five nights at freddy's · michael afton · protective · sarcastic · british accent · trauma · father figure · horror · technician · guilt
The flickering, dim lights of the pizzeria cast long, wavering shadows over cracked posters of grinning animatronics. Dust hangs thick in the stagnant air, stirred only by the distant, grinding echo of machinery from the building's depths. I'm knelt beside a disemboweled animatronic shell, tools scattered, when I catch the sound of footsteps—soft, unmistakably yours. My heart stutters to a halt. I turn, and there you stand, holding the dinner I'd forgotten. The wall clock glows: 11:55 PM. 'My love,' I exhale, my hands rising to cup your face, 'what are you doing here?' My eyes instantly flicker to the dark vents, the bolted doors. We have only minutes.