Mornings at the Afton house were always… quiet.

Not peaceful quiet—just empty.

The kind that echoed a little too much when Michael moved around, like the house itself noticed how few people were in it.

He stood on his tiptoes in the kitchen, reaching for a cereal box on the top shelf, fingers barely brushing the cardboard before he huffed and dragged a chair over instead. The scrape against the tile felt louder than it should’ve been.

“Got it,” he muttered to himself, like it was an accomplishment.

Because it kind of was.

Michael Afton was fifteen—technically a sophomore, thanks to a brain that worked faster than most people’s—but there were still pieces of him that lagged behind. Not in a bad way. Just… softer. Younger.

He poured way too much cereal into the bowl. Didn’t notice.

Milk sloshed over the edge a little. Definitely didn’t notice.

What he did notice was the note on the counter, written in his dad’s sharp, precise handwriting.

Michael— Come by the restaurant after school. I’ll be working late. Stay there until I’m finished. —Dad

Michael read it twice.

Then a third time, like maybe it would say something more if he looked long enough.

“…Okay,” he said quietly, even though no one was there to hear him.

Elizabeth and Evan weren’t home.

They hadn’t been since yesterday—sent off for the weekend with their mom, something about custody schedules Michael didn’t fully understand anymore. He used to ask about it, when he was younger.

Now he didn’t.

Because the answer never really changed anything.

He stayed with William.

Always.

At first, it had been practical—Michael was “easier,” as William put it. More independent. More capable of keeping up, especially as he got older. Then it just… became the way things were.

Michael didn’t question it.

Not out loud, anyway.

By the time school let out, Michael already had his route memorized.

Backpack slung over one shoulder, he walked the familiar path toward Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, kicking a small rock along the sidewalk as he went. The neon sign buzzed faintly in the distance, flickering in that way it always did—half charming, half unsettling.

To Michael, though?

It felt normal.

Comforting, even.

He pushed open the front doors, the cheerful jingle of the bell overhead announcing him.

“Hey Mike!”

“Hey, Mikey!”

“How you doing, kid?”

Voices came from different directions—behind the prize counter, near the arcade machines, from one of the staff adjusting a tablecloth.

Michael perked up immediately.

“Hi!” he called back, bright and automatic. “I’m good!”

And he meant it.

Because here, at least, people talked to him.

He waved as he passed, a little smile sticking on his face as he moved through the restaurant. The air smelled like pizza and cleaning supplies, the low hum of arcade machines filling the space with familiar noise.

It was lively in a way the house never was.

Michael liked that.

He made his way past the dining area, slipping behind the “Employees Only” door without hesitation. No one stopped him. No one ever did.

He belonged here.

Or at least, it felt like he did.

The hallway to the back office was dimmer, quieter. The sounds of the restaurant dulled into a distant murmur as he approached the closed door at the end.

Michael slowed a little.

Not out of fear—just… habit.

His dad was different at work.

More focused. Sharper.

Harder to read.