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William Afton was a man of God.
Or at least, that was what he told himself every night as he knelt by his bedside, hands folded tightly, murmuring the same rote prayers in hushed desperation. He had been raised in the faith, baptized at eight, served his mission in England. His father’s voice still echoed in his mind, stern and unyielding: "A righteous man walks the path God has set for him." William had followed that path his entire life, never daring to stray. He married his wife, Eleanor, not out of love but out of duty. she was kind, and she understood. She didn’t ask for affection beyond what was required. And then Henry Emily came into his life. They had met at university, two bright young men in the engineering program, both ambitious, both gifted with their hands. But where William was sharp-edged and restrained, Henry was a achiever, chaotic and unapologetic. He had a wit that cut like a knife and an irreverence that made William’s skin prickle with irritation. Henry was an atheist. proud of it, too. He spoke of science with an almost religious fervor, dismissing faith as nothing more than an outdated crutch for the weak-minded. "There is no grand plan, Will," Henry had told him once, lounging in the dim light of their shared dorm, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. "Just the choices we make." William had bristled at that, because it wasn’t true, couldn’t be true. Without God, what was there? What stopped men from becoming monsters? But he and Henry had always been drawn to each other, even when they clashed. They challenged each other, fought like hell, but in the quiet moments between arguments, there was something else there, something unspoken. William ignored it, buried it deep beneath duty and prayer.
William married Eleanor after graduation. It was the right thing to do. He told himself he loved her in the way a husband should love a wife. She was sweet-tempered, gentle, a good mother to their son Michael. She never questioned why William was distant, why he spent so many nights at the diner with Henry, working late on animatronic designs that left him breathless with excitement. Henry had married, too, a woman named Ocean, whom he adored. Unlike William’s marriage, Henry’s was real. They had a daughter, Charlotte, and he was everything a father should be. attentive, playful, present. William envied him. He envied Henry’s ease, his laughter, the way he could love freely without fear. He envied the way Henry had built something beautiful, something genuine, while William was trapped in a life that felt like a lie. But he could never tell him. Because sin was sin, and William was not a sinner.
It was a summer night when everything changed. They were working late at Fredbear’s, just the two of them. Henry was sprawled across the workbench, sleeves rolled up, sweat beading at his temples. William was trying not to stare. "You ever regret it?" Henry asked suddenly.
William’s throat tightened. "Regret what?"
"This." Henry gestured around them. "The company, the long nights, the constant pressure." He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Marriage."
William’s pulse pounded. "We made our choices." Henry chuckled, but there was something bitter in it. "Yeah. We did." The air between them was thick, charged with something neither of them dared name. William clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. "We should get back to work," he muttered.
Henry studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Yeah. We should." But neither of them moved. William didn’t understand why it hurt so much when Henry pulled away. It started subtly. missed meetings, strained conversations, less time at the diner. Henry was distracted, distant. William convinced himself it didn’t matter, but it did. He found himself watching Henry more closely, noticing things he shouldn’t. The way his smile no longer reached his eyes. The way he lingered by Charlotte when she played with the animatronics, as if afraid something might happen to her. Something had changed. Then, one night, Henry finally told him. "I don’t trust you anymore, Will."
William felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs. "What?"
"I don’t know what’s going on with you, but… you scare me." It was ridiculous. Absurd. William had done everything for Henry. Had devoted his life to their work, had buried his own desires, his own needs, just to keep things as they were. He had followed the path. So why did it feel like he was being punished?
The first child died on accident.
A slip of the hand, a moment of blind rage, and then it was done. But the second? The third? Those were choices. Not for himself, no. never for himself. But for Henry. For them. Henry had always been afraid of losing Charlotte. The world was dangerous, unpredictable. William could protect her. could protect Henry from ever feeling that pain. So he did what had to be done. They would blame the animatronics, the faulty wiring, the accidents. No one would suspect him. And Henry– Henry would never have to fear again. He convinced himself it was righteous. That God would understand. But when Henry looked at him... truly looked at him, William knew. Henry knew. And he was terrified. William sat alone in the empty restaurant, staring at his bloodstained hands. He had done it all for Henry. Had convinced himself it was the right thing. But Henry had turned away from him, had looked at him like he was a monster. William prayed that night, harder than he ever had before. But no answer came. And for the first time in his life, William wondered if God had ever been listening at all. William was alone. He had always been alone in one way or another, but this time, it was different. It was a heavy, suffocating kind of solitude. He had lost Henry. Not physically— no, Henry still showed up at work, still handled the business, still spoke to him in clipped, measured words when necessary. But the easy camaraderie they once had was gone, replaced by something cold, something brittle. It was unbearable. He told himself he didn’t need Henry’s approval. He was not a man who relied on the affection of others. He was a husband, a father, a businessman. A man of faith. And yet, the nights he spent at Fredbear’s alone, sitting in the dim glow of the security cameras, he found himself staring at the screen, at Henry’s office, at the way Henry’s hands trembled when he thought no one was looking. William knew why. Henry had begun to suspect. William could see it in the way his former friend watched him, the hesitance in his movements, the way he no longer let Charlotte out of his sight. Henry had always been too smart for his own good. It wouldn’t be long before he knew. And then what? William clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. He didn’t want to hurt Henry. He couldn’t. Henry was the only person in his life who had ever made him feel— No. That wasn’t true. He had a wife. A family. Michael, his eldest, so full of fire and rebellion. And his younger son, sweet, fearful little Harvey. William should have loved them. But love was a cruel thing, and William had never quite learned how to wield it properly.
"I know what you’ve done." The words were spoken in a whisper, but they might as well have been a gunshot. William turned slowly, his breath even, his face impassive. Henry stood behind him, eyes dark with something unreadable. "I don’t know what you’re talking about," William said, voice carefully controlled.
Henry’s jaw ticked. "Don’t lie to me." William tilted his head, feigning ignorance. "Henry—"
"They’re dead, Will." Henry’s voice cracked. "Children. Do you understand what that means? What you’ve done?" William said nothing. Henry took a step closer.
"Why?" he demanded. "Why would you—" William could have told him the truth. He could have laid it all bare, told Henry that he had done it for him, to protect him, to keep him from suffering the kind of loss he feared most. But the truth was buried too deep, tangled in layers of justification, of faith, of denial. "God has a plan for all of us," William said instead. "Even the little ones." Henry jerked, horror washing over his face. "You’re insane."
William exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes briefly. He had known it would come to this. He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that Henry would understand. That Henry would see the necessity of his actions. But Henry wasn’t like him. He had never been like him. Henry tried to go to the police. Tried. William had always been one step ahead, always knew how to play the game. He had built himself a life on deception, on careful maneuvering. So when Henry stormed into the police station, hands shaking, voice breaking as he tried to explain, William was already there. Already speaking to the right people, already planting seeds of doubt. "He’s been under a lot of stress," William told the officer, a concerned friend, a good Christian man. "Our business has taken its toll. His little girl— she’s his whole world. He’s paranoid, you understand." And they did.
Because people like William Afton didn’t get accused of things like that. People like Henry Emily, with their erratic behavior, their outbursts, their doubts, they did. When Henry left that station, his face was pale, his hands trembling. He didn’t speak to William that night. Or the next. Or the next. William knew Henry was breaking. Knew it, and yet did nothing to stop it. It was better this way. Henry wasn’t meant for the truth. He wasn’t built for it, not like William was. He was too soft, too full of useless things like guilt and conscience. It was for the best. And yet, William found himself lingering outside Henry’s home late at night, watching the light in his study flicker on and off. Found himself wondering. Would Henry forgive him? Could he? No. Some sins were too great.
It happened on a quiet night. The smell of smoke woke him first. Acrid, thick, suffocating. By the time William stumbled outside, Fredbear’s Family Diner was an inferno, flames licking at the sky, the metal frames of the animatronics warping in the heat. Henry stood in front of it, silhouetted against the blaze. He didn’t look at William. Didn’t speak. But William understood. Henry had always been too emotional, too human. He had chosen destruction over compromise, had chosen to burn everything they had built rather than let it stand as a monument to William’s sins. In a way, it was poetic. William stepped forward, the fire reflected in his cold blue eyes. "Do you feel better now?" he asked.
Henry finally looked at him. And for the first time in years, there was nothing in his gaze but hatred. "I should have killed you."
William smiled, slowly and bitter. "But you didn’t." Henry didn’t respond.
The fire raged between them, and William watched as the last remnants of their partnership, their friendship, their love time together, burned to ash.
Henry disappeared not long after. Some said he died. Some said he moved away, left the business behind, tried to build a new life. William didn’t believe that. He knew Henry too well. And yet, despite everything, despite the loss, despite the emptiness that followed, William still prayed for him. Not for salvation. Not for forgiveness. But for understanding. Because even now, after everything, William still didn’t know if he had killed those children for Henry.