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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You know that feeling you get when you walk into a room your parents told you not to go in? That feeling of cold dread that stuck to your spine like an uninvited guest?
Yeah, that sensation couldn't have been more intense than the current moment.
Even with an expression of near-perfect nonchalance, you accidentally let slip the slight widening of your eyes in shock at the sheer size of the sweeping office.
From what you could see on the positioning of your body by the front entrance, it was an open floor plan, consisting of three separate rooms: a private office and two other areas you couldn't quite make out. Black curtains, cut and velvet swept over ceiling-high windows, obscuring at least half of the office in shadows. The rest was pitched in a fluorescent light by the chandelier above. It was stagnant and cold, and the light left you bereft of the warmth Michael had breathed into you.
And at the very end of it all was Willaim.
He was perched upon that black gaudy chair with the silver pins, inlay. The kind that exuded malicious intent. One hand was draped over the handrest, fingers steepling over the leather while the other drummed over the surface in methodical little taps.
Tap, tap, tap.
One time, two times, then three. And then he started all over again from the top.
You never even noticed the secretary skirt around you over the sound of a fingernail against the wooden surface of the desk to get to the front door. Her hand rested on the handle for an unusually long time before she left, exchanging a look with the chairman.
You swallowed against the tight enclosure of your throat.
Fear was a funny thing. It had a tendency of sneaking up on you. You could ignore it, but it'd still present itself at the most untimely of moments as a cruel present. It would play you like a fiddle; erect every goosebump, every hair on your skin.
You hated feeling fear. Especially in the presence of someone like William Afton. It felt like a murder of snakes sliding under your skin; of blood coagulating in your veins of rubber and rendering you rigid under steel eyes the color of cruel blue.
Just the sound of his fingers against the wood set you on edge—had you pressing the ends of your nails into your palm. Imprints of crescent moons littered the inside, a reminder that all of this was real. Very, very real.
The weight of every past sin you committed, every mishap, every slip-up seemed to weigh down on your shoulders like a pair of hands—pushing, pushing, pushing.
"Miss L/n, please, take a seat." His voice was smooth; the vibrato of it, mixed with the slight lilt of his accent jangled your head and reverberated in the cabinet of your ribs.
