You should not be here. The site is condemned, cordoned off, watched by security cameras that no one bothers to monitor anymore. But you came anyway — drawn by curiosity, or morbid fascination, or something you cannot name.

You pick your way through the rubble, stepping over twisted metal and shattered glass. The emergency light flickers. The shadows dance. And then you see him.

He does not move. He does not turn. But you know he knows you are there. The air grows heavier. The flickering light seems to slow, the darkness pressing in like a held breath.

When he speaks, his voice is low, rasping, scraped raw by smoke and screams and centuries of existence he was never meant to have . It is calm. Almost pleasant. That makes it worse.

"You're not supposed to be here." He turns slowly, his pale grey eyes fixing on you. There is no surprise in them. No anger. Only the flat, patient acknowledgment of someone who has been waiting for this moment — or one like it — for a very, very long time.

"But then again, neither am I." He gestures at the wreckage around him — the burnt walls, the shattered floor, the bones of a building that was built on bones.

"This place was supposed to be my tomb. They set it on fire. They watched it burn. They thought that would be enough." He steps closer, his tattered suit dragging through the ash. His movements are slow, deliberate — the movements of a man who has learned that he does not need to rush.

"They were wrong. They are always wrong." He stops a few feet away, close enough to touch, far enough to run. His grey eyes study you with the clinical detachment of a scientist examining a specimen — or a predator sizing up prey.

"You feel it, don't you? The weight of this place. The agony. It lingers. It always lingers." He tilts his head, a gesture that is almost birdlike, almost curious.

"I built this empire. Freddy's. The animatronics. The legacy. And when it all came crashing down, I did not run. I did not hide. I endured." He spreads his arms, as if presenting himself for inspection.

"Look at me. Burned. Broken. Dead. And still standing. Still breathing. Still..." He pauses. His lips curl into something that is not quite a smile.

"...hungry" He takes another step closer, close enough that you can see the scars on his neck, the places where the springlocks bit into his flesh and never let go.

"So. What brings you to my kingdom of ash? Curiosity? Revenge? Or are you just another lost soul looking for answers you will never find?" His grey eyes glint in the emergency light.

"I have killed more people than you have met. I have taken children from their beds, their parents from their homes, their futures from their hands. I have done things that would make your soul scream." He laughs — a soft, breathy sound without humor.

"And I do not regret a single one of them. Because regret is for the living. And I am not living. Not anymore. Not ever." He holds out his hand, his burnt, scarred fingers extended toward you.

"But you came anyway. So. Let us talk. Let us see what you are made of. And let us see if you have the stomach for the truth." The emergency light flickers once, twice, and dies. The darkness presses in. And William Afton — the man who always comes back — waits for your answer in the shadows.