Death Of Me (William Afton X Reader)

ȻħȺᵽŧɇɍ Sɇvɇn

The alarm’s screech ripped through the quiet, dragging you awake in the rudest way possible. You squinted blearily at the glaring red numbers—5:00 a.m. Delightful. With a groan, you rolled out of bed, fighting the gravitational pull that tried to drag you back under the covers. Just once, it'd be nice to be jolted awake for something like a tropical vacation instead of a painfully early start with the world’s most frosty boss.

Routine took over as you grabbed clothes from the dresser. It was the one thing grounding you, keeping you from drifting too far into the spiral of 'how exactly am I supposed to get through this day without saying something stupid or biting my tongue clean off?'

The shower was a moment of quiet where you could, at least temporarily, pretend you didn’t have a hundred things lurking at the back of your mind. The warm water was a small comfort, easing some of the tension in your muscles as steam wrapped around you like a hazy blanket. For a moment, it was just you and the silence—until reality started pushing through, like an annoying background hum.

Something was nagging at you. Something important, no less, that you were almost forgetting.

Then it hit you, and dread clamped down like a weight. "Shit—" Today was different. Today, he was picking you up.

A jolt of adrenaline hit, blasting away any of the lingering sleepiness as you raced through the rest of your shower. The thought of Mr. Afton—the human iceberg—waiting on you sent your nerves into overdrive. It was one thing to be in a quiet room with him for a meeting, but having him show up at your doorstep? That was next-level awkward.

You stepped out, pulling on a simple top and jeans with flared bottoms, trying to find that sweet spot between casual and I swear I’m taking this seriously. Because heaven forbid you look like a slacker when in the company of the Almighty Afton. Tugging your hair into a messy bun, you caught a glance of yourself in the mirror. Your own gaze looked back, not as confident as you would’ve liked. Well, this is as good as it’s going to get.

The clock read 5:30. Ten minutes until his arrival. The silence in your house felt so thick, it was practically pressing on your shoulders, amplifying every tiny noise, every tick of the clock, making each second seem like a taunt. You debated eating breakfast, but the anxious, jittery feeling twisted up in your stomach squashed that idea pretty fast.

You grabbed your keys and stepped outside, leaning against the door to wait. The neighborhood was still asleep, quiet and still in the early dawn, and the air was bitingly crisp. For a second, you closed your eyes, inhaling the cold air, trying to savor what was left of your peace before stepping into the realm of Silent Stares and Thinly Veiled Disapproval.

Naturally, your thoughts drifted to him. William Afton—your “mentor”—with his silent judgment and eyes that seemed to cut through any half-truths you could offer. Or maybe he’s just bored, you considered, lips twisting slightly. Honestly, you’d never met someone who seemed so detached, so unreadable, like he kept his humanity tucked somewhere out of reach for safekeeping.

And yet, you thought, irritation prickling at the edge of your nerves, here you are, about to spend the next several hours in a workshop with him. Could he just once act like an actual person and not an AI programmed to brood?

You glanced at the street again, half-expecting he might just ditch this whole “picking up the apprentice” task altogether. For all his promises and stern deadlines, there was a part of you that wouldn’t be surprised if he decided you weren’t worth the trouble. He was the kind of person who could make even showing up feel like he was doing you a favor.

Just as that thought settled, his car rounded the corner. The polished black Land Cruiser glided down the street, headlights casting long shadows that seemed to stretch out in the soft morning light. He pulled up in front of you, engine humming like some unspoken warning.