The demon had taken control once more.
He fights harder than he used to, the demon noted.
But that would not matter soon.
Soon, the demon thought, William Afton will be nothing but a memory. This body will answer to me—and only me.
A quiet satisfaction spread through him as night settled over the town. Through the restaurant's front window, he noticed a small figure outside. Beneath a lone streetlight, a young girl knelt on the sidewalk, shoulders trembling.
He slipped into the Spring Bonnie suit with practiced ease and stepped outside.
"Hello," he said softly, almost warm. "Why are you out here alone?"
The girl looked up, face streaked with tears.
"M-My dog... he won't wake up."
He lowered his gaze to the limp body beside her.
"He's not really dead..." He said gently. "He is over here. Follow me..."
Hope flickered across her expression.
She followed him inside without hesitation. He guided her into Parts and Service and quietly closed the door, the lock clicking into place.
When he removed the mask, his demeanor shifted—no longer gentle, but cold and clinical.
"You shouldn't trust strangers," he said, voice low. "Especially ones who hide their faces."
He drew a knife.
The girl's breath hitched. "P-please... don't hurt me."
He tilted his head, studying her.
"I'm afraid I have to," he said calmly. "You see, you have something I need."
He approached her—not with theatrics, but with purpose.
Her first scream echoed off the metal walls.
A faint glow began to rise from her body—swirling, drifting, gathering. He watched, fascinated.
Remnant.
His device—a harsh, improvised mechanism of containment—pulled it toward him. He worked with methodical precision, unaffected by her cries, extracting the substance piece by piece. When her body finally went still, the reaction ceased. The remnant had given all it could.
He cleaned the room with quiet efficiency.
Then he went back to William's house.
In the basement, he studied the captured remnant as it pulsed faintly within its containment chamber.
"There has to be a way to bend this substance to my will," he murmured.
He paced slowly, reasoning through the possibilities.
"One soul fights back," he whispered. "But what about many? Fragmented and reassembled. A composite with no consciousness left to resist."
The idea solidified—inevitable.
A quiet breath escaped him—almost a laugh, but restrained. A sound of realization.
"Yes," he whispered. "That will work."
He looked at the containment chamber again, the pale light reflecting in his eyes.
"Soon," he said. "William Afton will be gone. And the world will know the name I choose."
He paused.
"David Miller."
The smile that formed on his face was small, controlled—and utterly merciless.