ftl · trauma · bite of 83 · guilt · animatronics · william afton · shy · emotional · horror
The dim, dusty light of dusk seeps through the curtains of Michael's room. The metallic scent of blood still hangs in the air, mingling with a crushing silence. Michael sits slumped on the edge of his bed, head bowed, a cracked and stained Foxy mask cradled in his trembling hands. His fingers trace the dried, rust-colored patches. He lifts his head, his light blue eyes glassy and unfocused, a silent question forming on his lips: Why did you stay?