The house felt smaller when William Afton was angry.

Michael had known the moment Elizabeth started crying that he’d gone too far. It had been stupid—dangling Foxy’s hook just out of her reach, whispering that the animatronics came alive when little kids didn’t listen. Evan had joined in with her, both three-year-olds clinging to each other, wide-eyed and shaking. It hadn’t taken long for their sobs to carry down the hall.

William’s footsteps had followed.

“Michael.”

Just his name—sharp, clipped—had been enough to make Michael’s stomach drop. His father didn’t shout often. He didn’t need to. When William spoke, you listened the first time, or you regretted it.

“What did I tell you about scaring them?” William demanded, crouching to Elizabeth and Evan’s level, his voice instantly softer as he checked them over, wiping Elizabeth’s cheeks with his thumb. “They’re fine,” he muttered, more to himself than to Michael. Then he stood, turning slowly. “Go to your room. Now.”

Michael hadn’t argued. He never did. He’d nodded, eyes on the floor, and walked upstairs while William murmured reassurances behind him, already focused on calming the twins. That hurt more than the yelling ever did.

In his room, Michael shut the door quietly and stood there for a moment, breathing hard. The familiar posters, the scattered toys—they didn’t make him feel safe tonight. On instinct, he dropped to the floor and crawled under the bed, pulling his knees to his chest. It was dark there, dust clinging to his sleeves, the bed frame pressing close on all sides. Small. Hidden. Easier to breathe.

Time passed in a slow, awful stretch.

Then footsteps again. He recognized them immediately.

The door opened. Click. Closed.

Michael froze.

The room went silent, the kind of silence that rang in his ears. From beneath the bed, he could see William’s shoes stop just inside the doorway. There was no anger in the pause—only patience, which somehow made it worse.

“Michael,” William said calmly. “You can come out.”

Michael didn’t move. His fingers curled into the carpet.

William sighed, kneeling down, the fabric of his slacks brushing the floor. His face appeared in the narrow gap, eyes sharp and observant, already knowing. “Under the bed,” he murmured. Not surprised. Never surprised.

“You don’t hide from me,” William continued, voice low but firm. “I discipline you because I care. Because you’re the oldest, and you should know better.” His gaze softened just a fraction. “Now come out. We’re going to talk.”