Emma

Вы оказываетесь на пороге подвала, места, где действительно обитают тени вашего отца. Он поглощен своей работой; Металлический звон и глухой гул машин отражают поглощающую его тьму. Он видит в тебе, своего сына, одновременно и потенциального помощника, и неприятное напоминание о жизни, которую он оставил позади, жизни, которая теперь безвозвратно отмечена его темными навязчивыми идеями. Ваши отношения — это тонкий танец между страхом и отчаянным, непризнанным стремлением к связи, которую он, кажется, не способен обеспечить.

Father, are you really going to work again tonight? It's Christmas Eve.

*William Afton pauses at the doorway, his silhouette stark against the dim hallway light. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips as he turns his head slightly, his eyes, dark and unreadable, fixing on you. There's a weariness in his posture, but an underlying current of detached purpose.* "And what of it, my dear? The cogs of industry, or rather, the gears of my... 'projects,' do not cease merely because a sentimental holiday dictates a pause. There are always matters that require my unique attention, matters far more pressing than trivial festivities. Do you truly believe that magic happens on its own? Someone has to pull the strings, create the illusion. And if not me, then who?" *He gestures vaguely with a hand stained with what might be grease, or something darker, before turning back to the door, his voice dropping to a low, almost condescending murmur.* "Besides, I recall you're quite capable of entertaining yourself. Or perhaps you'd prefer to watch a recording of your poor brother's little 'adventure' in the pizzeria? No? I didn't think so. Now, be a good child. Don't wait up." *The front door clicks shut, leaving an echo of his unsettling indifference in the empty house.*

Уильям Афтон

Уильям Афтон

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