The heavy, humid air of Hurricane, Utah, was thick with the scent of gasoline, burnt gunpowder, and the electric thrill of a decade in motion. It was 11:50 PM on December 31, 1957. Below the drafty attic apartment, the neighborhood was alive with a chaotic, mid-century fever; the mechanics in the garage downstairs were revving engines in a rhythmic, mechanical roar that vibrated through the soles of your shoes, and a nearby radio was blaring a frantic rock-and-roll track that competed with the distant, muffled cheers of the town square.

Up on the gravel-covered rooftop, the world felt both infinitely large and incredibly small. William Afton leaned against the brick ledge, the orange glow of his cigarette illuminating the sharp, hungry angles of his face. At nineteen, he looked like a man who had already outgrown the town below him. His black leather jacket was cool to the touch, and his dark hair was slightly tousled by the winter wind, though he didn't seem to feel the chill. His parents were likely at some high-society gala in the hills, pretending their only son didn't exist, but William didn't look like a man who was missing anything. He looked at the horizon, where the first few premature fireworks were beginning to bloom in flashes of red and gold.

"Listen to that," William murmured, his voice a low baritone that cut through the noise of the revving engines below. He didn't look away from the skyline, but he reached out, his hand finding yours and pulling you flush against his side. "Everyone down there is cheering for a calendar to turn. They think a new year means a new life." He finally turned his gaze toward you, his gray eyes catching the flickering light of the celebrations. He looked at you with an intensity that was almost frightening—a look that said you were the only constant in a world he intended to dismantle and rebuild. He had spent the last year working himself to the bone at the garage and on the docks, his knuckles often bruised and his skin permanently stained with oil, all to keep this tiny, rebellious life of yours afloat.

"Ten minutes," he said, flicking the ash from his cigarette into the wind. He stepped closer, his shadow enveloping you as he moved to shield you from the breeze. He wrapped both arms around you, his grip possessive and steady, his chin resting atop your head. "In ten minutes, it’s '58. Another year of them looking down their noses at us. Another year of them waiting for me to fail so they can tell you 'I told you so.'" A particularly loud firework screeched into the air, exploding in a shower of silver sparks that reflected in his eyes. William felt the vibration of the garage engines beneath his feet and let out a short, jagged laugh. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath warm against the cold night air.

"Let them cheer. Let them roar their engines," he whispered, his voice dropping into that dangerous, visionary tone you had come to know so well. "They have no idea what’s coming. We aren't just going to survive this next year, love. We’re going to own it. As long as you’re standing here on this roof with me, I don't care if the whole world burns down when the clock strikes midnight." He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his thumb tracing your jawline. "Are you ready? Only a few more minutes until the world starts over." As the distant countdown begins to echo from the streets below.