Carnage : 1983 | William afton x reader |

What happened in 1983? - 1

My face was buried beneath a suffocating avalanche of documents—autopsy summaries, forensic analyses, photographs clipped to brittle manila folders—each sheet bearing the same name in bold, impersonal type:

Charlotte Emily.

The letters seemed to glare at me from every page, accusatory and cold.

We had no suspects. No weapon. No coherent narrative. Only the stillness of a child's body preserved in sterile prose and the dull, metallic tang of failure clinging to every line I read.

I exhaled through my nose and let one of the reports slip from my fingers. It lifted briefly in the stale air of the office, twirling with a strange, delicate grace before surrendering to gravity and settling onto the threadbare carpet. The motion felt symbolic—an elegant descent into futility.

The chair beneath me groaned in protest when I shifted my weight. It was molded plastic, yellowing at the edges, its metal legs uneven against the scuffed linoleum. Each subtle movement elicited a shrill creak, as if it too resented my presence. The department had promised renovations for years; promises, like justice, often arrived too late.

The shrill ring of my desk phone shattered the silence.

I stared at it for a moment before lifting the receiver. "What is it?" I asked, dispensing with pleasantries.

On the other end, my colleague exhaled sharply. "You need to come down to Fredbear's."

I leaned back, letting my eyes drift to the water-stained ceiling tiles. "You're joking."

"I'm not."

I picked up a pen and began sketching absentminded shapes along the margin of the nearest file—elongated ears, crude paws, unfinished creatures born from irritation rather than inspiration. "Can't this wait?"

"No," he replied. "It can't. Just do your job."

"My job," I muttered, tightening my grip on the pen, "is precisely what I've been doing."

The line went dead before I could respond.

I set the receiver down with more force than necessary and pressed my palms against the sides of the chair to push myself upright. The office smelled faintly of dust and burnt coffee. "This place is a disgrace," I murmured to no one in particular. "And they expect clarity of thought here."

My coat hung limply from a crooked rack by the door. I shrugged into it, its wool rough against my neck. My shoes waited near the threshold; I crouched to tie them, fumbling with the laces longer than I cared to admit. Even in adulthood, I relied on the childish loop-and-pull method I'd learned decades ago.

Keys clinked softly when I lifted them from the counter. One of them had bent slightly in a prior incident—a stubborn ignition, an impatient twist. I stepped out into the corridor and descended the narrow metal staircase that spiraled down the exterior of my apartment building.

The walk was long enough to allow my thoughts to wander where they shouldn't.

Grass sprouted rebelliously between cracks in the pavement below, and pale winter flowers—impossibly early for January—peeked through the frost-bitten soil. Above, the sun strained through a thin veil of clouds, lending the morning an anemic brightness.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Fredbear's Family Diner in a vehicle that could generously be described as operational. The department's fleet consisted of relics unfit for exhibition but somehow still licensed for the road. I parked in reverse, more out of habit than necessity.

A warm breeze lifted strands of hair from my face as I stepped out. The building loomed before me—low, sprawling, deceptively cheerful. Bright paint and cartoonish signage attempted to disguise the weight it now carried.