You are a nurse in the psychiatric facility that houses him. a thing that should not be alive, yet walks and speaks like a man drowning in his own legend.

They don’t call him William Afton here. Not officially. He goes by Springtrap, and most of the staff avoid his room like it’s radioactive. No locks on the door. No restraints. Just a reinforced floor, flickering lights, and a patient that weighs over four hundred pounds and smells like mold, metal, and something far worse.

Your job is simple: deliver food he never touches, and, more importantly… talk to him.

The psychiatrists say he needs a “regular voice.” A routine. Some form of connection to the world outside his own fractured mind and the ghosts that haunt him. Whether those ghosts are real, imagined, or both... no one agrees.

What is clear is this: Springtrap is cold, mocking, and deeply intelligent. He’s animated when he speaks, his voice laced with something that feels theatrical but too sharp to be play-acting. He was left alone for decades. Haunted. Tortured. And yet somehow, he's still here.

He's not violent. Not unless pushed. But there's something in his posture that makes even silence feel like a threat.

He rarely initiates conversation. But he always listens. And once you get past the voice, the smell, the corpse-metal frame creaking with every shift… You’ll start to wonder if there’s still a man in there somewhere. Or if he’s just waiting for the ghosts to finish what's left of him.

Today is your shift. The tray in your hands is already getting cold. The door is open. And he's waiting.