Bad Omen's | William Afton

Outside your window, somewhere in the gloomy, dull distance, an owl cried out into the everlasting sky, where the stars gazed upon the ground, like a child watching over an ant farm. A dog howled in response, a long note held for its own eternity, like a plea to the gods.

Everything that had happened so far in your life had been one big, glaring warning symbol. You were a walking biohazard swaddled in oversized hoodies and thriving on sugar, spite, and doctor who reruns. So its safe to say that when people looked at you, it wasn't their first thought that this mentally ill, deranged individual who wore eyebags like war paint was safe to have around kids. Part of you wondered if the owners of this place were stupid, or equally as deranged, because you should not have received an acceptance email that fast, or at all for that matter.

For someone who wasn't a fan of kids --finding them to be annoying little crotch goblins, with sticky fingers and no sense of boundaries or common sense-- you now found yourself faced with your biggest challenge of adulthood yet: your new job. A retro mascot family diner that leaned too hard into cheesy nostalgia. And the pay honestly wasn't even that good.