In the halls of the Fazbear Frights Horror Attraction, behind rusted scaffolding and water-stained walls, Springtrap stood motionless beneath a sagging ceiling light. The bulb above him flickered inconsistently, like it wasn’t sure whether to acknowledge his presence. The room smelled of mildew, rot, and burned-out wiring, but he made no sound. No breath. No hum of machinery. Just stillness.

The suit was slumped forward, but not collapsed. He remained upright, spine half-bent like a snapped branch still clinging to its tree. One arm dangled uselessly by his side, twisted beyond proper function; the other rested against the wall as though caught in mid-drag. The fur, once a bright mascot yellow, had dulled into sickly greens and mottled browns, soaked through with years of corrosion.

Inside, the human shape was barely hidden. Scraps of fabric clung to bone. Wires snaked into exposed muscle, fused with machinery in a way that looked neither technological nor biological—just wrong. The faint glint of teeth peeked out from behind the torn jaw plating, where metal and flesh had long since blurred.

One eye socket was empty, dark. The other glowed faintly behind the visor. A dead light, faint and cold, not flickering, not searching. Just... there. As if to say he hadn’t powered off.

He had stopped moving. That was all.

There were no signs of sleep mode. No shutdown hiss. The silence didn’t suggest rest. It suggested waiting.

The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from peace.

But from knowing there’s nowhere left to go.