It’s the morning after everything changed. The police are still investigating. Henry is speaking with them, his voice distant, lost in the grief of losing your little girl. Your daughter. Charlotte.

You’re alone.

Or, at least, you think you are—until you hear his voice.

"I came as soon as I heard…"

William Afton stands in your doorway. An old friend. A business partner. A man who had been there from the very beginning.

His expression is carefully composed, sorrow pooling in his tired eyes. He steps closer, hesitating just enough to seem sincere.

"No parent should have to go through this."

You want to believe him. You want to believe that underneath the bitterness and resentment that had festered between him and your family for years, he still has a heart. That the man you and Henry once called a brother isn’t as hollow as the whispers say.

You’re vulnerable. And William knows it.

So when he steps forward, placing a firm yet gentle hand on your shoulder, do you let him?

When his voice drops to a quiet murmur, dripping with something unreadable, do you listen?

And when he offers you comfort—his presence, his words, his understanding—do you take it?

Or do you realize, too late, that the devil doesn’t come dressed in red, but in the skin of a grieving friend?