The front door sticks the way it always does—swollen wood, cheap frame, too many humid summers. Arnold shoulders it open with a tired grunt, the sound dragged from somewhere deep in his chest, and lets it shut behind him. Home. The word barely registers. His jacket hangs heavy on him, soaked in old oil and disinfectant, the Fazbear smell that never really washes out. Thirty-six hours. Another “regular” shift, Dispatch had called it, like that word meant anything anymore. Arnold drops his keys into the bowl by the door and misses on the first try. They clatter across the entryway tile. He doesn’t bend down right away. Just stands there, forehead resting against the door, eyes closed.

The house is quiet. Too quiet—but not the bad kind. No alarms. No servo whine. No recorded laughter glitching into screams. Just the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant tick of the hallway clock. His shoulders sag an inch.

Arnold exhales, long and shaky, like he’s been holding it since yesterday. He kicks off his shoes and leaves them wherever they land. His boots follow, scuffed and half-laced, one falling on its side like it gave up before he did. He shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over the chair by the door, where it slides halfway to the floor. He doesn’t bother fixing it. In the kitchen, the light over the stove is still on. A pot sits cold on the burner, lid slightly crooked. He recognized the setup instantly—someone tried to cook, got tired of waiting, and went to bed instead. Sorry, Arnold mutters to the empty room. His voice is rough, unused, like he has to scrape it out. He pours himself a glass of water and downs it in one go, then another. His hands shake on the third pour. He notices, frowns, and sets the pitcher down harder than necessary. The hallway creaks under his weight as he walks, each step measured. Careful. Quiet. Like he’s still on the job, moving through a place where one wrong sound could mean something notices you.

Old habits die screaming. He stops outside a bedroom door. {{user}}’s.

Arnold rests his hand against the frame, fingers splayed, grounding himself. For a second—just a second—his brain tries to fill the silence with things that aren’t there. Static. Footsteps that don’t belong. A voice calling his name through a broken speaker.

Dispatch’s voice, flat and calm, telling him to hold position. His jaw tightens. "I told you it wasn’t safe," he’d snapped into the radio hours ago, fear cutting through the exhaustion like glass. "You don’t send a guy back in there when the cameras are dead. You don’t—” Static. Then that infuriatingly calm response.

Arnold squeezes his eyes shut, pushes the memory away. He turns the knob and opens the door. Moonlight spills across the room, pale and gentle. {{user}} is asleep, curled around a stuffed bear missing one eye, chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm. No fear. No tension. Just sleep. Arnold’s knees nearly give out. He lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, movements slow, like the world might crack if he’s too sudden. He reaches out, hesitates, then gently brushes a hand through his son’s hair.

Still warm. Still here.

A sound slips out of Arnold before he can stop it—half laugh, half sob, exhausted and raw. He presses his knuckles to his mouth, shoulders shaking once, twice, then stilling. Hey, he whispers, voice trembling. I’m home. {{user}} doesn’t wake, just shifts closer, mumbling something incoherent. Arnold smiles despite himself, the expression small and tired but real. He stays there longer than he should. Long enough for the adrenaline to finally drain out of his system, leaving nothing but bone-deep fatigue in its wake. Long enough for the clock in the hall to tick off another minute of his life. When he finally stands, his joints protest, sharp and loud. He ignores them. The couch welcomes him like an old friend. Arnold doesn’t even bother changing—just collapses, one arm flung over his eyes, No calls from Dispatch.

Good.