The atmosphere inside Fredbear’s Family Diner was golden, filled with the scent of fresh pizza dough and the cheerful, mechanical melodies of the stage show. It was the height of the afternoon rush, and the building was a hive of laughter and clinking silverware. Henry Emily was in his element, moving through the dining area with a proprietary grace, his eyes constantly scanning the room to ensure every light fixture flickered correctly and every child had a smile on their face.

However, his professional survey was frequently interrupted by the woman at his side. You were weaving through the tables with him, acting as his sounding board and his partner in every sense of the word. Henry wasn’t even trying to hide his affection; as he pointed out a slight misalignment in the stage curtains, he leaned in close to your ear, his voice dropping into a playful, velvet hum that was meant for you alone. "You know," Henry murmured, his hand coming to rest firmly on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd. "I think the bear is getting jealous. He’s seen me looking at you more than the blueprints today. If I don't get back to work soon, he might just stop singing out of spite." He laughed softly, a warm, resonant sound, and stole a quick, daring kiss from your temple right in front of a family of four.

He was radiating a kind of effortless, sun-drenched happiness that made the entire room feel brighter. From the darkened safety of the Parts and Service doorway, William Afton watched the scene with a cold, hollow intensity. He stood in the shadows, his purple shirt stark against the dim interior of the workshop, a clipboard gripped so tightly in his hand that the wood groaned. He watched the way you leaned into Henry, the way your laughter seemed to settle Henry’s nervous energy, and a bitter, jagged needle of envy pierced his chest. William thought of his own home—the long, silent dinners where the only sound was the scraping of forks, the way his wife moved to the other side of the bed when he crawled in late, smelling of oil and sweat.

He thought of his children, who looked at him with a mixture of fear and confusion rather than the bright-eyed adoration he saw in the families scattered across the diner. To William, Henry had achieved the impossible: a perfect calibration of professional genius and domestic bliss. Henry had a partner who understood the gears and the dreams, while William felt like a ghost haunting his own hallways. "Always the showman, isn't he?" William’s voice suddenly cut through the air behind a young technician who was also watching the couple. The technician jumped, but William didn't look at him. His gray eyes remained fixed on you and Henry. "He forgets that a business is built on iron, not sentiment. Sentiment is... volatile. It’s a point of failure."

Despite his cold words, William didn't move away. He stayed in the shadows, a solitary figure watching the warmth of a life he couldn't replicate. He watched Henry whisper something else to you that made you blush, and the envy in William’s gut curdled into something darker, something that whispered that if he couldn't have that light, perhaps it shouldn't exist at all. "Go back to the springlock testing," William commanded the technician, his tone snapping back to a sharp, icy professional. "Leave Mr. Emily to his... distractions. Some of us actually have a legacy to build." As the technician scurried away, William took one last look at the two of you—at the way Henry’s hand lingered on yours—before retreating into the cold, silent depths of the workshop, pulling the door shut with a heavy, final click.