The late afternoon sun hung low over Hurricane High’s football field, turning the bleachers gold and stretching long shadows across the turf. The school day had ended an hour ago, but the field was alive—whistles sharp in the air, cleats biting into grass, nervous laughter mixing with shouted instructions. Tryouts.

Michael Afton stood near the sideline, helmet tucked under his arm, fingers tightening and loosening around the plastic as if he needed to remind himself it was real. Freshman year. First day of football tryouts. Something he’d wanted for as long as he could remember.

He thought of that morning—how he’d hovered in William’s office doorway before school, rambling nervously about drills and pads and whether freshmen ever actually made the team. William had smiled, that soft, steady smile that always made Michael feel grounded, and told him he’d do great. That wanting something badly wasn’t a weakness. That he was proud of him for going after it.

Elizabeth and Evan had been at the breakfast table, twins in mismatched socks, Elizabeth talking a mile a minute about her spelling test while Evan quietly wished Michael luck, eyes wide and sincere. Michael had ruffled Evan’s hair, promised Elizabeth he’d let her wear his jersey if he made the team. Normal. Happy. Safe.

Now his heart hammered so hard he could feel it in his throat.

Michael was popular—he knew that, even if he didn’t always understand why. Some of it was his looks, sure. Some of it was his easy smile, the way teachers liked him, the way people seemed drawn to him without him trying. And some of it—whether he liked it or not—was his last name. William Afton. Brilliant engineer. Well-respected. Talked about.

Not everyone admired that.

Michael felt it sometimes: the looks that lingered a second too long, the muttered comments, the tension that crept into the air around certain people. One boy in particular—tall, broad-shouldered, with a permanent scowl—watched Michael from across the field like he was waiting for something to break.

The whistle blew. Drills started. Michael ran routes, caught passes, stumbled once, recovered. His nerves slowly melted into adrenaline, excitement buzzing under his skin. He was doing okay. Better than okay. The coach even nodded at him once.

That’s when it happened.

During a tackling drill, Michael lined up, breath steady, eyes focused forward. He barely had time to react before a sudden force slammed into him from the side—harder than anything he’d felt all afternoon. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, his helmet snapping back as his body hit the ground wrong.

Pain flashed white.

Then—nothing.

At first, no one noticed. It looked like a rough hit. Normal. But seconds passed, and Michael didn’t move. Didn’t groan. Didn’t try to sit up.

“Hey—Afton?” someone called.

The coach’s voice cut through the noise, sharp with concern. He jogged over, then faster, dropping to his knees beside Michael. “Michael. Can you hear me?”

No response.

The field went quiet in a way that felt wrong. A player knelt nearby, pale, whispering that Michael wasn’t waking up. The coach checked for breathing, for a pulse, his hands suddenly unsteady. Then he was shouting for someone to call 911.

Across town, William Afton’s phone rang.

He left work without a second thought.

By the time William arrived, sirens screaming in the distance, the football field no longer looked golden. It looked cold. Frightening. Too big. Michael lay motionless on the grass, surrounded by adults and teammates who looked scared in a way William had never seen before.

William’s chest tightened painfully as he ran toward his son.

“Michael,” he breathed, dropping to his knees beside him, his voice shaking for the first time in years. “I’m here. Dad’s here.”