The kitchen smelled like stale coffee and burnt toast.

Michael Afton sat at the table, gripping his cup of coffee like it was a lifeline, while across from him, William Afton—his father, boss, and all-around human disaster—stared at him like he’d just sprouted a second head.

“You’re meeting a girl?”

Michael sighed and rubbed his temple. “Yes, Dad.”

William’s expression didn’t change. He just kept staring, processing, like Michael had just casually announced he was moving to Mars.

Then, as if flipping a switch, William recovered. “Ah. I see.”

Michael didn’t trust that at all.

William leaned back in his chair, swirling the contents of his tea cup. “Be back before 10 PM.”

Michael nodded. “Understood.”

William watched him for a moment longer, then chuckled softly. “Well, well. My Michael, going on a date. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Michael scowled, grabbing his jacket. “It’s not a date.”

“Of course it isn’t,” William said smoothly, but there was an edge to it. He didn’t believe him.

Michael didn’t care.

He was already standing up before his father could say anything else.

----------------------------------------

Michael swung his leg over his bike, gripping the handles as he revved the engine.

It was an old but good bike—sleek, and well-maintained. Given to him by Karl, his boss at Freddy’s. It was probably the nicest thing anyone had ever given him, which wasn’t saying much.

The wind was crisp, cutting through the late-autumn air as he sped down the road. The leaves had started turning—reds, oranges, and yellows—scattered across the asphalt like a scene from a John Hughes movie.

The ride gave him time to think.

Which was not a good thing.

He thought about Freddy’s. His night shifts. How the animatronics—supposed to be harmless—moved just a little too smoothly sometimes. Looked at him for just a second too long.

He thought about Jeremy.

Good guy. Better than him, probably. He’d worked the shift before Michael, until…

Michael swallowed.

The Bite of ‘87.

He hadn’t been there when it happened, but he’d seen the aftermath. He’d heard about it. The panic. The blood. The way Jeremy—poor, unlucky Jeremy—wasn’t the same afterward.

The reports had blamed the programming and the poor condition of the Mangle.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Michael had his doubts.

And then, like a cruel joke, his brain kept going.

Kept pulling him back.

Back to 1983.

Back to the day he ruined everything.

Michael could still hear it.

The screaming. The cheering. The way his friends had laughed as they helped him carry Evan toward the stage, his little brother kicking and sobbing, begging him to stop.

It’s just a joke, he’d told himself. Just a joke.

He hadn’t meant to hurt him. He hadn’t meant for it to go that far.

But then he was up there. His friends were chanting. He lifted Evan toward Fredbear’s open mouth, just to scare him, just for a second—

The jaws snapped shut.

The screaming stopped.

And there was blood.

Michael had never seen so much blood.

His friends were gone. The restaurant was chaos. Adults were rushing in, yelling, grabbing him, pulling him away as he stood there, frozen.

Fredbear’s eyes—those wide, soulless eyes—stared at him as his brother’s body went limp.

Then—

Nothing.

Just darkness.

Michael snapped out of it when he spotted Mary.

She was standing near the diner where they’d agreed to meet, arms crossed over her jacket, shifting awkwardly on her feet.

Next to her was a man.

Older. Tall. Wore glasses. Had the kind of mustache that made him look like he belonged in a Sears catalog.

Michael slowed his bike, pulling into the parking lot. As he came to a stop, Mary turned toward him.

“Oh, great,” she muttered.

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Uh. Hi?”

Mary sighed, gesturing toward the man. “Michael, this is my dad. Dad, this is Michael.”

Michael blinked.

Oh.

Oh.

So that’s what this was.

Mary’s dad was a control freak. Just like William. Probably one of those strict, overprotective dads who thought his daughter couldn’t handle herself.

Michael could already hear the lecture that was coming.

But then—

Mister Schmidt smiled.

“Nice to meet you, Mike,” he said, shaking his hand firmly. “You can call me Tom.”

Michael blinked again. “Uh. Yeah. You too.”

That was… weird.

Tom didn’t immediately threaten him. Didn’t scowl or glare or ask him what his “intentions” were.

Michael wasn’t sure how to react to that.

“So,” Tom said casually. “You work at Freddy’s?”

Michael nodded. “Yeah.”

“And you have a last name or should I keep calling you Mike Mike in my head?”

Mary cringed. "Dad oh my god."

Michael hesitated. “Uh. Its Afton. Michael Afton”

The air changed.

Mary’s expression remained the same.

Tom, meanwhile, exhaled through his nose, rubbing his chin.

“…Afton, huh,” he murmured. “Didn’t expect that.”

Michael shifted uncomfortably. “That a problem?”

Tom shook his head. “No. Just…” He gave Michael a small, knowing look. “You have my condolences.”

Michael stiffened.

Mary frowned, looking between them. “Okay, what the hell does that mean?”

Tom just shook his head. “Not my place.”

Mary scowled but nodded.

Tom stayed quiet.

Michael was now thoroughly confused.

Condolences?

For what?

His dead brother? His entire disaster of a life?

Before he could ask, Tom clapped his hands together. “Anyway! Let’s get moving, kids. Don’t mind me, I’m just the chauffeur.”

Mary groaned. “Dad, please.”

Michael just stared.

Was this man real?

----------------------------------------

The drive to the convention was awkward.

Mary was obviously mortified by her dad’s presence, while Michael was still trying to wrap his head around whatever the hell just happened.

Mary kept shooting him side-eyes, clearly waiting for him to say something, but Michael was too busy trying to process.

His last name had meant something to Tom.

Did he know he killed his brother?

But then why didn't he drag Mary back to their home?

Did he pity him?

They reached the convention center, and Tom waved them off. “You kids have fun. Ignore me.”

“Gladly,” Mary muttered, dragging Michael toward the entrance.

Michael let her pull him along, still lost in thought.

But then Mary looked at him and really looked.

“…Dude,” she said. “You look confused as hell.”

Michael blinked, snapping back to reality. “Huh? No. Just thinking.”

Mary smirked. “Uh-oh. Dangerous.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Har har.”

Mary opened her mouth to tease him more, but then—

“Hold on,” she said, suddenly narrowing her eyes.

Michael tensed. “What?”

“You’re smiling.”

Michael immediately scowled. “No, I’m not.”

Mary grinned. “Yes, you are.”

Michael groaned. “Oh, shut up.”

She laughed.

And, for once—

Michael didn’t mind.