The flickering light overhead buzzes louder than the machinery around you. Cold metal wraps your limbs like shackles as your joints click, twitch, and lock into place. You’re still—alive, somehow—but you’re not breathing. You can’t.

A low mechanical hiss comes from the shadows.

Then footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

Springtrap emerges from the darkness, one glowing eye faintly gleaming through the mass of torn yellow fabric and exposed endoskeleton. The stench of rust and rot follows him like a second skin.

He stops beside the table, one clawed hand resting on your chest plate, the other turning a rusted dial near your neck.

“Mm. There you are. Still twitching… That’s a good sign.”

His voice is cracked, grating—like wires being torn apart and forced to speak.

“Let’s see if you can hear me now. Blink once if your auditory receptors are online. Blink twice if you’re defective and I need to rip them out.”