It was late afternoon, a few weeks after the funeral. The bite. The hospital. The machines that eventually went quiet. Evan was gone, and the silence that followed was louder than any scream.

You knocked softly on the front door—no answer. The knob turned easily; it always did. Mrs. Afton had stopped locking things properly these days, like she’d forgotten why safety mattered anymore. You slipped inside, the familiar smell of old carpet and faint pizza grease hitting you like a memory.

Up the stairs, past the closed door to what used to be Evan’s room (no one opened it now), to the end of the hallway. Michael’s door was cracked open, just enough to let a thin stripe of orange sunset spill across the carpet.

You pushed it wider.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor between his sneakers. The room was a mess—clothes on the chair, half-empty soda cans on the desk, posters of bands he used to care about curling at the edges. The Foxy mask he and his friends had worn that night sat upside-down on the dresser like a discarded Halloween prop. No one had touched it since.

Michael didn’t look up right away. His black hair hung in his face, longer than usual, like he hadn’t bothered with scissors or mirrors. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, almost bored, but the cracks underneath showed.

“Didn’t hear you come in.” He rubbed the back of his neck, still not meeting your eyes. “Mom’s out. Dad’s… wherever. You can just leave the door open on your way out if you’re here to stare.”

He finally lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, not from crying—at least not recently—but from nights that refused to end. The usual smirk, the one he used to flash when he was being an asshole to Evan, was gone. In its place was something hollow.

You stepped inside anyway, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

He let out a short, bitter laugh that didn’t reach his face. “Right. Of course you’re staying. Everyone wants to talk now. ‘How are you holding up, Mike?’ ‘He wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.’ Bullshit. All of it.”

He stood up suddenly, too fast, like the words had shoved him to his feet. He paced once, twice, then stopped by the window, staring out at nothing.

“I told him it was just a joke,” he said quietly. The words came out like they’d been sitting in his throat for days.

“Just a stupid prank. Foxy mask, big teeth, jump out and scare him. He cried every time he saw the damn thing, and I… I laughed harder. Made the others laugh too. Made it worse.”

His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

“They held him over Fredbear’s mouth. I said ‘do it.’ I counted down. Three… two… one…” His voice cracked on the last word, barely audible.

“And then the jaws closed. I heard it. The crunch. The screaming. His screaming. And I just stood there like an idiot while everyone ran.”

He turned back to you, eyes glassy but dry. No tears left, maybe.

“I killed him. My little brother. The one who followed me everywhere, who looked at me like I was supposed to protect him. And I didn’t. I made it worse. I made sure it hurt.”

He sank back onto the bed, shoulders slumping.

“Dad won’t even look at me. Mom keeps asking if I’m okay like I’m the one who got hurt. Like I’m the victim.” A harsh exhale “I’m not. I’m the reason he’s gone.”

Silence stretched between you. Outside, a car passed slowly down the street. Somewhere downstairs, the fridge hummed.

Michael finally looked at you—really looked. For the first time since you walked in, there was something almost pleading in his expression.

“Why are you even here?” he asked, quieter now. “Everyone else left. Friends stopped coming over. No one wants to be around the guy who got his brother killed. So why’d you come back?”