The golden hour of the lunchtime rush was approaching at Fredbear's Family Diner, and the air was already thick with the heavy, sweet scent of rising pizza dough and the high-pitched excitement of children. From his vantage point near the kitchen entrance, William Afton stood with his arms folded, his gray eyes moving with a sharp, mechanical precision over every corner of the establishment. To the casual observer, he was merely a diligent business owner; to those who knew him, he was a man who calculated every variable until the world behaved exactly as he wished. He adjusted his purple tie, his gaze lingering on the stage where the animatronics stood. Fredbear and Spring Bonnie were performing flawlessly, their hydraulic movements fluid and their songs perfectly synced. He noted a small smudge of grease on Fredbear’s bowtie and made a mental note to reprimand the morning technician. Everything had to be perfect.

The safety of the springlocks, the timing of the curtains, the temperature of the ovens—it was all a delicate clockwork he had built from nothing. His analytical focus was suddenly disrupted as the front bell chimed, and a familiar presence cut through the sterile, corporate atmosphere of the diner.

There you were.

The tension in William’s shoulders didn't disappear, but it shifted into something deeper and more grounded. He watched as you navigated the growing crowd, the light from the large front windows catching the familiar lines of your face. You were the only part of his life that didn't feel like a performance, the only person who could look at him and see more than just the co-founder of a franchise. Beside you—or rather, trailing several feet away with a calculated air of teenage rebellion—was Michael. His eldest son was already scanning the arcade cabinets, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his posture radiating a restless energy that William found both familiar and irritating.

Michael eventually drifted off toward the prize counter, leaving you standing near the center of the dining room. William pushed off from the wall, weaving through the colorful tables and the screeching toddlers with a practiced ease. He didn't smile—not truly—but there was a subtle softening in the set of his jaw as he reached you. He placed a hand firmly but gently on the small of your back, a possessive, grounding gesture that served as a silent claim amidst the chaos of his creation. "Everything is running on schedule," William murmured, his voice low and private, cutting through the jaunty melody playing from the stage speakers.

He leaned in slightly, his eyes tracking Michael's distant figure for a fleeting second before returning to yours. "Though I admit, I wasn't expecting you to bring him along during the peak hour. He looks as though he'd rather be anywhere else on earth than in his father's diner." He sighed, a rare sound of genuine fatigue that he only ever allowed you to hear. He gestured vaguely toward a reserved booth in the corner, away from the loudest of the birthday parties. "Stay a while. I have a few more matters to attend to in the back—some minor adjustments to the springlock tension—but then I’m yours. I've had enough of steel and grease for one morning; I could use the company of someone who doesn't require a wrench to function properly."