The workshop was a humid, cluttered den of innovation, smelling of cedar sawdust, wood glue, and the sharp ozone of electrical testing. It was 1979, and the dream was still in its infancy—a collection of sketches and half-finished frames scattered across the floor of Henry’s garage. William Afton, thirty-five and possessed by a quiet, simmering ambition, stood by the blueprint table, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was the businessman, the visionary of systems, but today, his focus was far from the logistics of the diner they planned to open. His eyes, sharp and increasingly cold, were fixed on the central workbench.

There, Henry Emily was leaning over the golden torso of the Fredbear prototype, his face lit up with a genuine, boyish enthusiasm. But Henry wasn't working alone. You were right there beside him, your shoulder brushing his as you held a soldering iron steady, helping him navigate the complex wiring of the bear's jaw. The three of you had spent months talking about this—the diner, the joy it would bring, the legacy you would build together. But as William watched you laugh at something Henry said, a sharp, bitter needle of envy pricked at his chest. He felt like the architect of a house he wasn't allowed to live in.

"You're positioning the spring-tensioner too high, Henry," William interrupted, his voice cutting through the warmth of the room like a blade. He stepped forward, the floorboards creaking under his heavy boots. "If the moisture in the room rises even five percent during a lunch rush, those locks will be prone to slipping. You’re prioritizing the 'look' over the integrity of the build again." Henry blinked, pulling his goggles up onto his forehead and wiping a smudge of grease across his cheek. He looked at the mechanism, then back at William with a tired but patient smile. "The 'look' is what the children will see, Will. If the jaw doesn't move naturally, the magic is gone. Besides, I trust my seals." Henry’s hand dropped casually onto your shoulder as he gestured to the work you had both been doing. "And I've had the best help. We’ve double-checked the alignment together, haven't we?"

William’s jaw tightened at the casual touch, his gaze lingering on Henry’s hand before snapping up to your face. The envy in his gut twisted into a cold, possessive resolve. "Magic doesn't pay the insurance premiums when a gear snaps, Henry," William replied, his tone lowering into that smooth, persuasive baritone. He pushed himself into the space between the two of you, forcing Henry to step back slightly. He reached out, his hand hovering near yours as he pointed to a schematic on the table. "Henry provides the heart, and I provide the bones. But you... you’re the one who makes it all seem plausible to the public. It's a pity your talents are being used to hold a tool when we have so much more to discuss regarding the diner’s opening."

Henry laughed softly, though there was a flicker of confusion in his eyes at William’s sudden intensity. "Always thinking about the grand opening, aren't you? Give us a break, Will. We’re making history here." "I am making sure history doesn't collapse under its own weight," William countered, his eyes unblinking as he stared at you. "The diner needs more than just a functioning mascot. It needs a soul. And I think it's time the three of us had a serious talk about who truly holds the keys to that soul before we open those doors to the world."