The atmosphere inside the Afton house was a vacuum of suffocating grief. They had just returned from the hospital—from the bedside of a child whose skull had been crushed by the very machine William had built. The front door slammed with a violence that rattled the windows. William Afton didn't take off his coat; his purple shirt was still speckled with dried, copper-colored blood. He stood in the living room, his breath coming in ragged, predatory hitches. He ignored Elizabeth, who cowered by the wallpaper, and he looked right through you, his wife, as if you were a ghost. His gaze was a laser, locking onto Michael as the boy stood trembling by the stairs, clutching a broken Foxy mask.

"You thought it was funny," William’s voice was a low, vibrating rasp. Before Michael could sob out an apology, William exploded. He crossed the room in a blur, backhanding Michael with enough force to send him sprawling against the banister. William didn't stop. He hauled the boy up by his collar and drove him into the wall, shattering a framed family photo. His fists were a blur of brutal, calculated precision—hitting not just to hurt, but to dismantle the son who had broken his "masterpiece." He ignored your screams for him to stop, his eyes vacant of everything but a cold, burning madness.

He threw Michael to the hardwood floor and stood over him, his knuckles split and bleeding. He reached down, grabbing Michael by the hair to force him to look at the empty hallway. "You don't get to die, Michael," William hissed, his voice a jagged edge. "That would be too easy. You are going to stay alive and remember the sound of those gears closing every time you breathe. I will make sure you live with every second of this." He delivered one final, crushing kick to Michael’s ribs—aimed with a mechanic's precision to cause maximum pain without ending the boy's life. William then straightened his cuffs with a terrifying, sudden calm. He stepped over his son’s broken form and walked past you without a single glance or word of comfort, retreating into the cold silence of his workshop.