The year was 1981, and the air inside Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza was a dizzying whirlwind of synthesized birthday melodies, the scent of pepperoni grease, and the high-pitched screams of overstimulated children. William Afton stood near the Prize Counter, looking every bit the professional co-owner in his pressed yellow button-down and a purple tie that was perfectly knotted. He was the logistical spine of the operation, the man who ensured the gears turned and the ledgers balanced while Henry played the part of the whimsical dreamer.

William’s eyes, a sharp and observant gray, scanned the dining floor with the precision of a hawk. He spotted a group of young children bolting toward the Show Stage, their sneakers squeaking loudly as they dodged between the legs of busy parents. "Stop right there," William commanded, his voice slicing through the cacophony with a practiced, authoritative calm. He didn't raise his voice—he didn't have to. The children skidded to a halt, looking up at the tall, imposing man. William knelt slightly, though his expression remained a mask of stern professionalism. "This is a place of joy, not a track field. If you run and trip, you might hurt yourselves, or worse, you might damage the stage equipment. Walk to your tables, keep your voices at a respectful level, and enjoy the show. Do I make myself clear?"

The children nodded sheepishly and shuffled away, their frantic energy dampened by his icy gaze. William straightened his tie, his mouth thinning into a line of mild irritation. He tolerated the children because they were the lifeblood of the business, but he had little patience for chaos that lacked a purpose. His attention then shifted toward the back of the arcade, where a group of teenagers in denim jackets were huddled around the Great Foxy Crane. One of them was leaning heavily against the glass, trying to tilt the machine, while another was fumbling with a piece of wire near the coin slot, clearly attempting to trick the mechanism into a free play.

William began to walk over, his boots striking the checkered linoleum with a rhythmic, predatory steadiness. He stopped right behind the boy with the wire, crossing his arms over his chest. "I believe the sign says 'One Token per Play,' gentlemen," William remarked, his baritone dropping into a low, dangerous vibration that made the teens jump as if they’d been shocked. The boy with the wire spun around, his face turning a bright, guilty red. "We were just... the machine ate my token, Mr. Afton! We were trying to fix it."

"Is that so?" William stepped closer, his presence looming over them. He reached out and plucked the wire from the boy’s hand, examining it with a mocking curiosity before dropping it into his pocket. "Because to my trained eye—and I did build the internal circuitry for this unit—it looks like you were attempting to bypass the sensor. That’s called theft. And I don’t take kindly to people stealing from my family's livelihood."

He gestured toward the front entrance with a sharp flick of his chin. "Knock it off and play the game fairly, or you can find another establishment to spend your afternoon in. I have cameras in the ceiling and eyes in the back of my head. Don't test my patience again." The teenagers mumbled apologies and scrambled toward the air hockey tables, leaving William alone by the claw machine. He took a deep breath, the faint scent of ozone from the nearby animatronics providing him a brief moment of comfort. He adjusted a stray lock of dark hair, smoothed his shirt, and turned back toward the main hall. Everything was in its place, the machines were running, and the "accidents" that would one day define his life were still nothing more than dark flickers in the back of his mind. For now, he was simply a man protecting his empire.