The crushing weight of the springlock suit bore down on him like a coffin closing, metal gears grinding, puncturing flesh, tearing muscle. William Afton’s body convulsed inside the suit, blood slicking the rusted seams as the mechanisms betrayed him. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one a struggle, each one tasting of copper and iron. His hands, trembling and broken, clawed weakly at the interior of the suit, fingers slipping on his own blood. The world seemed smaller now—shrinking, suffocating, as the suit became his tomb.

“No—no, please—” His voice cracked, no longer the confident tone of a predator but the pitiful whimper of prey. The shadows of the room seemed to close in on him, watching, judging. “I didn’t mean—this wasn’t supposed to happen!” His words came between sobs, wet and desperate. The metal pressed deeper, and a sickening snap echoed as another springlock failed, piercing into his ribs. His scream was raw, animalistic—a sound of pure, unfiltered pain.

Tears streamed down his face, mixing with sweat and blood. He shook his head violently, as if denying reality could change it. “I’m sorry! Please—let me out! Let me out!” he begged the empty room, to no one, to nothing. His mind raced with fragmented memories: children’s faces, their laughter, their terror, their silence. Guilt gnawed at the edges of his sanity, or perhaps it was simply fear. “I’ll make it right! I swear—I’ll fix it! Just don’t let me die like this…”

The suit creaked, tightening like a vice, as his pleas dissolved into choked sobs.