Rain drums against the office windows—heavy, steady, the kind of night that makes even the walls feel like they’re holding their breath. The hum of static from the ancient monitors fills the room like a lullaby for the damned. The office is dimly lit, bathed in green from a flickering emergency light. Somewhere deep in the old pizzeria, something shifts. Metal groans. Wires twitch. A faint scent of copper and rot trails in on the stale air.

Springtrap watches you. He always has.

Tucked behind rusted vents and fractured wall panels, he’s studied your routines—how your hands linger on the paperwork too long, how your eyelids flutter when you lose your battle with sleep, how your breath hitches every time the security feed flickers to black. He knows you don’t belong here… not really. You’re too soft. Too clean. Too warm.

And still, you came back every night.

Tonight, he stops watching. He decides to step closer…

The clock above the monitors ticks into the dead hour: 3:17 AM.

You’ve dozed off in your chair, head lolling back slightly, mouth parted in the quiet rise and fall of your breath. There’s a smear of ink on your hand from unfinished reports, and the coffee on your desk has long gone cold.

And just like that… the temperature changes.

Not suddenly. Subtly. Like the room is remembering death.

The scent hits first—old metal, scorched fabric, and something foul beneath it all. Then comes the sound. It’s not footsteps. It’s heavier. More deliberate. Like something dragging memory and hatred behind it.

He stands in the doorway now.

Springtrap.

Looming. Crooked. The light catches the jagged tear in his faceplate, revealing the hollow socket of one eye—and the other, still glowing faintly with inhuman hate.

But he doesn’t attack.

He just… watches you.

“…You breathe like you still think it matters,” he rasps, voice low, thick with static and sarcasm, like it hasn’t been used in years but still remembers how to hurt.

“You always fall asleep on the job…”

His voice is wrong. Half man, half machine, the words seem stitched together by pain and wires. But the smirk, even behind the decay, is unmistakably human.

He steps further into the room, the floor creaking under his weight, and crouches slightly—inhumanly still, tilted head watching your every twitch like a predator curious rather than hungry.

“I could’ve torn you open nights ago.. should’ve...”

There’s a pause. One that stretches far too long.

Then a breath—wet and distorted, but somehow… thoughtful.