The atmosphere in the boardroom was suffocating, a graveyard of Edwin Murray’s dreams laid out in cold, black-and-white ledgers. William Afton sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, radiating a predatory calm. To his right sat Henry Emily, who was meticulously cleaning his glasses, his face a mask of weary indifference. Edwin Murray looked like a man on the verge of a collapse. His hands shook as he gestured toward the final budget reports—reports that William had strategically bloated with impossible overhead costs until Edwin’s smaller company had been bled dry. "Henry, look at these numbers!" Edwin pleaded, his voice cracking as he leaned toward his old friend.

"These proprietary servos... the reinforced titanium plating... we agreed on a mid-range budget! This isn't innovation, it’s a death sentence! I've lost everything—my shop, my pension, my men are being laid off by the dozen!" Henry didn't even look up from his glasses. He blew a stray speck of dust off the lens and slid them back onto the bridge of his nose, his gaze remaining fixed on the technical schematics. "The project requires a certain standard, Edwin," Henry replied, his voice flat and devoid of the usual warmth he reserved for his family. "William’s projections are logically sound for the long-term growth of the brand. If you couldn't secure the capital to keep up with the engineering requirements, that’s a management failure, not a partnership one."

William’s lips curled into a slow, dark smirk. He reached out and caught your hand under the table, his thumb tracing a possessive circle over your knuckles as he enjoyed the sight of Edwin’s spirit breaking. "You heard the man, Edwin," William remarked, his baritone smooth and cold. "Henry and I have already moved the funding into a consolidated account. Afton Robotics will be absorbing your patents. It’s for the best. The project needs a steady hand—one that doesn't tremble when the bills come due." Along the back wall, the boardroom staff stood in a line of stiff, uncomfortable silence. These were men and women who had worked alongside Edwin for years, people who knew he was being systematically destroyed.

One of the accountants looked down at his shoes, his face flushed with shame, while a junior secretary gripped her clipboard so hard her knuckles turned white. They wanted to speak. They wanted to point out that William had intentionally pushed these costs to trigger the bankruptcy clause. But they remained silent. They knew who signed the checks now. They saw Henry—the "moral compass" of the duo—nodding in agreement with every ruthless demand William made. If Henry wasn't going to save Edwin, why should they risk their own livelihoods? "Sign the transfer, Edwin," Henry added, his voice clipped as he turned a page in the contract. "We have a deadline for the Fazbear reveal, and we can’t have these financial distractions lingering."

Edwin looked between the two of them—the cold, calculating shark and the indifferent genius—and realized there was no mercy to be found in the room. With a hollow, defeated exhale, he picked up the pen. William leaned back, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest. He looked at you, his eyes dark with the thrill of total conquest. "Efficiency at its finest, wouldn't you say, love?" he whispered, ignoring the broken man across the table. "Henry provides the logic, I provide the leverage, and we get exactly what we want. Edwin was just a stepping stone."

As Edwin’s pen scratched against the paper, officially signing over his life's work to William and Henry, the staff quickly began to exit the room, avoiding Edwin's eyes like he was a leper. William’s grip on your hand tightened, pulling you slightly closer as if to remind you that in this room, he was the only power that mattered.