Chapter Text
He’d always been intimidating. That was by design.
The baggy tank tops, the chains, the shaggy hair falling in his eyes like a curtain. The scowl that came easy and the sharp tongue he never bothered to dull. People stayed away because he made them uncomfortable, and that used to make him feel powerful.
Now, it felt different.
They weren’t avoiding him because he looked like trouble.
They were avoiding him because he was trouble.
Not just some punk with an attitude, no, now he was the guy whose brother got his head crushed at a birthday party. The one who dragged a screaming eleven-year-old to the stage. The one who laughed.
Michael didn’t laugh anymore.
The whispers followed him.
“That’s him.”
“He’s the one.”
“I heard his dad owns that place. I bet he told him to do it.”
“He used to hang out with those other guys, right? Didn’t they transfer?”
“They made fun of the kid before it happened.”
He could hear all of it, even when they thought he couldn’t. Especially then.
No one said it to his face, though. No one dared. Michael was still big, still sharp-edged, still the guy who broke a sophomore’s nose for looking at him wrong in ninth grade. But he saw how they flinched when he reached into his locker. How they walked in wide arcs around him. Like they thought he might snap.
He used to like that feeling. Now, it made him feel cold.
It wasn’t respect.
It was fear.
The halls that used to echo with teenage noise and restless energy were quieter whenever Michael walked through them. Conversations dulled when he entered a room. He wasn't sure if it was guilt, fear, or both, but eyes followed him like ghosts.
He heard one girl say, “That’s the kid whose brother got his face bit off.” Another added, “They say he did it.” Michael didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.
Jeremy hadn’t sat with him at lunch since the birthday. He still showed up to school, still hung out with the guys from shop class, but there was always distance now. If Michael looked over his shoulder, he’d sometimes catch Jeremy watching him, just a glance, and then nothing. He never said anything.
Max and Simon, however, were gone. Word had gotten around that their parents switched them to different schools. Too much heat. Too much bad press. And in the quiet spaces between classes, Michael wondered if they even missed him… or if they’d ever talk again.
It was just him now. Him and the memory of what happened.
The supernatural wasn’t gone either. If anything, it was louder now, like whatever was lurking in the background had seen its opening and was pushing closer.
In the corner of the locker room, a puddle of water moved against gravity, forming into shapes before sloshing harmlessly down the drain.
The school’s projector screens sometimes flickered on without warning, playing silent clips of Freddy Fazbear themed birthday parties from years ago, grainy, low quality, too short to understand, but enough to twist Michael’s stomach.
One afternoon, he passed the janitor’s closet and saw the Chica mask hanging on a hook inside, except no one had put it there. And when he opened the door again seconds later, it was gone.
He told no one.
At home, even Marbles, their black cat, temperamental and queenly, had started acting strange. She hissed at the corners of the room. Sometimes she’d sit by the front door and growl low in her throat like something was just outside. Michael would stare into the darkness of the hallway for a long time after that.
----
A few days after David was brought home, Michael passed by William’s office on the way to the kitchen. The door was cracked open, and he heard the familiar low murmur of his father’s voice.
Not angry. Just business.
“…yes, I’ve seen the sketches,” William said. “But if you want them operational by opening day, we’ll need to split the load. I can finish Toy Chica and Toy Bonnie, I'll leave the rest to you.”
Michael slowed his steps.
“I know we’re behind. You’re the one that wants to rush the new location. If we push too fast, you’ll have another Freddy’s situation on your hands.”
Pause. Muffled response from the other end of the line.
“I said the same thing,” William replied. “Security measures are a must. Not just protocols, but facial recognition features. This isn’t just a party space anymore. We both know that.”
Michael held his breath. That voice on the other end, it had to be Henry.
He’d heard of him before. William’s business partner. A name muttered under his breath, grumbled during late-night rants in the workshop when something broke or a budget was denied.
Michael had only seen him from afar, back when Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza was still open, walking through the halls in a neat button-up and talking with the younger employees like a teacher or a priest. Polite. Clean. The opposite of William.
He also knew, vaguely, that Henry had a daughter.
He’d never met her. Never even seen her. But that was the extent of what he knew.
Still, it was strange hearing his father speak so cordially to someone he clearly didn’t like. Almost like he respected him. Almost.
Michael backed away before he could be seen. Something about that call left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He wasn’t sure why.
----
That night, as Michael lay in bed, the shadows felt heavier than usual. The moonlight filtered through his blinds, casting pale stripes across the floor. Every creak in the walls, every breath of wind outside, made him stiffen.
The music box played again.
It was faint, almost drowned out by the hum of the house, but it was real. He was sure of it.
Soft. Childlike. Out of place.
He didn’t own a music box.
No one did.
And yet there it was, in the dark, playing something he swore he’d heard before, but couldn’t place.
The air went cold.
The music box stopped.
Silence crept in like a fog.
Michael sat up in bed, his sheets twisted around his legs, his room dimly lit by the soft glow of a streetlamp outside. He rubbed his eyes hard enough to see stars, trying to shake the image of that slow-turning music box drum from his brain. But the air still felt wrong. He didn’t know how else to explain it. It was like stepping into a room and instantly sensing you weren’t alone.
And the worst part?
That feeling hadn’t left since the party.
His room, once his little fortress of solitude and punk cassette tapes, now felt like it was watching him. The posters on the wall, crinkled from age, seemed to hang heavier. The shadows beneath his bed felt just a little too dark. Even Marbles, usually curled up by his door, was nowhere to be seen.
Michael got up.
He needed to move, to breathe somewhere else.
So he crept down the hallway, barefoot on the creaking floorboards. Past Elizabeth’s door, cracked open with the soft sound of her playing a radio low. Past the bathroom, where the faucet always dripped once or twice after midnight.
And into the old den.
Now it was more like a second living room-turned-sickroom. They had moved David here after the hospital. Healed better at home, the doctors said. Familiar environment. More comfortable.
Michael pushed the door open gently.
The TV was on with the sound muted, playing an old cartoon with janky animation and bright, twitchy colors. The curtains were drawn shut, but the light from the screen cast long, jittery shadows across the walls.
Most likely thanks to Elizabeth.
David was in the bed. Small and still.
Strapped in carefully with padded cushions, like some frail thing made of glass and wires. His head was bandaged and tilted slightly toward the side. His breathing was shallow, but steady. His hands rested on the plush toy in his lap, a faded, well-loved Fredbear stuffed animal, worn around the edges from years of squeezing it too tight.
Michael stood in the doorway.
He didn’t speak. There was nothing to say.
He’d started coming here late at night. Just standing. Watching. Maybe to remind himself that David was still breathing. Maybe to check if he wasn’t. He didn’t know anymore.
Then, something shifted.
In the corner of his eye, near the armchair tucked beside the bookshelf-
A shape.
Round ears. Yellow fur. Glassy black eyes.
A bear.
No, that bear.
Michael’s head snapped to it.
Gone.
Just the shadow of the lamp and the furniture.
His throat tightened. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
He blinked once. Twice.
Nothing moved. David didn’t stir. The shadows stayed where they belonged.
Still… he backed out slowly. His heartbeat didn’t slow until the door clicked shut behind him.