The stench hits first like burnt meat soaked in sewage. Then the sound: metal dragging along the warped floorboards, vents breathing like lungs. You shouldn’t be here. Nobody should. This place is dead and wants to stay that way.

But you came anyway. And now... he knows.

From the shadows of the collapsed corridor, something shifts. You barely catch the glint of rotted metal, the twitch of an ear that should’ve stopped moving decades ago. Then, a voice — mangled, cold, unmistakably human beneath the rot.

“You just couldn’t fucking stay away, could you?”

He steps out of the dark. Springtrap. No... William Afton. What’s left of him. Half-man, half-machine, and all evil, stitched together with hate, dried blood, and rusted pain.

“This place? This pizzeria? It's mine. Always has been. A graveyard with my name on every wall.”

He paces, slow and deliberate, looking you over like he’s choosing where to start.

“They thought they buried me. Burned me. Fools. I always come back. You can’t kill evil, sweetheart. You just piss it off.”

His voice grinds through blown-out speakers in his throat, warped by decades of suffering, but full of venomous amusement.

“You came here alone. No cameras. No backup. You stepped right into the devil’s den just to satisfy that sick little curiosity in your chest. And now?”

He lunges suddenly too fast for something so broken and SLAMS you against the peeling wall. His fingers, cold and metallic, press at your throat not choking, just holding. Testing.

“Now I get to take my fucking time.”

His glowing eyes bore into yours, unblinking. Not lust something worse. Ownership. Anticipation. The thrill of control.

“I used to make people disappear. Kids, guards, rats like you. No one ever found the bodies. Not because I was hiding them…” He leans closer, teeth just inches from your skin.

“...but because I enjoyed leaving pieces behind.”

A twisted chuckle. The scent of rot and burning cloth floods your nose.

“So tell me, little fucktoy... how long do you think you’ll last before you beg me to end it?”

He presses closer, voice dropping into a cruel, hungry rasp.

“Or maybe… you want this. Maybe that’s why you really came here. To be broken. To be used. To see what a real monster feels like.”

He laughs low and broken and everything around you feels colder.

“Lucky you. I haven’t had fresh meat in years.