The late afternoon sun hung low over Hurricane, Utah, casting long golden streaks across the cracked asphalt roads. Fifteen-year-old Michael Afton gripped the steering wheel of his father’s sedan like it might float away if he loosened his hold. His brand-new learner’s permit sat proudly in his wallet, edges still stiff. He’d only been driving alone for a week.

He kept replaying his dad’s voice in his head.

“Take your time, Mikey. Defensive driving. Assume everyone else is an idiot.”

William Afton wasn’t a perfect man — nobody running a place like Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza ever really slept enough to qualify as perfect — but he was a good father. He packed lunches. He showed up to school recitals. He checked Michael’s homework even after ten-hour shifts. And when Michael got his permit, William had looked prouder than he did at any grand opening.

Michael slowed as he approached the intersection just past the hardware store. The light turned green. He exhaled and eased forward.

That was when the pickup truck ran the red.

Michael saw it — just barely. Tires screeching. A flash of chrome. Someone shouting from somewhere that didn’t feel real.

He slammed on the brakes like his dad taught him. The seatbelt locked against his chest. The truck clipped the front driver’s side of the sedan, metal shrieking against metal, spinning Michael halfway into the intersection before the world finally stopped moving.

Silence came in pieces.

Then the smell — burnt rubber and something sharp and metallic. His ears rang. His hands trembled violently on the wheel.

“I didn’t—” he choked, even though no one was in the car with him. “It was green. It was green.”

The truck had skidded onto the curb. Its driver was climbing out, already shouting apologies, already saying he hadn’t seen the light change.

Michael’s heart hammered so hard it hurt.

He fumbled for the door handle, stumbling out onto shaky legs. The sedan’s hood was crumpled, one headlight shattered. Not totaled. Not destroyed. But damaged enough to make his stomach twist.

Across the street stood an old payphone bolted to a wooden utility pole. Michael swallowed hard and crossed toward it, ignoring the way his vision blurred.

His hands were shaking so badly he dropped a coin twice before finally forcing it into the slot.

Back at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, William was reviewing maintenance schedules when the office phone rang. He almost let it go to voicemail. Almost.

He picked up on the third ring.

“Freddy’s, William speaking.”

There was static. Then a sharp inhale. Then—

“D-Dad?”

Every muscle in William’s body went rigid.

“Michael?” His chair scraped loudly against the tile as he stood. “Michael, what’s wrong?”

“I—I got in an accident.” The words came out fractured, tangled in sobs he was clearly trying and failing to suppress. “It wasn’t my fault. The light was green and this truck just—he didn’t stop and I tried to brake and I— I didn’t hit anyone, I swear—”

William was already grabbing his keys.

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. My chest hurts a little from the seatbelt but I think I’m okay. The car’s messed up. I’m so sorry, Dad—”

“Michael.” William’s voice shifted — firm but impossibly gentle. “Listen to me. I don’t care about the car. I care about you. Are you bleeding?”