Carnage : 1983 | William afton x reader |

Lucky find. - 4

10th of January, 1983

I was beyond exhausted, the cumulative strain of days spent inside that restaurant pressing down on me like a physical weight. The scent of greasy pizza and the faint musk of children's sweat had embedded itself into my clothes, my hair, even my apartment, lingering in a way that made the world feel smaller and more suffocating. My head throbbed from the sensory overload, a migraine that pulsed in time with the chaos I'd witnessed. Despite our efforts, no tangible lead had surfaced—no clue pointing to the perpetrator. And yet, I couldn't erase the co-owner's unnerving smile from my mind. That half-smile, the one that seemed too knowing, too practiced, lingered like a stain.

I was lost in thought when the microwave pinged, startling me from my reverie. With a sigh, I removed the cup of noodles, still steaming and slightly greasy from the dirty interior. Chicken-flavored, simple, predictable. I sat down, twirling the noodles with a fork, trying to let the monotony calm my spiraling thoughts.

Minutes later, I had finished eating and wiped up the small puddle of broth that had spilled onto the counter. My relief was brief; the phone rang sharply, slicing through the quiet. I snatched it up.

"Who is this?" I asked, curiosity edging my voice.

"Miss L/n?" the voice said.

"Yes... that's me."

"You need to come over. We've found something."

The line went dead before I could respond. I groaned, the dread twisting in my stomach.

Arriving at the scene, my words caught in my throat. "Well... what's the pro—"

A body lay on the sidewalk, covered with a white sheet.

"Ma'am. They found the boy," the janitor said quietly.

Angela Brooks, the mother I had interviewed days earlier, sobbed into her husband's chest. Her husband's expression betrayed a sorrow he had long buried, his eyes glassy with suppressed grief. Watching people cry rarely overwhelmed me—but this... this was different. The killer's capabilities far exceeded the caricature of a "wannabe psycho" we had once assumed. The reality was grotesque, intimate in its brutality. I had seen horrors before, but nothing approached this meticulous, methodical cruelty.

William Afton leaned against the entrance, his posture rigid, his hands moving faster than seemed natural. He rubbed his nose repeatedly, his movements jittery, almost compulsive, as if each gesture were amplified by some inner agitation. My eyes caught a faint glint on the edge of his desk—a small mirror and a rolled-up bill, barely noticeable in the dim light. My brow raised.. was he doing what I thought he was doing? He seemed like the type.. His energy was too precise, too sharp; he moved with a speed and focus that seemed unnatural, almost manic. Something about him made my skin prickle.

"What now?" I muttered under my breath. Likely, the boy would be taken for autopsy, every detail of his death scrutinized under clinical lights. Mr. Emily stood beside Afton, dabbing at his red-rimmed eyes, trying to maintain composure.

Afton's eyelids drooped halfway, though his hands twitched intermittently, betraying a tension beneath the fatigue. I wanted to mention to him what I saw.. but soon realized that it wasn't any of my business. It was as if the world had both slowed down and accelerated around him simultaneously. I frowned, studying his movements. He didn't appear tired in the conventional sense; he seemed... heightened, alive in a way that was almost predatory.

I retreated into the building, lightheaded and throbbing. My own dizziness, a constant since adolescence, felt magnified by the weight of the scene.

Hours later, I found refuge in a quiet café, a space removed from the chaos, with papers sprawled before me. Statistics, observations, timelines—all meticulous, exhausting, yet necessary. Time stretched lazily, strangely soothing in the hum of the air-conditioning and the distant chatter. Yet the pressure built, and soon the wave of panic I'd been anticipating crashed over me. My chest tightened; my breaths came shallow and uneven. The world tilted, edges blurring. I closed my eyes, counting to ten, trying to restore equilibrium.