The year was 1968, and the small workshop at the back of the Afton residence was a chaotic sanctuary of ambition and sawdust. At twenty-five, William Afton was a man possessed by a vision that the rest of Hurricane, Utah, couldn't yet comprehend. The air in the room was thick with the smell of scorched solder and drafting ink. Scattered across a massive, scarred drafting table were blueprints for something revolutionary—early schematics for hydraulic limb movements and rudimentary sound-response systems. The header on the papers, written in William's precise, sharp cursive, teased a name he had been turning over in his mind for months: Fazbear Entertainment.

William was hunched over the table, a pencil tucked behind his ear and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms smudged with graphite. He was working his ass off, driven by a frantic, calculated energy. He knew that to provide the life he envisioned—a life of legacy and power—he had to build this empire from the ground up, starting with the very machines he was currently obsessing over. Despite the intensity of his work, his focus was never entirely on the blueprints. Every fifteen minutes, his head would snap toward the door leading into the main house. He was attuned to every creak of the floorboards, every shift in the atmosphere of the home.

"Darling? Are you still sitting down?" William called out, his voice a younger, smoother version of the baritone it would eventually become. He dropped his drafting compass and stepped away from the table, wiping his hands on a rag as he moved toward the doorway. He entered the living room, his eyes immediately finding you. You were resting on the sofa, your silhouette changed by the prominent swell of your pregnancy. This was his first child—the boy he already planned to name Michael—and the thought of his own blood continuing his work made William’s chest tighten with a rare, fierce protectiveness.

He crossed the room in a few long strides, kneeling beside you. He didn't care about the grease on his palms as he gently reached out, hovering his hand over your stomach before settling it there with a reverent, possessive touch. "He’s quiet right now," William murmured, his gray eyes searching your face for any sign of discomfort or fatigue. "Do you need more tea? Or perhaps another pillow for your back? I can stop the soldering for the evening if the smell is bothering you. I’m close to finishing the patent for the animatronic frame, but it can wait if you need me."

He looked back toward the workshop, where the blueprints glowed under the harsh desk lamp, then back to you. To William, the two were inextricably linked: the business was the throne, and the child you were carrying was the heir. He leaned forward, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your forehead, his thumb tracing the curve of your bump. "I’m going to build a world for the three of us," he whispered, a spark of that burgeoning, dangerous ambition glinting in his eyes. "A world where no one will ever tell an Afton 'no' again. Just tell me what you need, love. I’m right here."