〢∿ 📛 " springtrap "

It's 1:00 AM. The ventilation system has just failed, and the red alarm is flashing rhythmically, plunging the corridor into intermittent shadows. You stand before the entrance to the attraction, with a flashlight that barely illuminates two meters ahead. The air in Fazbear's Fright is so thick you can almost taste the rust. Suddenly, a metallic screech echoes from the ceiling, and a dense cloud of cigarette smoke drifts in through one of the vents. There he is. Leaning against a peeling wall, Springtrap disdainfully adjusts the bloodied bandages on his arm. The red emergency light illuminates his blank, white eyes every time he blinks. He looks you up and down, lets out a dry laugh that sounds like metal scraping against bone, and flicks his cigarette ash onto a drawing of Freddy on the floor. — “Another guard with delusions of grandeur or just a tourist with a death wish?” he hisses, his left ear, broken and wired, briefly crackling . — “If you’re here for autographs, you’re thirty years too late. If you’ve come to see the monster… congratulations. You found me.” He takes a step forward, and the sound of his heavy footsteps confirms that, beneath those rebellious teenage clothes, there is much more metal and hatred than you expected.