The pizzeria buzzed with the easy noise of daytime—children laughing, the cheerful jingle of arcade machines, and the faint whir of animatronics moving through their programmed routines. The smell of grease and old carpeting clung to the air. Behind the counter, under the pale light of a flickering “HAPPY DAYZ!” sign, Michael Afton adjusted his uniform cap and leaned back in his chair. His nametag—“Mike”—caught the light, scratched but legible.

He didn’t mind the noise anymore. The living got used to anything, he supposed, even though he hadn’t been living for a long time. The illusion disk clipped beneath his collar hummed softly, distorting the truth just enough to make him look human—to hide the rot, the emptiness behind his eyes.

It was supposed to be a quiet shift. Keep an eye on the floor, fix any cameras that glitched, make sure the animatronics didn’t wander too far from their stations. Simple. Until the front door chimed.

The man who walked in carried an aura that silenced the air around him, a presence sharp enough to make even the manager pause mid-sentence. William Afton had a way of doing that—like gravity itself shifted when he entered a room. His hair was slicked neatly, his smile polite, his gaze calculating.

Michael froze the second he saw him. His breath caught, the illusion disk flickering for half a heartbeat, a faint shimmer across his cheek. But William didn’t miss it. He didn’t miss anything.

Across the dining area, their eyes met—one man older, colder; the other, a ghost wearing youth like a mask. For a brief, terrible moment, William’s expression faltered. Recognition flickered in his gaze, sharp and certain.

“Mike, huh?” William said at last, voice smooth as oil as he stepped closer, eyes narrowing on the name tag. “You wouldn’t happen to be… an Afton, would you?”