Your traitorous friend had somehow managed to pawn off what to most would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
To you, it spelled out a death sentence.
Interviewing William Afton of Fazbear Industries shouldn't have been so daunting if not for the f...
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Shortly after you had signed away your soul to the devil, Sundrop wheeled you to the nearest elevator while Moondrop relayed the situation to the big boss. You turned one last time, watching the sunlight trickle through the large windows before the elevator doors closed in on you, effectively sealing your doom. The last thing you'd seen was Sundrop's unnaturally large smile. A bad omen.
You squeezed yourself between the other employees and unlocked your phone to while away the time. On the first stop, a few workers filtered in and out. Not enough to make a difference in capacity in the overfilled elevator though. However, the farther up you went, the fewer people entered and the more that left.
Your leg began jiggling in nervous anxiety. You scanned over the crowd, hoping no one had noticed you breaking out in a cold sweat.
You could have sworn the temperature had amped up a couple of degrees since you first entered. Maybe it was because of the bodies filling this small compartment, or just your nervous reaction. Whichever it was, it made you want to throw up.
By the time you'd made it to the second to last stop, you were clutching your bag for dear life. You were groaning, sliding downing the wall, throwing up, pulling your hair. All of the above. Your stomach refused to stop clenching and static electricity crackled up and down your nerves. You were a nervous wreck.
At last, the doors rolled open, and with it, a gust of cool wind from a nearby AC unit. You relished in its breeze, allowing your rampaging heart to calm down. It wasn't until it had settled to something moderately acceptably that you slumped against the side of the gilded elevator, squeezing your eyes shut.
"So this is what it feels like to be well and truly fucked."
"I get that a lot," said a low voice behind you. There was an undertone of something tired in his words as if he hadn't meant to make it sound so vulgar when anyone would have mistaken it for it truly was. A risque comment.
Your eyes had never popped open as fast as this current moment. Stumbling backward with your hands gripping your bag for dear life, you made eye contact with the stranger next to you.
You must have been insanely out of it to not have noticed him entering the elevator.
A man, presumably an executive, looked up from the pile of files in his arms. It seemed he hadn't expected such a violent reaction from you, especially when you'd been so relaxed earlier that he pushed away from his poised position on the wall. His brows creased in muted regret as silver eyes—which must have actually been blue, like a huskys—scanned over your pallid expression.
"Miss?" He sandwiched the papers under his arm before he strode to you in a single swift step. "Bloody hell. Are you feeling alright? You look like you're about to hurl." Large hands extended to stabilize you but paused mid-way. He then hesitated and dropped them, unsure whether or not he should make a move to hold you. "Do you need me to bring you medical assistance?"
