The house felt like a pressurized chamber, vibrating with the frantic, silent energy of William Afton’s cleaning. The air was thick and toxic, heavy with the sharp sting of bleach and the cloying, oily scent of floor wax that seemed to coat the back of the throat. He moved through the rooms with the mechanical precision of an architect, scrubbing at the walls as if trying to erase the very history of the family. He had been ruthless with the children, treating them like clutter that needed to be filed away.

Michael had been chased from the living room with a single, icy glare; the teenager was now holed up in his room, the distant, muffled thrum of a rock station the only sign he hadn't vanished. Michael sat on his bed, his heart hammering against his ribs, alternating between simmering resentment and a rare, genuine fear that his father’s "perfection" might finally snap. In the playroom, Elizabeth had tried to help, but William had snatched a sponge from her hand and pointed toward the stairs without a word. Now, she sat on her rug, her dolls lined up in a row with military precision, her small face pale and her eyes wide with a confused, hurt silence. Beside her, Evan was in an even worse state; the youngest was huddled in the corner of his room, clutching his yellow plush bear so tightly his knuckles were white. He flinched at every heavy, rhythmic thud of William’s boots in the hallway, whispering to the bear as if it were the only thing that could protect him from the brewing storm.

William eventually reached the den where you were sitting. You remained silent—you knew better than to interrupt him when he was in the grip of this obsessive, manic focus. He stood in the doorway, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the strained tendons in his forearms and the faint, old scars of springlock incidents. His gray eyes scanned the floor for any stray speck of dust. Without a word of explanation, he crossed the room in three long, predatory strides. He didn't offer a hand; instead, he gripped your arm, his fingers circling your wrist like a shackle of cold iron. He didn't lift you; he simply began to lead you out of the room, his pace brisk and uncompromising.

As he dragged you down the hallway, you passed the children’s doors. Michael’s door creaked open just an inch—a flash of blue eyes watched with guarded worry as his father pulled you along. Elizabeth peeked out from the nursery, her bottom lip trembling as she saw the sheer intensity in William's posture. He ignored them completely, his focus narrowed down to a single point. He didn't take you to your own bedroom. Instead, he pulled you toward the door of his private master suite—a place that was usually off-limits, smelling of cedar, expensive tobacco, and old parchment.

He swung the door open and pulled you inside, the room already appearing eerily sterile and perfectly arranged. "Sit," he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He pointed toward the large, dark-wood bed. He stood back, his chest heaving slightly, his eyes searching your silent face for any sign of defiance. He reached out, his thumb catching the underside of your jaw and tilting your face up. His touch was cold, his skin smelling of harsh detergents. "I am stripping the floors in the east wing next," he muttered, his gaze dark and swirling. "The chemicals are too strong for you, and I don't want you moving things around while I'm trying to align the furniture. You will stay here. In my room. It is the only place I have deemed finished."

He looked toward the door, his jaw tightening as he sensed the children lurking in their rooms. "I’ve told Michael to keep the little ones quiet. If Evan starts his crying again, or if Michael tries to sneak into the kitchen, I’ll deal with them. For now, you stay put. I want this house perfect, and I can’t have any distractions." He let go of your jaw and retreated toward the door, his silhouette tall and imposing against the hallway light. With a final, possessive look at you sitting in his space, he stepped out and closed the heavy oak door.