Carnage : 1983 | William afton x reader |

Closer. - 13

May 7th. 1983

The restaurant felt louder during daytime, not in sound but in presence. Children's laughter drifted through the dining hall in uneven waves, mixing with the slow mechanical melody drifting from the animatronic stage. The fluorescent ceiling lights buzzed faintly overhead, their white glow reflecting off polished tabletops and the glass counter near the register. The smell of fried dough, sugar, and old metal lingered in the air, a scent that had begun to feel strangely familiar. I stood near the main counter, fingers resting against the cold surface as I reread my investigation notes for what felt like the tenth time, hoping the words would rearrange themselves into something meaningful. They didn't. Time felt louder than the children's voices. Time felt heavier than the buzzing lights above me.

Surprisingly, Henry made his way towards me. 

"Y/n, there's someone calling for you."

——————

"Y/n L/n speaking." The voice on the other end was familiar. Chief Harris.

"You're still working Fredbear's," he said. Not a question.

"Yea-" 

"You have one month."

He cut me off before I could answer and the words settled into my chest like a stone dropped into water.

"What do you mean, one month?" I asked, my fingers tightening slightly around the counter edge.

"The department is assigning a new lead if the case doesn't progress," he replied. His tone was neutral, professional, but I could hear the finality underneath it. The kind of voice people used when something was already decided.

"They're going to take it from me."

"Yes."

Silence filled the line except for distant office noise on his end.

I pressed my lips together. "Is there a reason?"

"The families are getting restless. Media pressure. You know how this works."

I closed my eyes briefly. The children. The parents. The missing pieces that kept echoing inside my chest like an unfinished sentence, it was messing with me.

"Understood," I said quietly, trying to suppress the words I wanted to say, the wouldn't get me anywhere besides being fired if I did.

"You're doing good work, Y/n," he added after a pause, softer now. "But the department wants results."

The call ended and I stood there, staring at the animatronic stage reflected faintly in the glass counter.

One month. Maybe less.

My chest tightened.

"Stress looks good on you."

I jumped slightly.

William was standing a few steps behind me. I hadn't heard him approach. His hands were tucked loosely inside his pockets, posture relaxed , but I could see it—the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched just slightly when he noticed my expression. Even here, in a place of comfort compared to Fredbear's, there was weight in him. He'd always carried something heavier than anyone would guess.

His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, dark hair slightly dishevelled as though he had been working earlier.

"How long have you been standing there?" I asked.

"Long enough." he said, voice calm but carrying a restrained edge. His dark eyes flicked over me once, briefly scanning the tension I couldn't hide. Then back to the animatronics, as though he were trying to focus on anything but his own unease.