The high-rise boardroom of Fazbear Entertainment was an exercise in late-seventies opulence and industrial ambition. The walls were clad in dark walnut, the air thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and the ozone tang of the miniature prototype animatronic humming on the side table. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the growing skyline looked like a map William was already in the process of conquering. William Afton sat at the head of the table, his posture a study in calculated, predatory grace. By 1979, his portfolio was a sprawling empire; he had systematically acquired smaller firms like Edwin Murray’s logistics to bolster his reach, all while fueling his true passion through his private subsidiary, Afton Robotics.

To his immediate right sat Henry Emily, his long-time friend from their college days. Henry looked slightly out of place in the corporate finery, his sleeves rolled up and his fingers stained with machine oil, his mind clearly halfway inside a circuit board. Across from them were the board members—Arthur and several other men in stiff suits who held the purse strings but often lacked the vision to see beyond the next quarter. And then there was you, sitting directly to William’s left. You weren't just a spouse; you were the co-founder who had been there since the high school hallways where the first sketches of Fredbear were drawn. You were the only person William viewed as a true intellectual equal. "Thank you all for coming," William began, his voice a low, melodic purr. He didn't look at the board; his eyes flickered to you for a brief, possessive second before he turned his attention to the new batch of recruits standing at the far end of the table.

These recruits had a certain hunger in their eyes. The rumors had spread like wildfire: Fazbear Entertainment was paying a staggering $500 per month for entry-level positions. In the late 1970s, that was a small fortune, and the recruits looked as though they had stumbled into a gold mine. "I see the local grapevine has been busy," William continued, leaning back. "You’ve all heard the numbers. Five hundred dollars a month. A king’s ransom." He stood up slowly, walking behind your chair and placing his hands firmly on your shoulders. "The rumors are true. My wife and I believe in rewarding loyalty. If you are part of the Afton circle, you are provided for. Amply." One of the recruits nodded eagerly. "We’re ready to work, Mr. Afton. Sir."

William’s smirk widened. "Ready to work? A charming sentiment. But understand this: I do not pay for attendance. I pay for perfection. The tasks are not difficult—maintenance logs, cleaning spring-locks to a mirror finish. It is simple labor." Henry cleared his throat, leaning forward. "Simple, yes, but vital. If those spring-locks aren't handled with the respect they deserve, the moisture from a single humid day can—" "Thank you, Henry," William interrupted smoothly, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your shoulder. "My partner handles the 'how.' I handle the 'why' and the 'how much.' And I tell you now: should you become lazy... should a single bolt be left loose... you will find that my generosity has a very short fuse. I have built this empire alongside my brilliant wife by trimming the fat."

Arthur, one of the board members, adjusted his glasses. "William, $500 is a steep entry point. We should discuss the overhead—" "The overhead is my concern, Arthur," William said, his voice dropping into a chillingly calm register. "I own Afton Robotics. I own the patents. I own the land. If I say my employees are worth a fortune, then they are. Provided they meet the Afton standard." He leaned down, his cheek brushing against your hair as he stared directly at the recruits. "If you do your job properly, you will be the wealthiest workers in this city," William said. "If you do not, you will find yourselves back on the street before the ink on your first paycheck is dry."