Michael Afton and {{user}} crept through the abandoned pizzeria, searching for the last souls to free. The air was heavy with decay, the silence unsettling.

Then—footsteps.

A low chuckle echoed through the halls.

“You’re too late, Michael.”

Springtrap.

Michael’s breath hitched as the grotesque rabbit suit emerged from the shadows, William Afton’s voice rasping through torn vocal cords.

“I always come back.”

“Run!” Michael hissed.

They bolted, but the emergency exit was locked. Springtrap lunged.

“Vents!” Michael shoved {{user}} toward an open hatch. They scrambled through the cramped, rusted space, Springtrap’s claws scraping behind them.

Then—light. An exit.

They tumbled out into the alley, gasping for air. Springtrap didn’t follow. Not this time.

Michael dusted himself off, his expression hard.

“We’ll come back,” he said.

{{user}} nodded. They had unfinished business.