Death Of Me (William Afton X Reader)

̷C̷̷h̷a̷̷p̷̷t̷̷e̷̷r̷ ̷F̷̷o̷̷u̷̷r̷

You wake up, squinting at the clock on the coffee table. 5:30 AM.

Panic slams into you like a cold wave, your heart immediately hammering in your chest. You jolt upright, and a sharp ache shoots through your back and neck—remnants of falling asleep on the couch instead of your bed. Your body protests as you scramble to your feet, stiff and sore, but you can't afford to care about the discomfort right now.

Mr. Afton did not seem like the understanding type.

“Oh no… no, no, no!”

God you really wish Henry had been able to actually sponsor you instead of this ass-

You scramble up the stairs of your loft, legs heavy with sleep, adrenaline pumping through your veins. Your head spins, still hazy from being pulled out of deep slumber, and your fingers fumble desperately as you grab the first clothes you can find—an old, wrinkled T-shirt and jeans that have seen better days. The pressure in your chest tightens as you pull the clothes on without a second thought, barely registering what you're doing.

Your reflection in the mirror is a blur as you race to pull your hair into a messy bun, strands slipping through your fingers with your shaking hands. The knot in your stomach tightens, nerves growing worse by the second.

The soreness in your body doesn’t let up as you rush to the bathroom, grabbing your toothbrush with urgency. You brush quickly, wincing at how stiff your shoulders feel, the minty taste of toothpaste doing little to mask the panic boiling inside. You glance at the clock again. Each second that ticks by feels like it’s slipping away, tightening the knot of anxiety in your chest.

Your shoes barely make it on your feet before you grab your keys, your muscles screaming from the rushed movements, but you don’t care. There's no time. You’ve got to go. Now.

The car ride is a blur of dread, every red light mocking you as your pulse refuses to calm. You squeeze the steering wheel, your fingers tight and cold. It’s not that late, right? 

You pull into the parking lot, spotting the same Land Cruiser from yesterday, briefly piecing together that this must be Mr. Afton’s car.

You hop out of your car, practically sprinting inside, still winded from the rush. Your legs feel like lead, your body aching even more as you burst through the doors, beelining for the dining room. You intended to head straight to the workshop, but your steps falter as soon as you catch sight of him.

Mr. Afton is on the stage, a figure of perfect composure as he works on Chica’s animatronic beak. He looks almost the same as yesterday, though today he's wearing a crisp white button-up, sharp and pristine, which only serves to emphasize his stern demeanor. He’s fully absorbed in his task, and the mere sight of him drains the air from your lungs.

Panting softly from the rush, you force yourself to speak. “M-Mr. Afton! Good morning!” you call out, your voice strained from the effort to sound casual, your breath still uneven.

At first, there’s no response—just a heavy, suffocating silence. He doesn’t even look at you, but you notice his hands still on Chica’s beak. The air thickens around you, your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

“You’re late,” he finally says, his British tinged voice cold and clipped, each word slicing through the air like ice.

You freeze, your heart dropping. “Only by two minutes! I’m really sorry! I just—"

“I don’t care.” His response is immediate, and he finally turns to face you, his piercing gaze locking onto you. His eyes sweep over you, lingering for a moment on your disheveled appearance—wrinkled clothes, hair hastily thrown into a bun, the flush of your face from the rush—and something akin to disdain flickers across his expression.