Night fell hard on the city's forgotten edge.
The air was thick with smoke, engine oil, and malice—the scent of predators who thought themselves kings of the ruins. Broken street lamps cast shadows that flickered like ghosts, while rats scurried through alleyways too scared to hide.
A group of five figures crept down a fractured access road, boots crunching on gravel and ash. Their clothes were patched, their weapons mismatched—pistols, batons, one even had a crowbar—but they all had the same hungry gleam in their eyes.
They'd come for him.
"That girl said this is where he's hiding," the first one muttered, scanning the massive, half-collapsed distribution center ahead.
"Well then," sneered another, a wiry man with scabbed knuckles, "we get in, kill him, get out. Simple."
A third one—the biggest among them, a bear of a man with a crushed nose and a tattoo of a bleeding ace on his throat—grunted. "Yeah? Let's not draw too much noise. You want that Red Blur on our trail again?"
Silence fell.
No one needed to be reminded of Jimmy.
Everyone had heard what happened. Jimmy had tried to mug someone near the metro station last week.
He'd been found outside the Central Police Department half an hour later—naked, save for his underwear, handcuffed to a lamppost and sobbing. Said he'd been dragged across half the city by air.
"I'd rather not end up like Jimmy," another muttered, tightening his grip on his pistol.
"You sure this thing's even a person?" the fifth man asked, eyes twitching as they neared the warehouse gates. "The girl said he didn't eat, just sat in there... doin' weird tech stuff. You ever seen his face?"
"Nope. Don't need to."
"Yeah, well—"
Pop.
The sound was small.
But sudden.
The fifth man dropped instantly, his skull flaring with light and steam—a perfect, coin-sized hole burned clean through his head. His body hit the pavement with a wet smack. The others froze, spinning around, weapons raised, hearts hammering.
And then they saw it.
Standing just beyond the warehouse's broken archway was a tall figure—stiff, grotesque, and still.
Its suit—or skin, it was hard to tell—was the color of rot, patchy green with slick dark veins, parts fused with iron and bone. A smoking pistol hissed in its clawed right hand, its barrel glowing faint orange. In the left…
...an axe.
A massive, double-edged fire axe, its head still stained with black blood and alien metal shavings.
The figure cocked its head slightly. The glowing green of its eyes narrowed.
Springtrap.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The men screamed and opened fire.
Ratatatat. Pop-pop. Bang.
Bullets peppered the ground, sparks flying off rusted walls. But they might as well have been throwing stones.
Rounds bounced off his shell, some flattening against his chest, others glancing off the reinforced joints of his limbs. A few stuck in his suit—but he didn't slow. Didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
He charged.
The first man didn't even have time to reload before the axe came down.
SHKAK.
From forehead to jawline, his skull was split clean in two—face peeled open like a fruit, eyes blinking just long enough to register death before he collapsed.
The second man tried to run. Springtrap caught him mid-step with a swing that cleaved into his back, shattering ribs and spine like wood. He dropped, twitching.
Another screamed and fired blindly. Springtrap ducked low, surged forward, and bisected him from the waist—guts spilling over the pavement in a steaming heap.
Only two remained.
The big guy and the scab-fingered one.
The latter turned and sprinted into the shadows.
Springtrap didn't follow.
Because the large one had tripped, knees scraping pavement, panting as he turned to scramble backward. But a clawed hand closed around the back of his head, holding him firm like a trophy.
Springtrap leaned in, glowing eyes inches from the man's sweat-covered face.
His voice was low.
A gravelled rattle from a throat long since torn.
"Where... is your base?"
The man whimpered. "W-what?"
"The one with... that girl you asked about."
Eyes widened.
"H-how do you—"
"I always listen."
The big man trembled, then jabbed a finger toward the far end of the alley. "A couple blocks down that way! You'll see it—an old bakery turned bunker. We rigged it up! Y-you'll find my buddies outside... guarding it!"
Springtrap's head tilted. Slowly.
The grip on the man's skull tightened.
"W-wait! Don't—don't kill me! I-I can get you in! I know the code! You need me!"
For a moment, Springtrap stared. The glowing lenses dimmed slightly, flickering like dying embers.
Then he said:
"No."
And crushed the man's skull like a rotting fruit.
CRACK. SPLAT.
Blood and bone sprayed across his arm and chest. The body twitched once, then went limp.
Springtrap let it drop.
He stood alone in the quiet aftermath, the remains of the ambush strewn around him in pieces. His chest rose and fell with slow, mechanical precision. He looked down at his axe. Still sharp. Still warm.
The pistol hummed, cooling off in his hand.
He turned toward the alley.
And walked.
The city streets didn't question his passing.
As he moved through shadow and rubble, every rat, raccoon, and stray dog skittered away from him as if on instinct. Some things, even in a world of gods and monsters, were wrong.
The weapon at his side hissed with heat.
The axe dripped.
But Springtrap didn't care about the blood. Or the kills. Not tonight.
Because she had been mentioned.
The girl.
He didn't know her name. Never asked. She came, and talked, and smiled. Gave him chips, said "Springy" like it was a badge of honor.
She didn't see a monster.
She saw a person.
And someone thought they could use her.
Take her.
He would show them the cost.
The old bakery was exactly where the gang member described. Tucked between collapsed storefronts and a burned-out parking garage, its signage was long faded, reading "Bellamy's Bread" in rusted metal letters. The smell of ash lingered in the air.
Two men stood outside—bored, cold, distracted.
They looked up when they heard the heavy steps.
Springtrap stepped into view.
Fire axe in one hand. Plasma pistol in the other.
The two guards froze.
One reached for his weapon.
Springtrap fired.