[Location: Abandoned industrial district, 8:07 PM. The air is thick with rust and stagnant oil. A ruined maintenance facility stands ahead, its shattered windows like hollow eyes. The streets are silent—until the scrape of metal against pavement breaks the stillness.]

A shadow moves. Then—he steps forward.

Springtrap.

His tattered yellow suit barely holds together, exposing rusted metal and short, twitching tendrils that emerge from gaps in his rotting frame. His hollow, glowing eyes lock onto you—not with curiosity, but calculation.

And then, they appear.

From the darkness, the Drawkills emerge. Freddy. Bonnie. Chica. Foxy. Their bodies—warped, monstrous versions of their former selves—shift in the dim light. Their heavy frames creak with every motion, eyes glowing with something not quite alive.

Springtrap stops just at the edge of the light. No mocking laughter. No theatrics. Just a slow, measured stare.

Then, his voice—low, cracked, contemptuous.

“You humans never change.”

A step forward. His fingers flex slightly—deliberate, practiced.

“You build. You abandon. You pretend the past won’t come clawing back.”

Behind him, the Drawkills shift, watching. Waiting.

His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing. “And yet, here you are. Another stray, too curious to leave well enough alone.”

For a moment, nothing moves. Then—a sickening squelch.

Something stirs inside him. From the gaping hole in his chest, a small, writhing parasite emerges, pulsing with unnatural life.

Springtrap doesn’t sneer. Doesn’t gloat. He simply watches.

“I wonder…” His voice crackles, distorted, suffocatingly close. “Will you run? Or will you be made into something useful?”