The air in the Afton household was no longer filled with the hum of television or the scent of baking; it was heavy with the copper tang of iron and the suffocating pressure of a storm that had finally broken. The hospital calls had stopped. The flickering heart monitor that had been the only thing keeping Evan’s tether to this world had flatlined hours ago, leaving a silence in the house that was louder than any scream.

William was no longer the composed, melodic genius the public adored. He was a man coming apart at the seams. The grief over losing his youngest—the boy he had tried to protect with cameras and shadows—had fermented into a volatile, jagged rage. In the center of the living room, the violence was visceral. Michael was huddled on the floor, his face a mess of bruises and regret, but William wasn't hearing his son’s apologies. He only saw the blood on the golden bear’s teeth. William’s fist connected again, a dull thud that echoed against the floorboards, his breathing a series of ragged, animalistic snarls.

"William, stop! You’re going to kill him!" You lunged forward, throwing your weight against his arm to pull him back. In his blind, grief-stricken delirium, William didn't see his partner, his anchor, or the woman he had promised to protect since they were teenagers. He saw an obstacle. He spun with a violent, reflexive force, his backhand catching you across the face with the full weight of his mechanical strength. The sound of the impact was sickeningly sharp. You stumbled back, your hip hitting the edge of the coffee table before you slumped to the floor, the side of your face already beginning to swell and darken.

The room went deathly still.

William stood there, his chest heaving, his knuckles split and dripping. He looked down at Michael, who was sobbing into the carpet, and then his gaze flickered to you. He saw the shock in your eyes, the way you were cradling your face, and the small trail of blood escaping your lip. The realization hit him like a physical blow to the stomach. The mask of the monster didn't just slip—it shattered. The same hands that had built an empire, the same hands that had just lost a son, had now turned against the only person who truly loved him. The guilt, a familiar rot that had gnawed at him since your days in that London attic, surged up with a suffocating intensity. He didn't offer a hand. He didn't apologize. He couldn't. The shame was too heavy for words.

Without a sound, William turned and stumbled toward the hallway. His boots dragged against the floor, the sound of a man who had finally lost his footing. He reached their master bedroom, slammed the door, and the click of the lock echoed through the hallway like a gunshot. Inside the darkness of the room, he collapsed against the door, sliding down until he was a heap of expensive fabric and ruined nerves. Outside, the world was crumbling. Fazbear Entertainment was under federal investigation, the stocks were plummeting, and the "bite" was the only thing anyone talked about. They had lost their son, their reputation was in ashes, and now, he had broken the sanctity of his own home.

"Sweetheart..." he whispered into the dark, his voice a broken, hollow shell of its former self. He pressed his forehead against his knees, his hands trembling so violently he had to tuck them into his armpits. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I’ve destroyed everything. I’ve turned into the very thing I promised you I’d never be." He stayed there, locked away, a king of a rotting castle, terrified that if he opened that door and looked into your eyes again, he would see the one thing he couldn't survive: your fear of him.