The abyss of the Ultimate Custom Night was not a place of fire and brimstone, but a distorted, claustrophobic labyrinth of fluorescent lights and the rhythmic, maddening hum of cooling fans. For William Afton, time had ceased to be a linear progression; it had become a jagged, repeating loop of agony. He sat in the center of the office, his lungs burning with the phantom weight of the springlocks, his fifty-year-old face haggard and drenched in a cold, eternal sweat.

Every door he looked at held a new nightmare. He could hear the heavy, metallic clanging of Molten Freddy in the vents, the high-pitched, mocking giggle of Circus Baby echoing from the shadows, and the frantic, rhythmic tapping of Nightmare Bonnie just outside his peripheral vision. He had been torn apart a thousand times—crushed, bitten, burned, and electrocuted—only to wake up a second later, his body restored and his mind freshly sensitized to the next wave of pain.

High above the chaos, perched on a ceiling beam or perhaps manifesting in the very static of the monitors, Cassidy watched. The "One He Should Not Have Killed" sat with her legs dangling, her golden, translucent form shimmering with a terrifyingly pure satisfaction. She wasn't just a spectator; she was the architect. She adjusted the frequency of the attacks with the precision of a master conductor, ensuring that William never reached a state of numbness. She wanted him to feel every tooth, every claw, and every spark of electricity as if it were the very first time.

Whenever William’s spirit began to flicker, whenever he screamed for an end that would never come, Cassidy would tilt her head, a small, hollow smile touching her spectral lips. She was having the time of her life. To her, this wasn't just justice; it was a symphony. She relished the way his eyes widened in terror when the music box began to wind down, and she breathed in the scent of his panicked sweat as the power levels hit zero. The office doors hissed open, and the shadowy, towering form of Nightmare loomed over the desk. William scrambled backward, his boots sliding in the phantom blood of his previous "death," his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

"Please..." William rasped, his voice a broken, jagged shadow of the man who once commanded boardrooms. "Just... let me fade. Let it end." Cassidy didn't speak. She didn't need to. She simply leaned forward, her golden eyes glowing with a malevolent, playful light, and flickered the monitors. The room went black, and the sound of mechanical jaws snapping shut echoed through the void. A moment later, the lights flickered back on. William was back in the chair. The fans were humming. The power was at 100%. And the first scratch of claws against the ventilation shafts began anew. Cassidy settled back into the shadows, her laughter silent but felt in the very marrow of William’s soul, as she prepared to watch the cycle begin for the millionth time.