The neon sign of JR’s flickered with a rhythmic, buzzing hum that grated against William Afton’s frayed nerves. It had been three days since the hospital bed went cold, three days since the sound of a closing jaw had rewritten the trajectory of his life. He sat at the far end of the scarred wooden bar, his knuckles white as he gripped a glass of cheap, amber liquid. His purple shirt was wrinkled, stained with the sweat of a man who hadn't slept, and his eyes were sunken pits of bitterness. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the humiliation. He saw the looks of pity from the townsfolk, the whispers about the "unstable machines," and the way the police had looked at him—as if he were a negligent fool who had let his masterpiece eat his own son. The shame was a physical weight, crushing the air out of his lungs.

But beneath the shame was a boiling, acidic envy. He thought of Henry. He thought of the way Henry had looked at the funeral—sorrowful, yes, but holding his own children close. Henry’s family was still a complete set, a perfect, functioning unit. Henry went home to a wife who loved him and a daughter, Charlie, who looked at him like he was the center of the universe. William, meanwhile, went home to a house that felt like a tomb. He was a stranger to his wife, a monster to Michael, and now, a failure to the boy who was gone. "Another," William rasped, shoving the glass toward the bartender. "You've had enough, Afton," the man behind the bar said, his voice flat. "You're making the regulars uncomfortable. Go home. Sleep it off." "I said... another," William hissed, his voice dropping into a dangerous, jagged edge.

The confrontation ended with the heavy thud of the bar's door closing behind him. William stumbled into the cool night air, the gravel of the parking lot crunching under his boots. He was heavily drunk, the world tilting and blurring at the edges, but a singular, dark clarity was beginning to form in the center of his mind. He didn't go home. He couldn't face the silence of the Afton household. Instead, he found himself driving—recklessly, weaving across the yellow lines—until he pulled into the parking lot of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. The building sat like a crouched beast in the dark. Rain began to fall, a light, persistent drizzle that turned the pavement into a mirror.

William stepped out of the car, swaying on his feet. He looked toward the windows, imagining the warmth inside, imagining Henry and Charlie together, oblivious to the rot in the world. He reached into his pocket, his fingers curling around a small, sharp tool he’d taken from his workbench. He stared at the back entrance, the place where he knew the children often lingered near the prize counter. His mind drifted to Charlie—sweet, innocent Charlie. If he took her, the scales would be balanced. Henry would finally understand the weight of the void William carried. He would break the "heart" of the company just as his own "bones" had been shattered.

He took a step toward the door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. But as the alcohol clouded his vision, a rare, cold shred of logic pierced through the fog. Not tonight. He was too drunk. He was too sloppy. If he did this now, he would be caught, and the revenge would be wasted. No, a masterpiece required precision. It required a steady hand and a clear mind. He leaned his forehead against the cold brick of the building, the rain soaking through his shirt, a low, guttural chuckle escaping his throat.

"Soon, Henry," he whispered into the wet darkness, his eyes fixed on the silhouette of the bear on the signage. "I’ll make sure you remember this sound, too." He turned back toward his car, starting the car, as he thought of leaving the diner behind for now, the seed of a terrible, irreversible plan finally beginning to take root in the shadows of his heart.