Michael.

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

Michael didn’t expect a warm welcome when he walked through the front door.

Which was good, because he didn’t get one.

Dad was at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand, eyes scanning the pages like they contained the meaning of life. Elizabeth sat across from him, swinging her legs and chattering about God-knows-what, and Mom was at the counter, drinking her coffee.

The only one who reacted was Elizabeth, who looked up and blinked.

“Oh. You’re alive.”

Michael held a hand to his chest. “Wow. You actually noticed I was gone?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “Yeah. I had a bet going with myself about whether you were dead in a ditch or not.”

Michael squinted at her. “And?”

“Well, I lost. So, thanks for that.”

Dad didn’t even glance up from his newspaper. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

Mom? Nothing.

Michael could’ve walked in drenched in blood, and they’d probably just ask him to wipe his feet first.

Elizabeth rested her chin on her hand. “Oh, by the way, Grandpa’s here.”

Michael paused mid-step. “Wait—what?”

“That’s what I said,” Elizabeth said, rolling her eyes.

“Since when?”

“Yesterday.”

Michael stared at her. Yesterday. He had been helping Mary home and then hanging out with her and her father, and meanwhile, his grandfather had apparently just waltzed into town.

Fantastic.

“Don’t worry, lad.”

Michael turned toward the familiar, accented voice.

Standing in the doorway, with a cup of tea in one hand and an amused expression, was Grandpa Afton.

“I don’t hold it against you,” Grandpa said, stepping forward and clapping Michael on the shoulder. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”

Michael blinked. “Uh. Yeah.”

Grandpa smirked knowingly, as if reading every thought in Michael’s head. “Besides, your father didn’t even notice either.”

Michael glanced at Dad. Still reading.

Grandpa gestured toward him. “See? Utterly unbothered. You could be a ghost.”

Michael deadpanned. “Huh. Wouldn’t that be something.”

William turned a page.

Mom sighed. “Don’t encourage them, Tony.”

Grandpa just grinned over his tea.

Michael wasn’t exactly thrilled about his dad’s lack of concern, but he wasn’t surprised either.

It was just how things were.

He could be a father, sure. He just… chose not to be one for Michael.

For Elizabeth? Whole different story. He smiled at her. Talked to her. Actually listened when she spoke.

It wasn’t like Michael was jealous. No, that would require caring.

It was just weird, that’s all.

Especially when he thought about Mary’s dad.

Michael had only met the guy a couple of times, but the difference was staggering. Mary’s dad was… well, an actual human being. He was involved, present, the kind of guy who asked how your day was and actually waited for an answer.

His dad was nothing like that. Unless, of course, you were Elizabeth.

Michael shook his head. “Whatever,” he muttered, following Grandpa into the living room.

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

Grandpa Afton sipped his tea, watching Michael over the rim of his cup like he was a mildly interesting puzzle to solve.

“So,” Grandpa began, voice light, “I hear you’ve been spending time with a girl.”

Michael almost choked on air.

“Excuse me?”

Grandpa raised an eyebrow. “Did I stutter?”

Michael glared at Elizabeth, who was now smirking behind her own drink.

Traitor.

Michael crossed his arms. “It’s not like that.”

Grandpa hummed, unconvinced. “That so? And how long have you two known each other?”

Michael sighed. “Two weeks.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, Grandpa started laughing.

And not just a chuckle—full-bodied, amused-as-hell laughter.

Michael narrowed his eyes. “What’s so funny?”

Grandpa wiped a tear from his eye. “Lad, you’ve only known this girl for a fortnight, and already people are talking?”

Michael groaned, slumping against the couch. “It’s not like that.”

Grandpa just grinned wider. “Oh, I believe you. But let me give you a bit of advice, since—” He cast a glance toward dad, who was still buried in his newspaper. “—God knows your father’s useless at this sort of thing.”

Mom, still at the kitchen counter, raised her coffee cup in agreement.

Michael blinked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Grandpa took another sip of tea, completely unfazed. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

Michael let out a long, slow exhale. “Alright, fine. Enlighten me, oh wise one.”

Grandpa leaned forward, his expression turning genuinely thoughtful.

“Every friendship, every relationship, is different,” he said. “You can’t rush them, and you can’t force them. You just let them grow. Take the time to understand her—what she likes, what she doesn’t. And for God’s sake, don’t be a plank of wood when talking to her.”

Michael blinked. “A what?”

“A plank of wood.” Grandpa gestured vaguely. “Y’know. Standing there. Unmoving. Completely devoid of personality.”

Michael groaned. “I am not a plank of wood.”

“Debatable.”

Elizabeth giggled.

Michael shot her a glare. “You are not allowed to enjoy this.”

“Oh, but I am.”

“Alright, one more question,” Grandpa said, amusement still twinkling in his eyes. “Does she do anything weird to you?”

Michael sighed. This was going to haunt him.

“She, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck. “She calls me James Dean Fanboy.”

Grandpa froze.

Then, he burst out laughing all over again.

“Oh, lad,” he gasped between laughs, “that is brilliant.”

Michael sank deeper into the couch. “I hate this family.”

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

Grandpa clapped him on the back. “Well, if you ever need more advice, you know where to find me.”

Michael groaned.

Elizabeth smirked.

And dad, still reading his newspaper, didn’t react at all.

Michael wasn’t sure if that made things better or worse.

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

Ron

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

The bar was loud, filled with the kind of people who lived for the rush of numbers—men in suits with their ties undone, cigarette smoke curling through the air, and half-empty glasses reflecting the dim neon lights.

Ron leaned back in his seat, rolling his whiskey glass between his fingers. One drink in, but sharp as ever.

The conversation had already turned to Fazbear Entertainment—because of course, it had.

"You see the new faces showing up?" one of the guys, Rich, asked, tapping his glass against the counter. “Whole damn company’s shifting. New investors sniffing around like they know something we don’t.”

Ron exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. And that’s what’s bothering me. Nobody buys into a sinking ship unless they think they can steer it.”

“Or strip it for parts,” Marty muttered.

The group chuckled, but it was the nervous kind—the kind that came from knowing they were playing in a market that could turn on them overnight.

Ron took a slow sip of his whiskey, considering his next words carefully. Fazbear’s was a mess, but it was his mess.

He’d invested early. Bet on it like a damn roulette wheel. And now?

Now the boardroom was looking more like a battlefield.

"Alright," Ron said, setting his drink down. "So, real talk—how bad is it between William and Daniel?"

Marty snorted. “Bad enough that I’d put money on a lawsuit in the next six months.”

Rich shook his head. “A lawsuit? Try a goddamn hostile takeover.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “You think Daniel’s got the teeth for it?”

“Have you seen the guy?” Rich leaned forward. “He’s a shark in a boardroom. If he smells blood, he’ll gut William and wear his skin to the next shareholder meeting.”

Ron laughed, but the image wasn’t far off from reality.

“Sounds like a Ray Kroc situation in the making,” he mused.

The table went quiet for a second.

Because that? That was a hell of a comparison.

Ray Kroc hadn’t just taken McDonald’s—he’d ripped it out from under its founders, turned it into a global empire, and rewrote history so cleanly that people barely remember the original owners.

If Daniel was planning the same for Fazbear’s…

That could be good.

Or it could be the beginning of the end.

"Alright," Ron said, cracking his knuckles. "If this turns into a Kroc situation, is that good or bad for us?"

Marty smirked. "Good in the short term, terrible in the long run. You know how these things go—hostile takeovers drive up stock value, but once the dust settles? If the new leadership can't handle the company, we’re holding the bag."

Rich nodded. “If Daniel wins, we might get a couple good years before the rot really sets in. If he loses? We cut our losses and jump ship.”

The new guy, quiet up until now, finally spoke.

“Won’t be necessary.”

Ron glanced at him. He was new to the group—suit pressed, tie loose, cool demeanor that said he’d been playing this game longer than most.

“And why’s that?” Ron asked.

The new guy smiled, slow and knowing. “Because from everything I’m hearing, Fazbear’s is gonna be around for a few more decades.”

The group went silent for a beat.

Then Marty laughed, shaking his head. “Shit, you sound pretty confident. Got a crystal ball or something?”

The new guy just smirked. “Something like that.”

Ron narrowed his eyes slightly. Something about the way he said that—too smooth, too certain.

The market didn’t work like that. Not with Fazbear’s.

Not with all the things happening behind closed doors.

Ron wasn’t sure if the new guy was bluffing—or if he knew something the rest of them didn’t.

The conversation shifted after that.

They ripped into each other like usual, betting on how long other companies would last, trading half-drunk predictions about the market, arguing over who had the worst investment of the year.

Ron let himself enjoy it—just for a while.

This was his world. The market, the risk, the calculations. It was simple. Cold. Ruthless.

And yet—

That new guy’s words stuck in his head.

"Fazbear’s is gonna be around for a few more decades."

Ron had been in the game long enough to know when someone was blowing smoke—and when someone had inside information.

He wasn’t sure which one this was.

But he had a feeling he was about to find out.

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

William.

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

The room was dimly lit, the air thick with sweat, fear, and something metallic.

William adjusted his gloves, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a long night at the office rather than the slow, inevitable death of the person in front of him.

The woman’s breath hitched, her body trembling inside the rusted Springlock suit, the old mechanisms pressing against her skin like the jaws of some dormant beast.

She tried to speak.

Not that she could.

William had removed her tongue earlier.

A necessary step. The incessant pleading, screaming, bargaining—all of it had become tiring over the years.

He had work to do.

And he hated distractions.

William tilted his head, watching as she tried to scream, her mouth opening in a silent, useless wail.

Funny.

People always thought they had something to say before they died.

But, really, what could they say that would change anything?

And this wasn’t about her.

No, she was incidental—a solution to a problem that had nothing to do with her.

The problem?

His father was in his house.

That old bastard had waltzed in unannounced, sipping tea, cracking jokes, acting as if he still had any right to be there.

His father had never approved of his work. Never understood.

He definitely would NOT approve of this if he knew but who gives a fuck about what old men think?

The way he looked at Michael—talked to him, advised him, laughed with him—it was disgusting.

Like Michael was worth something.

Like Michael was his successor.

William’s fingers curled into a fist.

He exhaled, slow, controlled, and turned his gaze back to the woman.

She wasn’t Michael.

But for a moment, he could pretend.

His eyes drifted over the twitching body in the suit, watching as the springlocks pressed tighter against her skin.

The way she squirmed, whimpered, trembled.

If he closed his eyes, he could imagine someone else there.

Michael.

His worthless disappointment of a son.

Michael, choking on his own terror, body shaking with the realization that there was no escape, no chance of salvation.

Michael, looking up at him with pleading eyes, as if William would ever spare him.

Wouldn’t that be something?

His lips curled slightly.

But no.

Not yet.

He still needed Michael—if only to fail one more time.

William glanced at the mechanisms inside the suit, fingers brushing against the delicate springlocks.

A simple flick. That was all it would take.

Would the results be any different this time?

It was a curiosity more than anything else.

He had seen plenty of deaths—knives, blunt force, suffocation, fire. He had studied the way the body struggled, fought, clung to life before finally giving in.

But the springlocks?

They were special.

A slower, more intimate kind of death.

Painful. Drawn out. The feeling of metal piercing flesh, crushing bone, severing nerves one by one.

A human body folding in on itself, trapped in a suit meant to entertain children.

Poetic, in a way.

And it would all be over in—

Click.

The mechanism snapped.

The woman convulsed violently, her body seizing up as the springlocks drove deep into her flesh, piercing muscle, tendons, bone.

Blood seeped from the seams of the suit, pooling at her feet as she twitched, fingers grasping at nothing, eyes wide with blinding agony.

She was still trying to scream.

William didn’t bother listening.

His attention had already drifted elsewhere.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the freshly developed photos he had taken earlier that day.

His eyes narrowed.

Michael.

And that Mary girl.

He had been expecting this, but still—seeing it irritated him.

Michael was a disaster, a walking, talking disappointment in every conceivable way. If the girl had an ounce of intelligence, she would have already cut him off by now.

But no.

She was still there.

Still hovering around him like he was something worth keeping.

His grip tightened around the photos.

Killing her would be easy.

So easy.

Just one more disposable piece, another body to add to the collection.

Wouldn’t it be satisfying to see Michael break completely?

…But no.

Not yet.

Not until Michael either destroyed it himself or did one thing right and continued the family.

Only then.

William slid the photos back into his coat.

His victim’s body twitched one last time, then went still.

And just like that, the night felt a little quieter.

A little lighter.

William exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

Stress relief was important.

And he felt much better now.