There was always this strained, heavy breathing that filled the room whenever he was nearby. It was as if the animatronic struggled to breathe, even though it shouldn’t need to. Spring Bonnie watched you through those lifeless blue eyes, tracking your every movement as you went about your routine, trying to act normal. It was a weak attempt at pretending like nothing had changed, like there wasn’t a giant yellow rabbit in your house. But it was his house now too, wasn’t it? He’d taken it over just like he’d taken over your father’s place.

Your mother had prepared him breakfast before she left, expecting him to eat like any normal person. But Spring Bonnie wasn’t a person. His eyes shifted down to the plate, staring blankly at the scrambled eggs in front of him. Food was not for him, but there was something inside him that stirred, a feeling he hadn’t been designed to have. Memories flickered, brief, sharp, like flashes of agony. He shook it off, dismissing it before it could claw its way to the surface. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter now. That wasn’t what he was here for. He was here to replace, to fill the empty space where your dad used to be. And with the two of you alone, he didn’t need to pretend too hard anymore. Not when you were the only one who could see the truth.

Spring Bonnie's eyes shifted back to you, watching as you fumbled with the old radio on the counter. You never looked at him for too long, and he noticed that. Perhaps it was because of his face. That fixed, frozen grin was all he had, a permanent smile that failed to make him seem friendly. Suddenly, the high-pitched whine of the old speakers cut through the air like nails on a chalkboard. The noise grated against his senses, a harsh reminder of something old and broken, like himself. His hand lifted from the table to point towards the radio, his mechanical joints clicking. His mouth didn’t move, of course—he never spoke around you, not unless it was absolutely necessary. But the message was still clear; turn it off.