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 stirred lightly, your lashes like anvils of steel over your eyes, and your mind was hazy, but you could make out the slight shadow from behind the translucent membrane of your eyelids, a distortion of fleshy pink, green and blue. It shifted, ever so slightly, as though it were conscious of your movement.
As you awoke from your slumber, the first thing you noted was a lack of movement on your part. In truth, you actually lost any sort of feeling in your extremities, but judging by the weird positioning of your arms, there was something holding you up into an odd sitting position.
You groggily opened your eyes, still distorted from the drugs, and peered at your unfamiliar surroundings. You blinked once, twice, then three times to adjust your eyesight, allowing your pupils to dilate from the lack of lighting in the room.
While your consciousness slowly seeped back into your sluggish brain—bits and pieces of the previous day (or was it today?) events coloring your mind—you stared absentmindedly at your new environment.
It was a lavishly decorated room—a bedroom. Someone's bedroom.
But it wasn't yours.
You snapped upwards, attentive and watchful as the drugs flushed from your system at the sudden burst of adrenaline working through your heart. This wasn't your place.
You didn't have the kind of money that would afford silk sheets, or velvet drapes, and a bedroom the size of your apartment. And then you remembered all that had happened: your encounter with Michael, the drugs in your tea, the interview with William. They were tormenting you, playing in your mind like a broken record till you were a sobbing mess on the bed, hunched over your knees, but no tears would come.
You were in William's room—you guessed one of the locked areas in the office—on his bed, chained to the post and dressed in nothing but your undergarments. There wasn't a doubt in your mind what would happen next.
But you'd fight like hell to avoid it. If there was one thing you'd adopted from your boss, it was that tenacious will to get what you wanted, and at this very moment, nothing was sweeter than the taste of freedom on your lips.
So, you went to work tugging at the chains on your wrist; your heart clamoring at a million miles an hour. You were afraid you'd be caught in the act. However, the need to escape this dire situation far outweighed any sense of self-preservation. Though, in retrospect, you supposed escaping and not wanting to be caught were different forms of self-preservation.
But now wasn't the time to be contemplating the different meanings of survival, not when your captor was, quite literally, breathing down your neck.
You flexed your fingers to bend over the metal links connected to the headboard and jiggled them. When nothing came of it, you switched tactics and rotated your wrists around the cuffs. In spite of that, the chains refused to budge, and your fingers just wouldn't fit through the holes, even if you tightened them against each other. The odd placement of the screws prevented you from breaking your thumbs, while simultaneously acting as a barrier as they dug into the flesh of your wrist.
