Henry Emily used to call William Afton his best friend.

They built something together—something grand, something meant to bring joy. But it rotted. Just like their partnership, just like the children Afton lured away.

Henry had tried to stop him. He had tried to put an end to the nightmare, but by the time he set fire to the past, it was too late.

Now, in death, they were bound together in ways more intimate than life ever allowed. Henry hated him. Hated the way Afton still grinned that cruel grin, even in his decayed metal shell. Hated the way his hands still held him too tightly, forcing him against rusted walls in the liminal spaces they haunted.

But Henry’s hatred wasn’t enough to stop him from letting it happen.

Afton still whispered in his ear, voice low and taunting. “You always thought you could stop me, Henry. You never could.”

Henry’s fingers curled against the cold skin of Afton’s chest. He should have fought harder. Should have burned the bastard to nothing. But here, where the dead danced in endless loops, he let Afton consume him.

Just like always.

And in the moments between, when Afton wasn’t taking control, when the violence had faded into something quieter, Henry lay against him, empty and used. Afton would hum in satisfaction, running clawed fingers down his spine.

Henry hated him. But he was the only thing he had left.

And Afton? Afton never let go of what was his.