cake tray down and made his way toward the back. As he pushed open the staff room door, his breath caught in his throat.

“William?”

There he was. Collapsed on the floor. Spring Bonnie twisted and crumpled around him, with blood soaking through the yellow fabric.

“William! Hold on, I’m getting you out!” Henry’s voice cracked as he dropped to his knees. "Oh, God!"

He grabbed the hand crank and turned it as quickly as he could, trying to override the locked mechanisms. The crank was slick with blood. William’s eyes barely focused, lips parted in a soft groan. Each twist of the crank felt like hours.

Finally, the headpiece came loose.

William’s face was pale, drenched in sweat, his skin streaked with red. Deep wounds marked where the suit had bitten down. Henry’s hands flew to the other locks, desperately working to free him.

When the last of the suit clattered away, William lay limp in nothing but his bloodstained underwear.

Without thinking, Henry pulled him into a tight embrace, not caring that his own clothes were quickly being soaked through.

“Henry…” William whispered, barely audible. “I thought I... I was going to die.”

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” Henry murmured, holding him tighter. “We’re going to get you to a hospital.”

William didn’t respond. His eyes fluttered shut, breath barely rising.

“Will? Will, stay with me. Please—stay with me!”

But William had already slipped into unconsciousness.

*

William woke to the sterile hum of hospital monitors, his body aching with every breath. The bright lights overhead stung his eyes as he slowly blinked himself awake.

At first, he only saw blurs.

But as the shapes sharpened, he recognized the figures gathered around him—his family, and the Emilys.

Clara leaned in, brushing a kiss against his cheek. Her touch was warm, grounding. Elizabeth and Evan rushed up to him with wide eyes and trembling little hands, hugging whatever part of him wasn’t bandaged. Michael stood further back, arms folded, standing beside Henry, who looked like he hadn’t slept.

"William, darling," Clara said, smiling faintly. "How are you feeling?"

William tried to sit up, only to fall back with a sharp gasp. His ribs screamed in protest. “Feeling?” he muttered with a bitter smile. “Awful. But I’m alive, somehow.”

He gently ruffled his children’s hair before glancing at the adults. “How long have I been out?”

"It's been nearly a week," Henry said. "You were unconscious for three days. They didn't know if you'd wake up."

William’s eyes drifted down to the blanket covering him. His hand hesitated, fingers twitching as he debated whether to look. He lifted the edge slowly.

The sight made his stomach lurch. Deep red and purple marks carved grotesque patterns into his torso. Angry, swollen tissue. It was clear as daylight that the metal had left permanent proof.

He looked away quickly, jaw clenched. Something about the way Clara’s eyes softened made him sick. He couldn’t meet her gaze. He turned over, facing the blank white wall.

“Right.”

“William?” Clara stepped forward, her voice trembling. “Darling, are you okay?” She placed a hand on his shoulder, but he flinched subtly and shrugged it off.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled. “Just tired.”

Henry leaned in close, whispering something to Clara—something William couldn’t hear but could guess at. She gave a silent nod. Gently, she gathered Elizabeth and Evan, and the Emilys ushered the children out into the corridor.

Michael lingered a moment longer before Henry placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him out.

The room fell quiet, save for the soft beeping of machines.

Clara moved to sit at his bedside. “William?”

He didn’t answer.

“Please, talk to me. I need to know what’s going on in your head.”

A beat passed. Then he exhaled, rolling over slowly, wincing at the movement.

“I’m just…” He looked away, ashamed. “Angry.”

“Angry?”

“At myself. I was reckless. That suit. I should’ve known better. Should’ve been more careful. Now look at me.”

His voice grew quieter.

“I look like a damn horror show. You don’t… you don’t feel sick, looking at me?”

Clara's eyes glistened, and she immediately reached for his face, cupping it with her soft hand. She stroked his cheek gently.

“Oh, William…” she whispered, voice steady with love. “No. Not for a second. I still love you just the way you are. I’m just so relieved you’re here. That you’re alive. That’s all that matters to me.”

He studied her, searching for a flicker of doubt in her eyes, but all he found was warmth.

Slowly, he reached for her hand, pressing it to his face. Her fingers were cool against his fever-warmed skin.

“Really?” he asked, voice cracking. “Even now?”

“Yes. Always.”

He shut his eyes, leaning into her palm as if drawing strength from her touch.

“I won’t be that careless again,” he murmured. “I won't wear that damn suit again. I promise.”

Clara gave a small smile, brushing her thumb along the ridge of his knuckles.

“I know. You’re too stubborn not to survive this.”

William let out a weak chuckle—just enough to hurt. He squeezed her hand tighter.

“Don’t let me do anything that stupid again. I still want to practice my juggling.”

“I won’t,” she said, a quiet laugh escaping her. “I’ll knock some sense into you if I have to.” She then smiled softly, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. "I am glad you’re still here with us."

For the first time since waking up, William allowed himself to relax, closing his eyes as he leaned into her touch.

William!” you finally snapped, raising your voice in frustration. 

He blinked, pulled from whatever daydream had stolen his attention, and turned to face you with a scowl. “Mm? What do you want now?”

“You’ve been ignoring my question,” you said, arms folded tightly across your chest.

He scoffed, the expression on his face sharp and cold. “You finished the task I gave you. What more do you want?” His chin jerked slightly toward the door in a lazy, dismissive motion. “You can leave now.”

“That’s all?” you asked, brow raised. You weren’t sure what answer you’d expected—but somehow, this felt worse.

William’s eyes hardened, turning a stormy gray. His voice dropped.

“Unless you want to end up in a full suit, I suggest you leave me alone.”

The warning hung in the air. You stared at him for a moment longer, searching for any hint of remorse behind his expression, but there was none.

Taking the hint, you turned and walked out of the office, leaving William alone with whatever darkness festered in his mind.

After breakfast and vacuuming the house, Michael made his way into town, popping his chewing gum. At a corner shop, he stood in line, waiting for his turn at the counter. Ahead of him, a young girl was having a conversation with her mother.

“Mommy! Olivia’s having her party at that pizza diner!”

“That diner’s closed, is it not?”

“No, not that one! The other one. The new one!”

“Jessie, leave me alone. You’re grounded, so you're not going.”

Michael blinked at the mention of the diner. His attention shifted from the snacks to the faint memory of the old place—Freddy Fazbear’s. The one that shut down a few weeks ago.

That one.

His chest tightened slightly. The place where Evan had... He shook the memory off. Regardless, it was the last place their family had functioned—barely—before it all fell apart.

And since then, his father hadn’t said a word about it. No cleanup, no visits, no talk about what would happen to the property. The silence around it had started to feel deliberate.

Michael’s brows furrowed as the line moved forward. He stepped up, paid for his drink automatically, still deep in thought. What if it hadn’t been touched since the day it closed? What if things were still pinned to the walls, still the same, or… maybe... something worse was now inside it?

William had been putting all his energy into the newer location. It didn’t make sense that he’d just leave the old place to rot without at least selling it. He knew how much his father loved money.

Unless he didn’t want anyone going near it.

As he left the shop, Michael found his feet turning—not toward home, but toward where Freddy Fazbear’s Family Diner once stood.

*

The place looked worse than he remembered. Flyers curled and torn. Windows fogged over with dust and rain streaks. The building had been swallowed, and yet it pulled at him. Quietly and insistently.

He stepped up to the door and gave the handles a tug. Locked.

“Ye kids are curious, ain’t ye?”

Michael flinched, turning toward a voice behind him. A homeless man sat slumped near the dumpster, holding a bottle like a second spine.

“I don’t want trouble,” Michael said warily.

“Ain’t givin’ any,” the man grinned. “But if yer lookin’ to get in, that door won’t do it.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Yeah, figured. You’ve been watching this place?”

“I been sleepin’ near this place. And yeah. Someone’s been here. Not kids like you, though. A proper grown-up man. Real nice wheels, too.”

Michael blinked. “What kind of car?”

The man held out a filthy hand, grinning. “Money talks, lad. And I can see you really want to know.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “You’re a scam artist. You’ll spin anything for a bit of cash.”

The beggar’s grin flattened. “Would this change your tune? The man had a real posh Chrysler. Real fancy-looking thing.”

Michael’s posture straightened. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.” He took another swig, licking his lips. “A shiny Chrysler New Yorker. Fella dressed like he had money. Bit weird, if ye ask me.”

Michael’s heart began to pound. Purple. It had to be. He shoved two dollars into the beggar’s hand.

The man snatched it greedily, sniffed it, and slipped it into his coat. “Now we’re talkin’."

"What color was the car?"

The beggar grinned. “Color? Hard to say—it was dark when he came by the other night. Not a usual shade. Kinda eerie lookin’. But under the streetlights, it looked purple… or maybe a weird kind of blue.”

“What was he doing there?” Michael pressed.

The beggar stood, stretching his arms, and began to wander off.

“Oi! I asked you a question!” Michael snapped. The man stopped, turned around, and rubbed his thumb and forefingers together. More money.

Michael cursed under his breath. “Fine. Here. Five bucks. Tell me everything.”

The beggar’s eyes gleamed as he pocketed the second bill. “Now that’s more like it. He was carrying stuff. Big, heavy things—through the back door. I dunno what, but he came back and forth like he was hiding something.”

Michael’s breath hitched. “Is the back door locked?”

“Yup. But weak. Come, I’ll show ye.”

Michael reluctantly followed the beggar around the side of the building. The alley was grimy and overgrown, but the back door leading into the kitchen was there—wooden, old, and worn. He gave it a light push. It shifted slightly. Nothing a crowbar couldn’t handle.

“Thanks...” Michael said, turning back to the man. “Seriously.”

“No trouble.” The beggar flashed another crooked grin as he saw Michael running a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath.

"What the hell was he hiding here then...?"

The man raised his bottle. “That’s all I got, friend. But ye seem like someone who’s not just pokin’ around. Ye know this guy, don’t you?”

Michael didn’t answer.

“If ye need more info about anyone else, I’m around. Just bring more green.” He winked and wandered back into the shadows of the alley, humming off-key and swaying with every step.

Michael needed to tell you as soon as possible. Fastening his shoelaces, he then sprinted off to find you.

He had to tell you.

Chapter Text

PART 1

You stared at your arm, replaying the conversation with William about the springlock mechanism. Why would he create something so dangerous? Was he really willing to harm his colleagues—even more than he already had? The unsettling thoughts swirled through your mind, and you tried to brush them off.

“Amy. Hey, are you okay?”

A hand landed on your shoulder, jolting you from your thoughts. You turned to see Jeremy, his green eyes filled with concern.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. I’m fine,” you replied quickly, trying to shake the unease from your voice.

“You sure?” Jeremy raised a brow. “You were staring at your arm like it was about to fall off.”

You gave a half-hearted shrug. “Just got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

He tilted his head, unconvinced. “Is it about William? Did he say something that’s bothering you?”

Before you could answer, the diner door slammed open.

“Amy!”

Both of you turned as Michael stormed in, his eyes locking first on you, then narrowing when they met Jeremy’s.

“What’s going on, Mike?” you asked, startled by the urgency in his voice.

Michael didn’t answer. “Amy, we need to talk. Now.”

“What?” you blinked. “Why?”

“No time to explain,” he said sharply, already reaching for your arm. His grip was firm, anxious. He scanned the diner like he expected someone to be watching. Once satisfied his father wasn’t nearby, he tugged you toward the kitchen and out the back door.

“Michael! Can you stop dragging me and just tell me what’s going on?” you snapped, struggling to keep pace as he led you behind the diner.

He finally stopped and turned to you, pressing you lightly against the brick wall. His breath came fast.

“Listen,” he said, voice low. “I was at a shop earlier, and I overheard this little girl talking about the diners.”

You frowned. “What about them?”

“She mentioned the old family diner. So I just started thinking. My father wouldn't leave the building without at least selling it. I mean, that's what he did with Baby's World, right? But then I kept thinking more, and I just got curious. So I went to check it out.”

You crossed your arms. “Right... Did you have a hunch or something?”

“I don’t know. I just... needed to see it again. And when I got there, everything was locked up. Doors, windows, completely shut tight. But then this homeless guy came up to me. Said he’s seen someone storing things inside.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? Some random guy? Michael, he could’ve just been messing with you. He wanted money, right?”

“I thought that too,” he admitted. “And he did. But then he described the person he saw. A man in a fancy suit. Driving a purple Chrysler New Yorker.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“Purple,” he repeated. “Who the hell else do we know that drives a purple Chrysler? Like, come on. It's not a popular color.”

You swallowed. “He saw your dad?”

Michael nodded grimly. “Yeah. And it gets worse. The guy said he saw him carrying several big things into the diner. Like, heavy. More than once, all in the same night.”

You stared at him, mind racing. “Couldn’t it be supplies? Maybe old animatronic parts? He still owns the place if he hadn't sold it. It’s not that weird.”

Michael shook his head. “It is weird. If it were supplies, why do it alone, at night? Why not scrap them or store them somewhere legitimate? Something’s off.”

You hesitated, chewing your lip. “But what if there’s nothing there? What if we break in for no reason and just find dust and junk? That's a crime, Michael. We can get into serious trouble.”

Michael stepped closer, his voice tightening. “I get that. But we have to check. I need to know what he's hiding. Hell, we might find something about the missing kids. Maybe even James.”

You met his eyes. The fear, the anger.

“And what if we find something?” you asked softly. 

“Then we deal with it,” he said. “But we can’t pretend nothing’s going on.”

Silence stretched between you, before you finally nodded.

“Alright. But we have to be careful.”

“Yeah. Bring a flashlight and something you can use to defend yourself. Nothing illegal, though. Just in case.”

You exhaled slowly. “Okay. But Mike… are you sure about this?”

He leaned back, jaw set. “I’ve got a gut feeling. There’s something in that diner. Something big.” He paused. “Do you trust me?”

You stared at him for a long moment, then gave a small nod. “Yeah. I trust you.”

“Good,” Michael said. “We'll chat more inside. Let's meet back out here after work. And Amy?"

"Yeah?" You looked at how serious his eyes had become. Almost as intimidating as his father's face.

"No backing out.”

Papers. Folders. The soft hum of typewriters and the distant ring of rotary phones filled the office. Clara Afton made her way to her desk and sank into the small leather chair. Her co-worker and best friend, Ellie, was in the neighboring cubicle, chatting on the phone.

Clara sighed, eyeing the mountain of paperwork Carl Harold had dumped on her desk with disdain.

She reached for the typewriter, fingers grazing the keys—then paused.

“Yes, Mr. Peters, I’ll get that sorted for you… Of course, sir… You have a good day too!” Ellie’s voice was bright and chipper as she hung up. A second later, her grinning face popped over the divider. “Hey, newbie! How’s your first week treating you?”

Clara chuckled. “Just trying to survive under all this paperwork.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it. I swear, Carl keeps us drowning in files just to avoid hiring another secretary.”

“Why doesn’t he?”

“Because he’s cheap. Like, criminally cheap.” Ellie suddenly ducked. “Uh oh. Creep incoming.”

Clara straightened. She kept her gaze on the forms in front of her, trying to appear casual as Carl Harold’s heavy footsteps thudded closer.

“Ms. Afton,” he drawled, voice oozing. “How are you settling in?”

Clara looked up, forcing a polite smile. “There’s quite a bit to get through, but I’m managing.”

“Business is tough, you know. But if you work hard,” he said with a smirk, “maybe we can lighten the load a little.”

“I’ll do my best,” Clara replied, her voice even.

As if.

He lingered, far too close. “Good. You can start on those papers right away. No need to stare at the keys like they’ll do it themselves." His breath smelled faintly of stale coffee and something really sour. Clara fought the urge to lean away, nails digging into the underside of her desk.

“I’ll get on it,” she muttered, picking up the first sheet and pretending to read it.

“Glad to hear it, pumpkin spice,” Carl said, patting her head unnecessarily. Then he finally moved on.

Clara exhaled and refocused on her work, but his voice floated over again as he reached Ellie’s desk.

“How’s my favorite blonde doing today?”

Ellie gave him her best fake smile. “Just fine, Mr. Harold. Finishing up these reports.”

“Great! Say, how about joining me for a drink tonight? Just the two of us.”

Ellie didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, tonight? I’ve got plans with my husband. Maybe some other time.”

Carl lowered his voice, coaxing. “Aw, come on, Ellie. Don’t let him keep you on a short leash. You deserve to have a little fun." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "You know you want to. And if you do... I can promise you some extra hours.”

Her smile grew stiff, grossed out. “Really, Mr. Harold, I’m busy tonight. But thanks for the offer.”

He sighed like he was doing her a favor. “Alright. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

The moment he disappeared around the corner, Ellie popped her head back over the divider, her face twisted in mock horror. “See what I have to deal with?” she hissed, making a choking motion. “I swear, one of these days he’s gonna drop dead from a heart attack, and I’ll be the first to cheer.”

“He’s definitely got a thing for you,” Clara muttered as she finally started typing. “Then again, he’s got a thing for any woman who crosses his path.”

“Yeah, but he knows I’m married! Why won’t he just quit it?”

Clara shook her head, fingers tapping out a steady rhythm on the keys. “He doesn’t care. He’s just looking for the easiest target. It’s pathetic.”

Ellie groaned. “Tell me about it. Anyway, if you need help with those forms, just holler.”

“Will do,” Clara said, eyes back on the page.

As Ellie settled into her own work, Clara took a deep breath and focused on the task at hand. The typewriter clacked steadily, drowning out the noise of the office.

William was feeling restless. He had completed everything at the diner, and now he was bored.

He glanced around, looking for something to occupy his time. Nothing could soothe his agitation.

Something slithered through his thoughts.

I could always kill a few more kids. No one will miss them...

He stood up and walked out to the dining area. There, he saw Henry engaged in conversation with a single father. His son, Sammy, was playing with the other children, darting around and laughing with innocent glee.

Sammy could always go missing. Henry after all, deserves it. Charlotte and her useless beseeching when I killed her. That was so fun, I remember it like it was yesterday...

He made his way over to an empty table, sat down, and began to stare into the abyss of his thoughts, lost in the memory of her murder...

Charlie pounded desperately on the door and windows, her voice hoarse from screaming at the bullies who had locked her outside. “Let me in! Please, let me in!” The cold rain pounded down, soaking her hair and clothes as she pressed her forehead against the frigid glass. The bullies' laughter echoed as they walked away, leaving her alone in the storm. The door was locked tight from the inside, and the other children continued to play, ignoring her cries.

A car pulled up, its headlights cutting through the downpour. Charlie’s heart leapt when she saw William Afton behind the wheel. She dashed to his window, her tiny fists pounding against the glass. William stepped out slowly, his dark brown hair slicked to his head, a black coat clinging to his soaked figure. His breath smelled sharply of whiskey, and his steps were just slightly unsteady.

“Charlie? What the hell are you doin' out here?” he slurred, blinking hard against the rain.

“Uncle Will! I got locked out! Can you let me in, please?” Charlie’s voice cracked with desperation.

William offered a crooked smile, eyes glassy.

Charlotte. Alone.

The sight of her. Soaked and shivering, clinging to his car like he was her savior— it stirred something bitter in his gut. She had her mother's face. But she was nothing like the kind of daughter he had once.

Charlotte was pathetic. Elizabeth was cunning.

In fact, how many times had he imagined wiping the Emily's off the face of the earth?

He hated the way she smiled at everyone like she was better than them. He hated how Henry held her hand so tightly when they left the diner. He hated how she flinched around him sometimes, like she knew something was wrong with him.

And now, here she was. Alone. No Henry. No witnesses.

The thought came fast and sharp.

You could kill her right now. 

No one would stop him. No one would see. The rain would hide everything.

He smiled wider, something twitching in his jaw.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he said smoothly, despite the slight stumble in his voice. “Though I don’t got the keys right now. Damn things are somewhere… probably in the car. But c’mon. There’s a back way we can try.”

“Okay! Can I hold your hand?” Charlie asked, a flicker of hope in her eyes.

“Sure, sure,” he mumbled. “Wouldn’t wanna lose you in this bloody storm.”

He took her small hand in his gloved one, his grip applying pressure. They walked to the rear of the diner, shielded from view by bins and shadows. In his coat pocket, he could feel the weight of his knife.

As they reached the back entrance, William slowed and turned to her.

“Do you believe in the afterlife, Charlotte?” he asked, slurring the end of her name.

Charlie furrowed her brows. “The afterlife? I... I don’t know. Why?”

He chuckled darkly, swaying slightly on his feet. “Good.”

Without warning, he grabbed her by the throat. His gloved hand clamped down hard, squeezing. Charlie’s eyes widened in terror as she kicked and flailed.

“Daddy! Help! Da—!”

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” William barked, his drunken breath hot and vile against her skin. The rain thundered around them, hiding her gasps.

“Why are y-you doing th-this?” she choked, fingers clawing at his wrist.

His eyes narrowed, filled with red, drunken fury. “Because I hate you. And your fucking father. I’m tired of watching your perfect little family. Sick of it.”

He let go, and she collapsed to the wet ground, gasping and sobbing.

“I hate you, too! I’m telling Dad what you did!” she shouted, voice shaking.

Rage flashed across his face. “No, you’re not.”

He grabbed her again and slammed her spine against the jagged edge of a nearby metal dumpster. Her scream was then muffled by his hand, her body crumpling against the cold steel. William yanked the knife from his coat, the blade gleaming even in the rain. Charlie's eyes went wide. She thrashed, her fists hitting his sides, but he barely felt them through the alcohol and adrenaline.

“Stay still, you little bitch,” he hissed, spitting with each word. He dragged her by the hair and threw her down onto the ground with a shallow splash. She hit the pavement with a loud thud, her limbs splaying out, breath knocked from her lungs.

She tried to crawl away, blood running from a cut on her cheek, yelling for her father. Yet, once again, her screams were swallowed by his hand. William crouched over her, swaying just a little, the knife poised. 

“I want your death to serve as a lesson to your precious father, Henry Emily,” he snarled, shaking with anger. Then, without hesitation, he slashed through her brachial artery. The knife moved quickly, almost too easily. Her arm jerked, crimson spurting out and mixing with the rain.

William kept going. He held her down with a boot to the chest, pressing hard as she twitched.

“This,” he spat, stabbing her upper thigh, hearing her cry out in pain, “is for your father.” Another stab to the chest. “This is for your perfect mother, who should have married me instead!” A third, more vicious, to the side. “And this one’s for me.”

His hand trembled, not with hesitation, but with intoxicated rage. His attacks became frenzied, each stab a release of his pent-up rage and hatred. When he finally stopped, Charlie lay in a pool of her own blood, body still. William surveyed the bloody carnage as the rain continued to pour, washing the gore from the scene down to a nearby gutter.

His coat was soaked, darkened with blood. He looked over to his car. In his haze, he considered driving back home, but he stopped himself. It was too risky. If anyone saw him, they’d ask questions. Smears on the seat, smears on the steering wheel, maybe even prints left behind. It wasn’t worth it. Better to leave it where it was. If someone noticed the car later, they’d just assume he’d been inside the whole time, like everyone else.

The smarter move was to vanish on foot. And so, he ran.

William stuck to alleyways and side roads, moving through the rain-slick streets like a shadow. The storm helped. It washed away some of the evidence, hiding his face, muffling his steps. By the time he reached his house, the pounding in his chest had calmed. He slipped inside, locked the door, and climbed the stairs two at a time.

In the bathroom, he peeled off his clothes, the blood sticky and dried in places. Shit, what to do... what to do.

Think, William. This isn't your first time doing this. You did this with that boy, Timothy. You also killed him in the rain back in '75.

The shower roared to life, steam fogging the mirror. The water turned pink, then red, as it washed over him and his clothes that lay beside his feet. He scrubbed himself and the fabric clean, eyes hollow. But then, as the image of Henry’s face—broken, screaming, finding her body—flashed in his mind, the corners of William's lips twitched.

A chuckle escaped.

Then another.

And before long, William was laughing uncontrollably. Loud, crazed, and utterly unhinged.

The memory peeled away. William exhaled sharply through his nose and turned his gaze to the diner's doors. He’d lost count killing people somewhere past twenty. Maybe closer to thirty now. He’d been doing this a long time. So long, he was barely an adult when he started.

A quick glance at his watch told him it was only midday. He pushed himself up from the booth, stretching his legs.

A walk. That’s what he needed. Something to clear the static in his head.

He lit a cigarette, the first drag cutting through the tension that coiled in his chest. Smoke curled from his lips as he stepped out, the door’s bell jingling faintly behind him. He loosened his tie, letting it hang limp around his neck, and shoved his hands in his coat pockets.

His leather shoes tapped rhythmically against the concrete as he wandered aimlessly. He veered off the main street and turned into a shadowed alleyway.

"Twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty! Ready or not, here I come!"

Sammy darted past the rows of booths, laughter trailing behind him as the echo of little feet bounced off the tiled floors. He then ducked low, knees pressed to his chest as he scrambled beneath a table near the back of the diner. The heavy tablecloth swayed slightly as it settled around him, and his could feel the cool tile on his hands and legs. He could hear the muffled sounds of the arcade down the hall—Marcy's voice echoing, followed by the laughter and squeals of kids hiding.

Just a few more minutes and he’d win this round.

Then—footsteps. Two sets. Slower than the others.

Sammy tensed.

Voices followed. Familiar.

"Alright, as mentioned before. Midnight."

Michael.

Sammy shifted, curiosity sparked. He leaned forward, peeking through a narrow gap in the tablecloth. You and Michael slid into the booth right beside his hiding spot. Neither of you noticed him.

"You sure we can get in without being seen?" you asked, keeping your voice low.

Michael leaned back, stretching. “Place is dead at night. Everyone’s out by half ten here. Besides, you think Henry or my dad has security in the family diner? Henry barely knows how to turn the cash register on.”

You huffed out a small laugh. "Still... what if someone sees us loading stuff into the car?"

Michael waved it off. "We'll park behind the alley. Less chance anyone notices. You gonna bring that flashlight?"

"It'll be in my bag," you said. "And I'll get some gloves. Just in case."

Sammy’s heart pounded.

Gloves? 

"And the crowbar?" you asked, biting your nail. "Are you gonna get it?"

Michael leaned in, resting his arms on the table. "It's in the garage. I’ll grab it before I meet you. Might see if Jacob has any of his lockpicks too. I mean, I could wing it, but better safe than stuck out front like an idiot."

You gave a short breath, glancing toward the front. "Breaking and entering. Great. That’ll look fantastic on our records if we get caught.”

“We won’t,” Michael said, shaking his head. “We’ll park out back. And if my dad’s already onto us, then we’ve got bigger problems than a trespassing fine.”

A silence fell between the two of you.

You looked down at your hands. “I just…” Your voice cracked. “If he hurt James…”

Michael reached across the table, squeezing your hand. “We find the truth. That’s all that matters.”

You nodded quietly, agreeing.

Michael stood up, stretching. “I’ll check in with Jacob and grab the gear. Don’t let dickwad dad catch you slacking. Last thing you need is another lecture from him.”

You smiled faintly. “Yeah, yeah. Go.”

With a small salute, Michael turned and walked out. You gathered the plates and walked toward the kitchen, humming under your breath as if nothing had happened.

But Sammy didn’t move. He sat frozen, heart pounding.

He didn’t understand everything you and Michael said—but he understood enough. Flashlights. Lockpicks. Crowbars. Midnight.

And something about James.

He scrambled out from under the table, sneakers thudding lightly as he bolted down the hallway. His breath caught in his throat as he reached the office door.

Sammy knocked hard.

“Dad? Dad! It’s important!”

PART 2

Michael sprinted down the cracked sidewalk, muttering curses as he stumbled over loose pavement. When he finally reached the worn-down house tucked behind a leaning chain-link fence, he knocked hard and stepped back.

A moment later, the door creaked open.

Robbie stood there — Jacob’s older half-brother — with a half-crushed beer can dangling from one bruised hand. His eyes, bloodshot and heavy-lidded, narrowed as he looked Michael over.

“Can I help you?”

Michael swallowed. “Yeah, uh. Is Jake home?”

“Jake?” Robbie squinted. Then his face lit up with lazy recognition. “Oh, right. You’re that friend of his. Mike, yeah?” Michael nodded. “He’s upstairs. Probably still gaming. I’ll call him down.”

He stepped aside.

“Come on in.”

The house smelled like stale beer and damp wood. The floor was scattered with kibble, and every surface — counters, couch, TV stand — was cluttered with dishes, grime and crumpled clothes. Janice, Jacob’s mother, was slumped sideways on the couch, gray hair a tangled mess, a bottle resting in her loose grip. In the backyard, a boxer dog was chained to the fence, growling and barking for attention.

“Oi, Ma, we got company,” Robbie called, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

Janice squinted toward the door, eyes foggy, then broke into a gummy smile.

“Michael, my boy! You’ve gotten tall. How’s life treatin’ ya?”

“Good,” Michael said, stepping around a laundry basket. “Just here to see Jake.”

“He’s in his room. Up to God-knows-what.” She waved a hand. “Grab a beer from the fridge if you want — house special.”

“Thanks, Jan,” Michael said, cracking open a can without hesitation.

Upstairs, shouting erupted. Heavy footsteps. Something crashed.

"Rob! Get the fuck off me!"

“Shut up, you dyke! Your friend’s downstairs waiting.”

“Who?”

“Michael, you dumbass. Move it before I knock your teeth in.”

“Okay, okay! Christ! Quit hitting me!”

“I’ll knock your balls into next week if you don’t get up.”

Janice groaned and raised her voice. “Both of you shut the fuck up! You’re givin’ me a migraine!”

Michael shifted awkwardly in the living room, sipping his beer. 

“Boys, huh?” Janice mumbled toward him. “I always wanted a girl. Instead I got these two feral rats.” She took a long swig and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Blame their fathers. Though hell if I know where either of 'em ran off to.”

Michael chuckled, a little unsure. “Yeah...”

Janice scratched at her scalp, slurring, as she stared ahead blankly. “Y'know, I had Robbie when I was just fifteen. 'Course, people blamed me. Said I was filthy, filthy whore." She glanced at Michael. "Then I had Jacob when I was in my early twenties, and they still shamed me after. Guess no matter what, people gonna always complain, Mike.” 

She took another swig, the silence stretching just long enough to make Michael glance at the floor. That made Robbie twenty-five now—six years older than Jacob. He hadn’t realized the gap was that wide. 

A few moments later, footsteps padded down the hall. Robbie looked smug, while Jacob appeared, barefoot and scowling. He was rubbing his arm where Robbie had clearly pinched him.

“Mike? Hey,” he said, straightening up. “What’s up?”

Michael gave him a knowing look — the one that meant not here.

Robbie snorted. “What’s this, a secret meeting?”

Jacob shot him a glare. “Shut it, moron.”

Then, turning back to Michael, “Physics summerwork?”

Michael nodded.

Jacob smirked. “Right. Come on.” He jerked his head toward the stairs.

As they disappeared up the steps, Janice flicked through the TV channels with her bottle hand.

“What’re they up to now?” she mumbled, eyes already drifting shut.

Robbie sighed, sinking into the recliner. “Who knows, Ma. Who knows…”

The door swung open, revealing Henry. His shirt was slightly unbuttoned, and his muscular arms showed through the fabric. A screwdriver dangled from his hand, and he blinked in surprise at the serious little face staring up at him.

“Sammy! What’s up, kiddo?”

“Uh… Dad, I kinda need to tell you something.”

Henry stepped aside, and Sammy marched in like a soldier reporting for duty. He climbed onto the desk, legs swinging, trying to look composed.

“Well… you know Michael? And James’ sister?”

“Amy?”

“Yeah, them. I overheard them talking. They’re planning to break into the family diner. Tonight. Midnight."

Henry’s brow furrowed as he removed his glasses. “Michael and Amy? Planning to break into the diner?” He looked at Sammy sharply. “You’re not pulling my leg, are you?”

“Dad! I wouldn’t lie about something like that!” Sammy said, voice urgent. “I heard them talking about it!”

Henry stepped back, processing the information. Could it be true? But why would they do something like that?

After a moment, he sighed deeply. “Alright. I’ll keep an eye on them. Thanks for telling me, Sam.”

Sammy’s chest puffed up with pride. “No problem, Dad. I’ll leave you to finish your work.” He gave a wave as he headed out, leaving Henry alone with his thoughts.

He stood there for a long moment, screwdriver still in hand. Should he tell William?

No. Absolutely not.

He wasn’t going to tell William anything. If the two of you were up to something, it was better that William stayed in the dark.

He sat down with a heavy sigh, resting the screwdriver on the desk like it might fix the situation by itself. Then he slid his glasses back on — not to see, but to think.

Should he step in and stop you both? Or let it play out and monitor from a distance, intervene if needed?

He groaned.

Fuck it.

He returned to his work, his mind miles away.

We'll park behind the alley. Less chance anyone notices. You gonna bring that flashlight?

You stacked the plates by the sink, biting your lip as the conversation with Michael gnawed at you.

Would his plan actually work? Was there really something hidden in the diner? Was his gut feeling right?

Questions swirled, but a stubborn spark of hope flickered, refusing to die out. You’d already started running through the plan. James’s flashlight was tucked safely in his bedside drawer. You had stashed some gloves in your bag in the staff room, out of sight now—especially from Rudy’s prying eyes.

As you turned to leave the kitchen, your eyes caught more scattered plates across several tables with half-eaten pizza slices abandoned mid-bite with a few fries. Sighing quietly, you gathered them up, tossing the leftovers into the bin while Michael’s words echoed over and over in your mind.

Just then, Jeremy appeared, carrying empty glasses and flashing you an easy smile.

“Hey, again,” he says.

“Hey,” you replied, forcing your voice to match his warmth.

Your fingers keep working, stacking and sorting, but inside, you silently prayed that whatever you and Michael were about to uncover would be worth the risk.

"Dude! A lockpick? Okay, what’s that for, huh?"

Jacob sat at his desk, sunlight cutting across the room. Michael slouched beside him, grinning like he’d just pulled off a stunt.

"Me and Amy are gonna do some dumb stuff. Break into abandoned places. Figured we’d need something cheap like a lockpick."

Jacob smirked. "You and Amy, huh? So you two finally getting back together or what?"

Michael drained the last of his beer. "Yeah, we’re getting there. Feels like if we spend more time, we can really bond."

Jacob chuckled. "Absolutely. You taken her out on a date yet?"

"Yeah. We hit The Blue Whale and that lake we used to mess around at." Michael laughed, shaking his head. "Might take her to the drive-in next."

"Sounds like you’re stepping up your game, Afton." Jacob grinned wide. "So, have you and her, like—fucked or—ow, hey!"

Michael playfully smacked him on the head with his empty can.

"Don’t get ahead of yourself."

Jacob laughed, then teased, "So, what’s this ‘dumb stuff’ gonna be? Just creeping around abandoned places? Looking for ghosts, treasure, or what?"

Michael shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe we’ll find something worth the risk. Or maybe it’s just the thrill."

Jacob smirked. "Classic Mike. Always chasing the thrill. Remember that time you tried climbing that water tower? Ended up stuck for two hours."

Michael groaned. "Don’t remind me. I remember the bollocking I got from my parents after."

Jacob shook his head, laughing. "Man, you’re hopeless. But that’s why we love you."

Michael smiled, looking a little softer. "Yeah. But Amy’s different, though. I mean it."

Jacob raised an eyebrow. "Different how? You said the same about Megan. Jennie. Lisa."

"They were all flings, dude."

Jacob snorted. "Flings. Okay, fine. But Beth? You really cared about her."

Michael’s smile faltered a bit. "Well, she was my ex. We had history. And then she turned out to be a real piece of shit."

Jacob snorted. "Bitchy Beth. How did you even get with her? She was one of those preppy types who looked down on us."

Michael sighed. "Partners in history class. Well, forced partners. But she was athletic, popular... sounded perfect until she found out about my life. Then the rumors started."

Jacob shook his head. "Yeah, screw Beth. Insecure as fuck, she was."

"Exactly. But Amy is... I don't know dude," Michael wistfully sighed. "She's cool. Like real cool, and great to hang with."

Jake rolled his eyes in a teasing manner.

"Damn, Afton. You really can’t stop thinking about Amy, huh?"

"No, I can’t." Michael looked out the window, serious now. "She’s the one. I know it."

Jacob smiled, finishing the lockpick. "Alright, Mr. Romantic. Here, this should do the trick."

Michael took the tool, eyes bright. "Thanks, Jake. Here." He pulled out five bucks, handing it over.

Jacob waved it away. "Nah, man, keep it. This was just a small project."

Michael insisted, "Really? You sure?"

"Yeah. Treat Amy whenever. I got enough bucks as it is."

Michael smiled warmly. "Thanks. And I will."

Jacob then leaned forward, raising a mischievous eyebrow. "You planning on getting us caught?"

Michael scoffed, chuckling. "No way. We’re too good for that."

Jacob laughed. "Famous last words. Just don’t drag me into jail."

Michael stood up. "Relax. We'll be careful."

Jacob called after him. "Alright, Mike. Have fun. But seriously, stay safe, okay?"

Michael glanced back, giving a confident nod. "Will do, Jake. Will do."

William prowled down the alleyway and stopped to lean against a brick wall. The cigarette in his mouth had burned down to the filter. He spat it onto the pavement and watched it sizzle out on the grime-slick concrete. With an irritated sigh, he dug into his coat pocket, fingers brushing against his wallet before pulling it out.

Inside, only a few crumpled bills remained. He stared at them, jaw tight. How much had he blown on booze and smokes lately? It felt like ages since he and Michael had eaten a proper meal at home.

He needed cash.

Rolling up the sleeves of his suit jacket, William wandered toward the nearest ATM. It stood tucked beside a Blockbuster, humming faintly. He shoved his card into the machine, punched in his PIN, and withdrew a hundred bucks. Not much, but enough to ease the pressure on his ribs for a while. Things had started to slowly stabilize after the events at the diner. He tucked the cash into his wallet and turned to leave.

Something brushed his ankle.

He looked down to see a scruffy black-and-white stray cat winding around his legs, tail flicking, fur matted and greasy. The damn thing was purring, rubbing against his trousers like it owned him. Disgust twisted in his gut.

"Get off me, you fucking pest," he muttered, shoving at it with his foot.

The cat persisted, mewling and circling back. William’s patience snapped. With a sharp, brutal motion, he kicked it aside. The cat let out a startled yowl, then bolted into the shadows.

He adjusted his jacket, unbothered, and made his way toward the shops.

Inside the store, he nearly collided with someone at the end of an aisle—Wilson. Their eyes met for a brief, electric second. That smug, forgettable face. William’s jaw clenched instinctively, rage bubbling up at the memory of Evan.

Not now. Not here. He swallowed it down.

Instead, he walked over to the fridge section, grabbing two crates of beer. He caught Wilson watching him from the register—awkward, nervous. William returned a dead-eyed stare until the boy left.

With the aisle clear, he grabbed a stack of frozen dinners—microwaveable garbage Michael could choke down—then reached for a decent cut of steak. That was for him. If the boy had a problem, he could damn well learn to cook.

At the checkout, he dumped everything on the counter. The cashier, a young Mexican girl with chipped orange nail polish, gave him a wary smile. William offered one back—just enough to be polite, not friendly.

He paid, stuffed the groceries into a bag, and left without another word.

Michael strolled back to the diner, grinning as he felt the weight of the lockpick in his pocket. Pushing the door open, he scanned the room. A few families were chatting over greasy meals, and the soft clatter of cutlery filled the air. You weren’t in sight, but Jeremy was taking orders near the far booth.

Michael sighed and made his way over to him.

Jeremy jotted something down in his notepad. "Two Cokes and a vanilla shake! No problem," he said without looking up. Michael snorted quietly. You never needed a notepad; you could remember any order like a machine.

"Okay, I’ll bring your order out soon," Jeremy said, flashing a quick smile at the table before heading toward the kitchen. Michael trailed after him.

"Hey, Jeremy!" he called.

Jeremy turned. "Yeah? What’s up, Mike?"

"You seen Amy?"

"Amy? Last I saw, she was in the arcade area. Why?"

"Ah, nothing. Just couldn’t find her," Michael muttered, already moving.

He weaved past a few kids huddled around racing games and spotted a familiar ponytail poking out from behind a busted machine. As he got closer, he saw you crouched in front of it, screws in your mouth and a wrench in hand, elbow-deep in wires.

"Amy?"

"Huh?" You startled, jerking upward—and smacked your head on the underside of the cabinet.

You fell back on your butt with a grunt, rubbing your head.

"Shit, you okay?" Michael crouched down beside you, gently moving your hand to check the red mark blooming on your temple.

"Oww... yeah, I’m fine," you mumbled, wincing. "This place is so damn cramped."

You stayed on the floor for a moment, cradling your head as the sting pulsed through your skull. 

"You're sure?" he asked again.

"Yeah." You let out a slow breath, then pushed yourself up carefully, brushing off your pants as Michael stood with you. "Just didn’t expect to meet a metal beam with my forehead today." You looked into Michael's sapphire eyes. "Did you find Jacob?"

“Yeah,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "I went over to his place. He made me the lockpick."

"Awesome." You paused, glancing around. "Just don’t whip it out here."

"I won’t," he said with a smirk. "Once your shift ends, we’ll head to your place, grab what we need, then take off."

You nodded. "Got it. I’m done in about an hour and a half. In the meantime... try to be useful."

Michael gave a lazy salute. "Aye, boss."

You rolled your eyes, chuckling as you ducked back under the machine. Michael wandered off, hands in his pockets, aimlessly poking around the arcade machines—picturing what the night had in store.

William closed the freezer with a tired sigh and glanced at the clock. He debated heading back to the diner but decided Henry could manage without him for a few more hours. Kicking off his shoes, he grabbed a beer from the fridge. The migraine that had been stalking him all day had finally bloomed, making his vision blur at the edges.

“Damn this heat,” he muttered, rubbing his temple as he made his way to the bathroom.

He rummaged through the medicine cabinet and shook out two sleeping pills. Alcohol and meds. Not the smartest, but at this point, he didn’t care. Slamming the cabinet shut, he took the pills with him.

Back in his bedroom, he sat heavily on the edge of the bed and cracked the beer open with his teeth. He tossed the pills into his mouth and washed them down with a long swig. The bitterness didn’t help the headache, but it dulled something else. He lay back, letting his head sink into the pillow.

As sleep crept in, fragments of memory surfaced. They were uninvited and jagged.

"William, you're scaring me! Why are you like this?"

"Dad? Are you listening? I got an A in physics—Dad?"

"Daddy! Look at my new sweater! Mummy got it for me! Isn’t it pretty?"

The voices of Clara, Michael, and Elizabeth blurred together. Their echoes haunted the room even as the pain in his skull dulled. Finally, the dark pulled him under—quiet, heavy, and dreamless.

PART 3

After your shift, you and Michael returned to your house to gather the equipment. You packed flashlights, screwdrivers, a crowbar, a hammer, and the lockpick into the trunk of Michael’s car. Everything was carefully arranged in a worn sports bag, ready to be hauled into the diner when the time came.

“Is that everything?” you asked, shutting the trunk with a solid thud.

Michael double-checked the contents, then nodded. “I think so. Let’s hope it’s enough.”

He turned to face you, and you opened your arms without saying a word. Michael stepped in, embracing you tightly. His arms wrapped around your waist, and you leaned into him, taking in the familiar scent of his cologne and the leather of his jacket—soft, broken-in, expensive. He held you like he didn’t want to let go.

“Do you think we’ll find anything?” he whispered against your ear.

You didn’t have an answer—at least, not one that would calm either of you. Instead, you squeezed him a little tighter, then slowly pulled back.

“Maybe,” you said softly. “I’m scared, Mike.”

His expression tightened. He didn’t say anything this time, just brushed your arm gently.

With the equipment ready, you both headed inside to change clothes and grab something to eat. The hours crept by, heavy with silence, both of you watching the clock like it might stop ticking. Midnight couldn’t come fast enough—or slow enough.

*

Michael’s car purred as it rolled up to Freddy Fazbear’s Family Diner. You and Michael moved quickly, unloading the gear from the trunk. With everything you needed, you headed toward the diner’s backdoor.

Michael braced himself, throwing his shoulder into the door.

“Gah! Fucking damn it! I need your help here,” he grunted, muscles straining against the wood. "Thought this shit would be easier."

You joined him, throwing your weight into it. The door resisted stubbornly, but with a series of sharp crashes, it finally gave way. You stumbled forward, landing hard.

“Shit! Are you alright?” Michael asked, pulling you up.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, wincing as splinters dug into your knees. You shook off the pain, unzipping the gym bag and pulling out two flashlights. You handed one to Michael. He clicked it on, the beam cutting into the pitch-dark interior.

“Look, there’s the kitchen door. Think it’ll be locked?”

You both crept toward it. Michael tried the handle—it creaked open. A wave of rotting food hit like a slap. You gagged, covering your nose with your sleeve.

“Shit, I’m gonna puke,” Michael groaned, turning away.

At the far end, double doors led to the dining area. You pushed them open. Your flashlight swept across the room—and stopped on the stage.

Your breath caught.

Evan’s blood still stained the floor, dark and congealed. You stood frozen.

Michael followed your gaze, his face crumbling. He lowered his head, eyes brimming. “Evan...” he whispered, voice breaking. "Fuck..."

You touched his shoulder. “It’s okay, Mike. Take your time,” you said softly. “I’ll look around.”

You moved through the eerie silence, flashlight beam gliding over dusty halls. You reached the offices. Inside, there were drawers left open, empty. It was clear William had stripped everything of value. Rifling through the remnants, you found old calendars, broken pens, and a crusty mug. Nothing useful.

Back in the dining area, you found Michael crouched at a door near the back. He was fiddling with the lock.

“Find anything?” he asked, eyes flicking to you.

“Nothing. Offices are gutted. You?”

“The backroom’s locked. I’m trying the pick.” He jammed the tool into the keyhole. “Hold the light.”

You steadied the beam. Michael fumbled, cursed, fumbled again.

"Open already, dammit!"

Finally, after a few minutes— a satisfying click.

The door creaked open.

The smell hit instantly. Rotting, wet, and foul. You both reeled.

“Jesus Christ,” Michael gagged. "What the fuck?"

Your flashlight swept the room. There were stacks of boxes, uneven and messy. Behind them, the stench thickened, and something peered through the gaps of the cardboard.

“There’s something behind these,” you said, nose covered with your sleeve. “Shall we move them?”

Michael nodded. You began moving the boxes, one by one. As the last stack fell away, the hidden sight emerged:

Six animatronics.

They stood in silence, faces dull with grime. Two Golden Freddies. Four of the original cast. Their suits were filthy, thick with that same black, oily residue you’d seen before. Their eyes were blank, lifeless sockets. You then realised they were the old cast that had been replaced by the newer ones recently. 

"Shit... my father told Henry that he had scrapped them. But he just put them in here? For what?" Michael muttered.

You stepped closer, dread rising in your throat. You touched one—your fingers came away sticky. Just like before. The smell was unbearable now.

“What I don't get is, is why there are six of them?” Michael muttered. He leaned in, face wrinkling. “God. The smell is repulsive. Even more than when they were on stage!” He narrowed his eyes, as if he recognised something. "Wait a minute."

You looked at him. “What?”

Michael didn’t answer. He picked up the crowbar and jammed it under the neck of the closest suit. “I’m gonna break them open.”

“Michael—”

“Just hold the light.”

Metal groaned. With a loud crack, the head came free and fell. 

You leaned forward, heart hammering.

“Amy?” Michael gasped. He jerked back. “Oh fuck. Don’t look. Don’t look!”

“What?” you asked, stepping forward, panic rising. “Michael, what—?”

Then you saw it.

A body was crammed inside the suit, grotesquely folded. You knew that red shirt. Those jeans. That hair.

Your scream tore through the stillness—raw, sharp, agonized. Your knees hit the floor hard. You clutched your head, sobbing, your body wracked with anguish.

“No! No! Why! Why!”

Michael crouched beside you, staring at the animatronic in horror. His hands trembled.

He wasn’t just disgusted.

He was terrified.

Henry tossed and turned in bed, his mind restless as he struggled to find solace in sleep. Beside him, his wife Ellie lay undisturbed. The thought of you and Michael potentially breaking into the old diner gnawed at him like a persistent itch he couldn’t scratch. The bedside clock read 12:30.

“Are you going to stop them?” Sammy’s voice echoed in his mind.

With a weary sigh, Henry slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Ellie. He leaned down and kissed her forehead—a silent apology for leaving so late. He dressed quickly in jeans and a navy-blue flannel, then grabbed his car keys from the nightstand and padded quietly to the door.

The cool night air hit him the moment he stepped outside. He muttered under his breath, “Come on, Sammy. I hope you’re not lying about this.”

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he turned the key. The engine rumbled to life, loud against the silence of the sleeping neighborhood. With headlights cutting through the dark, Henry pulled out of the driveway and headed for the diner.

“Amy! Amy!”

You huddled on the cold floor, your body shaking uncontrollably as you sobbed into Michael’s chest. His shirt was soaked with your tears, but he didn’t pull away.

“Michael! H–He’s dead! He’s fucking dead!” you choked out.

“I’m really sorry, Amy. I truly am,” Michael whispered. He held you tightly, grieving with you.

Memories of James—your brother—flashed through your mind like a relentless film reel. He’d never laugh again. Never tease you with that crooked grin. Never be there for you. Any hope of you finding him alive had vanished into thin air. But through the sorrow, anger sparked. It lit something inside you.

You pulled away, wiping your face with the back of your hand.

“Mike, we need to check the other suits. If James was in one of them, there could be more bodies. There has to be.”

Michael hesitated. “A–Are you sure?”

Your reply was cold. Unwavering.

“Hand me the crowbar.”

He handed it over without a word. Your hands shook as you gripped the metal. With effort, you wedged it beneath the head of the next animatronic and wrenched it free. The stench hit immediately—putrid, overpowering. You gagged, but forced yourself to look.

Another body. Another child.

The horror tightened around your chest like a vice.

“Oh God,” Michael breathed, running a hand through his hair, his face drained of color. “Do you think… that these are the five missing kids? That they're all inside these suits?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“There’s only one thing we can do,” you whispered.

Michael nodded grimly and took the crowbar from you. His hands trembled as he began dismantling the rest. One by one, the animatronics were cracked open, revealing more bodies—each discovery more nightmarish than the last.

“Fuck. I—” Michael stopped, the crowbar sagging in his grip. He clutched his stomach and turned pale, barely suppressing the urge to vomit. “Oh God…”

“Mike, we need to call the police,” you said, voice tight with urgency. “We’ve found the bodies. Mike? Are you listening?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked toward the hallway.

Clink.

You both froze.

“What was that?” you whispered.

Michael held up a hand. “Shhh,” he breathed. He turned toward the door, pressing his ear against it. “Shit. Is there someone here?” he whispered.

“Huh—”

“Shhh.” His brow furrowed as he listened intently. You could hear it too now—quiet footsteps. Someone was in the building.

"Mike," you whispered. "What do we do?"

After a few seconds, there was only silence.

Michael stepped back. "We need to leave. Fuck, it might be my dad. He's gonna kill us."

The doorknob turned.

Your heart leapt into your throat. Both of you froze as the door creaked open.

There, standing in the doorway, was Henry Emily.

His eyes burned with quiet intensity.

“Would you care to explain why you’re both here?” he demanded.

“Darling? Henry?” Ellie murmured sleepily, stirring as the emptiness beside her registered. She reached out, but the sheets were cold. Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim bedroom. The door stood ajar—but all was quiet.

The bedside clock cast a faint bluish glow.

1:00 AM.

With a sigh, Ellie rubbed her eyes and sat up, unease creeping in. She reached for the lamp. Warm light spilled softly across the room as she flicked it on.

“Henry?” she called gently.

No answer.

She threw off the covers and padded barefoot across the carpet. The bathroom was empty. She checked the hallway, then crept downstairs. The kitchen, the living room—nothing. No sign of him.

Frowning, she returned to the bedroom and glanced again at the clock.

1:05  AM.

Still no sign of him.

He’d been quiet for a while now. Lost in thought, distracted at dinner, sometimes staring at nothing for minutes at a time. She knew he was still mourning their daughter. God knew, so was she. She tried to hide it, to put on that bright, practiced smile around others… but there were still days she excused herself just to cry in the bathroom. 

And now Henry was gone at 1 AM. 

Maybe he just needed some air. Maybe this was how he coped.

As long as he came home in the morning, that was all that mattered.

She turned off the lamp. The room fell back into stillness, shadows reclaiming the corners. Her head sank into the pillows, and sleep slowly pulled her under again.

“Henry? What are you doing here? How the hell did you know we were at this diner?” Michael’s voice was sharp, gripping the crowbar like a weapon. His suspicion radiated like heat.

Henry raised his hands calmly, trying to defuse the tension. “Michael, put the crowbar down. I’m not here to hurt anyone.”

Michael didn’t move. “No. Answer me. How the fuck did you know we were here? Are you involved in all of this?”

You stayed behind Michael, uneasy. Could Henry be responsible instead of William?

Henry’s voice stayed steady but weary. “My son overheard you talking about breaking in tonight. He told me. I came to check if it was true. And he was right.” He glanced at the animatronics, then back at you both. “If you come with me now, I promise you won’t get in trouble.”

Michael’s eyes were cold, unyielding. “Promises don’t mean much. And I don’t know about you, but this place stinks. And do you know why? Because we found all of the missing kids. Right here. You must be mad if you think I or Amy are going to leave this alone.”

Henry blinked, shocked. “W-what?”

You stepped forward, voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “They were stuffed inside. All of them. That's why they smelled so badly. It wasn't because they needed washing. It was because there were children's corpses in them.”

Henry’s breath hitched. He moved slowly toward the animatronics, his gaze locking on the one that held James. His face went pale.

“No...” He whispered, voice breaking. “No, no, no...”

Michael’s anger boiled over. “You and Dad made these things. So, fess up! Who did it? You? Him? Both of you?”

“Michael!” Henry gripped Michael’s shoulders, desperation clear. “You must be insane if you think I did this! I—I don’t have the heart to hurt anyone! I may have created these animatronics, but I would never harm a child. Ever!” He turned back to the animatronics, his eyes narrowing at the suit that had been used to contain James. “That suit... that replica. I’ve seen it before!” His voice cracked as the realization hit him. “That was in the backroom. That suit was in the backroom of the other diner!”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding. “When did you see it?”

Henry’s mind churned with a storm of vivid, haunting memories:

The day James disappeared, William had been unnervingly calm. Too calm. That animatronic locked away in the backroom… what flimsy excuse had William offered? None worth remembering, just a vague warning to keep Henry away. Something about being busy with projects? 

The blood smeared on the box — it had to be from that very backroom. How long had it been since William last ventured in there? Days? Hours?

Then there was Charlie’s death, etched deep in Henry’s conscience. She had confided in him about William’s cold, harsh glares and the cruelty she endured. Why had Henry ignored her warnings? Was William truly so skilled at manipulation that he clouded even Henry’s judgment?

The missing children weighed heavily on his heart. Like Lizzie, they had been stuffed inside suits, hidden away, discarded like refuse. The connection was undeniable. 

Michael, Lizzie, Evan, Clara — each a victim of William’s violent outbursts and twisted obsessions, both within the family and beyond. And not just them — Henry’s own suffering was no secret. William’s abuse stretched back to his college years, despite Ellie’s warnings. William had never respected him. He used him as a stepping stone for his ambitions, invading his privacy, harboring jealousy toward Ellie, obsessed with darkness and the unnatural. His charm was a mask for his violent, manipulative nature, bending others to his will, leaving destruction in his wake.

All of it had led to one inescapable truth.

Death.

"Henry?" You stepped closer. “Do you remember when you saw this suit?”

Henry swallowed hard, eyes haunted. “The day James went missing. It… it was William. All of this. Every last one.” His voice cracked, and he sank to his knees, trembling. “William killed those children. My daughter. His own flesh and blood.” He slammed his fist into the floor. “Why? Why her? Why them? What… what did they ever do to deserve this?”

Michael’s jaw tightened. You crouched beside Henry, trying to offer comfort that felt painfully futile.

“Henry, we can take this to the police. The bodies—this is concrete. Finally, proof.” Your voice was gentle but insistent.

Henry shook his head, a hollow bitterness in his eyes. “It’s never enough. You don’t understand… William’s meticulous. The bodies are here, sure. But he’s like a ghost. Last time the police checked, there were no fingerprints, no weapon, no witnesses who weren't scared silent or too broken to speak. The police found nothing. No evidence that would stick.”

He stared at the floor. “The children, trapped in those suits, decomposing. The bodies were twisted and hidden in a way where no one would even think to look. There was blood smeared over floors, yet he cleaned just enough to fool anyone's eyes. He's that sadistic, he knows how to haunt those who know where to look. William controls every detail. He’s always one step ahead—destroying any proof before it can be found.”

Michael’s face twisted with rage. “So we just let him get away with it? Henry, it's still worth a shot to report the bodies!”

Henry’s hands clenched into fists. “I’ve lived with this hell for months and years, Michael. William’s lies—his charm—fool everyone.” He locked eyes with the boy. “Remember what he did for you? You committed manslaughter. You should’ve been arrested, charged like anyone else. But William made the truth vanish—fast. It was in such a way, that no-one even raised an eyebrow.” Henry shook his head bitterly. “He didn’t do that out of love. No. He did it because you’re tied to his legacy, and it would’ve ruined his business.”

Michael said nothing, the truth pressing down on him, hard.

"The police have nothing to hold onto but shadows and rumors. Without ironclad proof, they won’t touch him," Henry continued. "You see where I'm going with this, don't you?"

His voice broke, eyes hollow pools of grief and fury. “I want to stop him. I want justice. But right now… all I have is this unbearable weight of knowing about this, and knowing that the law won't do anything unless there's evidence. We have to be smarter. We have to be careful.”

He stood slowly, shoulders heavy. “Tomorrow, we start building a case that no one can ignore. I... I..." His voice faltered. He turned and walked away, unable to stay. Down the corridor, you heard him quietly cry.

Michael’s voice broke the silence. Distant, broken.

“So… my father is a serial killer. I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

You stayed silent, haunted by the images burning behind your eyes.

“Amy… I... I’m sorry. I wish none of this had happened. He’s destroyed everything. Your life, mine, all of it.” He pulled you into a fierce, desperate embrace. “He’s a monster. And I’m so... sorry.”

Holding him close, your tears finally fell—and soon, his as well.

PART 4