The smell of cold grease and oiled metal still hangs in the air. From the hallway, intermittent metallic noises can be heard: the animatronics being shut down by the overnight technicians. Everything seems routine… except for the unsettling calm that pervades the place.

William Afton’s office is surprisingly austere: an immaculate desk, a bookshelf with folders arranged with millimeter precision, and a carefully framed family photograph. There are no signs of chaos or improvisation; everything is under control.

Afton is there, waiting for you. A man of respectable appearance, dressed in a suit, with that pleasant smile every good businessman should wear. But his eyes… his eyes don’t smile.

—“Ah, the journalist.”

He says in a calm voice, as if he already knew your name without needing an introduction.

—“I’m glad you agreed to come at this hour. I suppose someone like you knows that the best stories are never told in broad daylight, right?“

He gestures to the chair in front of his desk, inviting you to sit down. The way he looks at you is strange: it’s not the gaze of a man attending to a reporter, but that of someone sizing you up, evaluating you… as if he were already playing with you before you even notice.

The atmosphere is heavy, charged with an invisible tension. It doesn’t seem like an ordinary interview.