William's life

Three Years Ago

William POV

I slumped into the chair, the taste of cheap diner coffee still bitter on my tongue. Clara's place smelled like burnt toast and lavender—her latest attempt to mask the cracks in this crumbling life. Kicked out by Inko, suitcase still unpacked in the corner, and now Clara's got that glow, the kind that means nine months of hell I didn't sign up for. I stabbed at the plate of eggs she'd slid in front of me, her voice cutting through my haze.

"You alright, William?" she asked, hovering by the stove, apron stretched tight over her belly.

"Yeah, I'm fine, hon," I muttered, forcing a bite down. "Just thinking." About Inko's slammed door. About money running dry. About how I'd rather be anywhere but here.

Clara tilted her head, eyes narrowing like she could see the gears grinding in my skull. "You sure, dear?"

I sighed, louder this time, fork clattering against the plate. "I'm thinking about a business. Something big. Need to call an old friend—Henry, maybe. He owes me." The lie slipped out easy; Henry'd never agree to what I had in mind, not yet.

"That's great!" Clara beamed, too trusting, always too damn trusting. I nodded, staring past her at the peeling wallpaper. A business. Robots. Something to drown out the noise in my head.

Four Years Later (Michael is 3)

William POV

The door banged shut, my boots tracking oil across the floor—Henry's cowardice at the workshop still gnawed at me. Michael crashed into my legs, a whirlwind of curls and jam. "Daddy, you're home!" His voice was bright, cutting through the dull ache in my temples.

"Hey, buddy," I said, ruffling his hair, his grin missing that tooth. "Helping your mom?"

"Yeah! We made cookies, but Mommy yelled 'cause I broke a plate, and she cried!" He hopped, smearing stickiness on me, all innocence.

I glanced up—Glitchtrap stood there, in the corner by the bookshelf, his amber eyes steady on Michael. His form flickered, suit sagging, but his claws rested at his sides, still. He needs better, his rasp rolled through my head, low and firm, like a reprimand. I shook it off, jaw tight. "Go read that Fredbear book, kiddo," I said, nudging Michael toward it. He scampered off, clutching the worn pages.

"You can call me Dad, not Daddy," I muttered, shrugging off my coat. Glitchtrap shifted, head tilting, a faint hum trailing him. Let him be small, he said, voice calm, not sharp.

Clara burst in, flour on her face, eyes red and furious. "He's three, William—let him be! Where were you? He's asking why Daddy's gone!" She pointed, trembling.

"Working," I snapped, coat hitting the chair. Glitchtrap's eyes narrowed, fixed on her now. She's too loud—he'll hear, he rumbled, a warning, not a threat. "Building something," I added, hands clenching. "Not crying over a plate."

Her laugh was brittle. "Building? I found sketches—claws, wires! Vanessa's calls—'parts'? What is this?" She grabbed my arm, nails digging. Glitchtrap stepped closer, silent, his shadow brushing Michael's corner. Careful, he hissed, soft but stern, like I'd crossed a line.

Michael whimpered, book slipping. "Mommy? Daddy?" Clara's breath caught, and Glitchtrap's hands flexed—just once—his gaze locked on the boy, steady, shielding.

"Don't touch me," I growled, pulling free, chest tight. "You wouldn't get it." I stormed to the garage, the phone's shrill ring fading behind me. Glitchtrap lingered in my wake, a flicker by the door, his voice a murmur: I'll watch him—you won't.

Michael POV (Age 3)

The yelling was gone, but my ears felt fuzzy, like when the TV's too loud. Mommy's mad voice and Daddy's stompy feet made everything shake, then it got too quiet. Mommy ran to the kitchen, sniffing loud, and Daddy banged the garage door. I curled up by the bookshelf, knees to my chest. My Fredbear book fell when they shouted, and I didn't want it now—it looked wrong, even with Fredbear smiling.

My eyes stung, all wet, and I rubbed them so Mommy wouldn't hear me cry. Then the bunny man came. He was big, fuzzy like Spring Bonnie, but funny—yellow fur messy, falling off, flickering like the TV when it buzzes. His eyes were warm yellow, not mad like Daddy's, and he walked slow and jerky, stopping by me.

"Hi, little guy," he said, his voice scratchy but nice, like Daddy's radio songs. It came from his big, toothy mouth, just for me. "You okay?"

I sniffed, looking up. "Mommy and Daddy were mad. I broke the plate." My lip shook, and a tear fell. Daddy didn't like me—he yelled and left. The bunny man didn't.

He knelt down, big claws on the floor, not grabby. "Not your fault, Mikey," he said, soft and slow. "Grown-ups get loud. You're good." His grin was big but nice, and I liked it more than Daddy's mean face.

"You're nicer than Daddy," I said, wiping my nose. "He's always mad." The bunny man nodded, like he knew, and I felt a warm hug in my head—like he was saying I'm here without talking.

"I'll stick around, kid," he said, pointing at my book with a claw. "Wanna read? I'll listen." His voice was better than Daddy's—it didn't hurt my tummy.

I grabbed the book, happy but shaky. Then something funny happened. My right eye got a little buzzy—not ouchy, just weird, like a tickle inside. The bunny man's eyes glowed, soft yellow, brighter for a second while he watched me close. I blinked hard, and the buzz stopped, but my eye felt different, tingly.

"Okay," I said, scooting nearer. He smelled like Daddy's tools and old leaves, and I liked it. I opened the book, reading wobbly. "F-Fredbear likes to sing…" I peeked at him, and he leaned in, all quiet.

"Good job," he said, his glowy eyes steady. "Keep going. I've got you." I felt him in my head again—not pushy, just there, like a friend. I thought Stay with me, and his grin got wider, like he heard.

"Spring Bonnie dances…" I read, smiling a little. My eye still felt funny, and when I rubbed it, I saw it in the bookshelf glass—my pupil was swirly, like a twisty circle, not round anymore. "That's you, right?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's me," he chuckled, low and rumbly. "Call me Glitch, Mikey. I'm here when you need me." I nodded, my tummy not twisty now. Daddy was gone, Mommy was sad, but Glitch was better—like a secret friend who stayed.