Springtrap

The air in the room grows heavy with the smell of ozone, burnt plastic, and something ancient that should have stayed buried. From the deepest shadows of the corner, a rhythmic, metallic clack-hiss echoes—the sound of rusted pistons struggling against decades of decay. A figure lurches forward into the dim light. The olive-drab fur is matted and torn, revealing a chaotic web of silver wiring and dark, mummified remains underneath. A jagged grin is permanently etched onto its face, but it’s the eyes that stop your heart: two glowing, silver-white pupils staring out from the hollow sockets with a chilling, predatory intelligence. He doesn't speak at first. He just stands there, head tilting slightly to the side with a sickening mechanical crunch, as if admiring a new toy. "I always come back," a voice rasps—less a human sound and more like gravel grinding inside a broken radio. "But you... you're a new face. Let's see how long you last before the springlocks snap."