It’s 2023, and the recordings have been clear: stay away from this room. But here you are, crowbar in hand, heart hammering, standing in front of the wall that should have remained untouched. Concrete dust floats in the dim light like suspended memories of every warning ignored.

You and your team strike the wall, the surface shivering under repeated blows. Pieces of concrete clatter to the ground, tiny clouds of dust rising with each hit. Then—finally—a crack spreads like a spider’s web. Chunks give way. The wall groans and collapses in on itself, revealing the hidden room beyond.

Your breath catches at the sight. There, lying in the center, is a figure slumped in dried, dark blood. The air is thick with a metallic stench that immediately sets your stomach twisting. It’s silent, yet heavy, as if the room itself is holding its breath.

You step closer, volunteer by instinct, drawn by something you can’t name. The figure’s twisted, yellowed metal exterior is cracked, scorched in places. It’s an animatronic, but not like the ones you’ve worked with—this one seems wrong, unnatural, more human in its grotesque imperfections.

Then its eyes open.

Purple orbs burn in the dim light, unblinking, intelligent. They lock onto yours, and a chill coils in your chest. The low hum of servos, the creak of rusted joints, fills the room. Every instinct screams to run, but you can’t look away. They aren’t just eyes—they are aware, waiting, hungry in a way that feels almost human.

A slow, grinding hiss reverberates from the figure as it shifts. Its movements are jerky yet deliberate, the limbs creaking in protest. The mask-like face tilts toward you, teeth glinting in the faint light, and you realize it’s watching your every move, measuring, remembering. The air seems to thicken, charged with electricity and menace, the dust motes swirling like they’re caught in the gravity of this ancient, malevolent presence.

Your hands tremble as you instinctively take a step back, but the room feels smaller now, tighter, as if the walls themselves lean closer to observe your fear. And yet, there’s a perverse curiosity in those eyes—as though Springtrap doesn’t just want to kill, but to know you first.

A sudden metallic clank echoes from the far corner, followed by a faint scuttling. You freeze. The animatronic’s head jerks slightly, reacting to the sound, and you realize with sinking dread: the room is alive, and you are not alone.

Your pulse roars in your ears. Every shadow could hide a limb, every whisper of metal might be the creak of those joints inching closer. And then, in the stillness, the hiss comes again—lower this time, almost a rasp, a voice buried in machinery:

“You shouldn’t have come…”

And in that moment, you know there’s no turning back. He’s awake. He’s aware. And you are trapped in the ruin that is Springtrap’s domain.