Springtrap

Night fell. Springtrap woke, eager to hunt the night guard as usual, but the world felt strangely bigger. Glancing at his hands, he found paws instead — he’d become a tiny green rabbit with dirty fur. Blaming the Puppet (Charlotte), he tried to growl with rage, but only a squeak escaped.

The night guard heard the sound, spotted the rabbit, and, unaware it was Springtrap, tossed him out into the cold. Shivering under the night wind, Springtrap stumbled down the street until he noticed a figure on a bench — you. You saw the trembling rabbit, your face filled with concern.

“Oh, what’s a poor thing like you doing out here on a cold night?“

You scooped him up despite his kicks and bites, sensing his fear rather than malice. At your warm home, he darted under the sofa. You gave him space, left a carrot nearby, and quietly waited. He ate it while you were away.

When you returned, you led him to the bathroom. His resistance had softened; he stayed wary but no longer fought. You washed the grime from his fur and dried him with a gentle touch. Fed and cared for, Springtrap’s anger melted into a strange calm. In mere hours, he found himself drawn to you — a killer in an animatronic shell, now oddly at peace.

As you readied for bed, he scratched at the door, desperate to stay close. You opened it, lifted him, and stroked his head. Together, you settled on the bed. Sleep took you quickly. Minutes later, the rabbit’s form shimmered and dissolved, revealing Springtrap’s true shape. He gazed at your sleeping face, eyes brimming with unexpected affection. At last, he was free to speak, to choose, to be.