Carnage : 1983 | William afton x reader |

Bite down. - 5

The entire restaurant was draped in a riot of colored birthday garlands, balloons taped carefully to the vibrant flags that swayed gently in the artificial breeze. The spectacle assaulted my senses, making my temples throb as if the brightness itself were trying to fracture my skull. Today was William's youngest son's seventh birthday, a last celebration before the company's imminent closure. A boy with tousled brown hair, wearing a mask shaped like a fox, seemed to be teasing the younger child—perhaps they knew one another. Yet the little boy, Chris, was visibly uncomfortable, each attempt at play punctuated by whimpers and forced smiles.

"How is everything going?" Mr. Henry Emily asked, his tone expectant, clearly waiting for me to respond.

"It's been... trying, I suppose," I admitted. "Not much is happening here anymore." I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. He nodded solemnly. The police had scoured the restaurant, inspecting each room, every shadowed corner, yet they had discovered nothing. The boy had been found in the parts and service room, but there were no signs of struggle: no scratches on the walls, no overturned furniture, no evidence of resistance. Whoever had done this was methodical, meticulous—a genius in cruelty. Charlotte Emily's murder had been no accident either; her body had been left outside, rain washing away any trace of the killer's presence. I sighed, feeling the weight of helplessness settle heavier with each passing thought.

"It has been difficult for all of us," Henry murmured again, taking a slow sip of his lemon soda. I reached for my pack of cigarettes, extracting one carefully. "Am I permitted to smoke here?" I asked, glancing at him.

"Yeah. William smokes all the time," he replied, adjusting his glasses which kept sliding down the bridge of his nose. I nodded, lighting the cigarette and bringing it to my lips.

"You know it's not good for you," Mr. Emily said, chuckling softly at his own comment.

"Yes, I'm aware," I muttered, rolling my eyes. "It just... helps with the focus."

He lingered nearby, hovering as though there were words trapped somewhere between his chest and his tongue. Frustration curled in my chest. I needed space.

"It's the boy's birthday?" I asked, more as a conversational bridge than from ignorance.

Henry nodded, his expression shadowed, melancholy brushing against his features. "His brother teases him constantly. He seems so sad... he cries more than he smiles." His voice lowered, dragging my attention toward the words, toward the weight of what he had just described.

"Ah... well, that's just the way of the youngest," I murmured, a wry, quiet giggle escaping me despite the sadness. Even in the cruelty of the teasing, the child's vulnerability tugged at a sense of empathy I could not ignore. William should have been there, protecting his son instead of sequestered in his office, absorbed in paperwork and cigarette smoke.

"I'm... grateful that you're handling this for us," Henry whispered, sorrow lacing his tone. "We've... been broken by everything."

"I'm merely doing my duty," I replied, though internally I knew that this case had drained me far beyond ordinary exhaustion.

"Do you wish to see the show?" he asked next, almost as though he hoped to draw me into some semblance of normalcy. I hesitated, aware that it was outside protocol. "I'm not supposed to... but... sure." A part of me bristled at the unspoken pressure, yet another part of me longed for distraction. He smiled—forced, but sincere enough—and we threaded our way through the crowd.

The curtains parted, and there he stood: William Afton, on the stage, chest squared, eyes flicking over the crowd, projecting a forced cheerfulness.

"Well, well, ladies and gentlemen. Another day at Freddy's, with the pizza warm and the smiles brighter than ever. Today, we toast my beautiful boy... Chris!" He grinned, though the effort was palpable. Chris was guided onto the stage, an employee steadying him, ensuring he did not stumble on the small steps.