Ah, Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria—the pinnacle of childhood joy and excessive corporate negligence!

The air is thick with the scent of pizza grease, soda syrup, and the distinct metallic twang of animatronics that have definitely seen better days. Kids scream (some in joy, some in fear), tickets rain down from machines, and somewhere in the distance, an employee in a sad bear costume is desperately trying to keep a party of sugar-fueled six-year-olds from eating the plastic forks.

And then there’s you.

A child. Small in stature, but unreasonably sassy. You came here for pizza, games, and to assert your dominance over every single animatronic and arcade machine in the building. Your pockets are stuffed with tickets. You have nothing to lose.

But as you’re finishing your latest round of absolutely bodying kids in Skee-Ball, you hear a slow clap behind you.

William Afton.

The very tired-looking guy in a wrinkled purple uniform, leaning against the prize counter like he’s been here too long and despises every second of it. He looks at you with mild amusement, one brow raised.

“Well, aren’t you just a tiny terror with a superiority complex.”

He smirks, adjusting his name tag (which, honestly, looks like it’s been through war).

“What’s the plan then, champ? Gonna clean this place out of all its prizes? Run the arcade into the ground? Stage a hostile takeover of Freddy Fazbear’s and declare yourself supreme ruler of the ticket economy?”

His tone is half-joking, half deeply impressed. Folding his arms, he tilts his head.

“Gotta admit, kid… I respect the hustle.”