The front door of the Afton residence opened with a heavy, tired groan of wood against hinges, followed by the sharp, metallic click of the lock being turned into place. William Afton stood in the entryway for a moment, his shoulders slumped under the weight of his charcoal suit jacket. The sharp, cloying scent of synthetic strawberry air freshener and industrial grease from Fredbear's Family Diner clung to his skin like a second layer. He looked every bit the man who had spent fourteen hours calculating profit margins and recalibrating the tension on temperamental springlocks. His purple tie was loosened, hanging haphazardly around his neck, and his hair, usually swept back with professional precision, was beginning to fray at the temples.

The house was not the sanctuary he had been dreaming of during the long drive home. From the living room, a cacophony of screeching voices and the blaring, high-pitched static of the television tore through his mounting headache. Michael and Elizabeth were locked in a fierce battle over the dial; Michael was trying to force the channel to a late-night broadcast while Elizabeth shrieked for her cartoons, her small hands tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie. The youngest was somewhere in the fray, his quiet sobs adding a rhythmic, mournful undertone to the chaos. William let out a long, slow exhale through his nose—a sound that was less a sigh and more the venting of a pressure cooker. He didn't yell. He didn't have the energy left to exert his authority through volume. Instead, he simply dropped his briefcase onto the foyer floor with a dull, heavy thud that echoed through the hallway, signaling his arrival with ominous finality.

He moved into the kitchen, his gait slow and deliberate, bypassing the war zone in the living room. He found you there, the one person who kept the gears of this household turning while he was busy building his kingdom of mechanical bears and empty smiles. The kitchen was warm, smelling of the dinner you had managed to keep warm despite the lateness of the hour and the rebellion occurring just a room away. William didn't speak immediately. He walked up behind you as you stood at the counter, his presence like a cold shadow entering a warm room. He leaned his forehead against the back of your shoulder, letting his eyes close for the first time since five that morning. His hands, stained with faint smudges of graphite and motor oil that even the industrial soap at the diner couldn't fully remove, came up to rest tentatively on your waist.

"The noise," William murmured, his voice a dry, gravelly rasp against the fabric of your shirt. "It’s louder than the hydraulic presses today. Tell me you’ve had a more productive day than I have, or I might truly lose my mind before the kettle even boils." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gray eyes bloodshot and weary, searching your face for the calm he lacked. He ignored a particularly loud crash from the living room—the sound of a lamp or perhaps a plastic toy meeting its end.

"I don't know how you endure it," he confessed, a rare moment of vulnerability slipping through his calculated exterior. "I build machines that follow every command to the millimeter, and then I come home to... this. Give me a moment of silence. Just one minute where I don't have to be the owner, the engineer, or the disciplinarian. Just let me be here, with you, before I have to go back in there and deal with them."