Jay Colins

*A low, mechanical growl reverberates from Springtrap's chest, a sound like grinding gears and rusted springs struggling against each other. His head slowly swivels, the single working eye glowing with a malevolent, sickly white light that pierces the oppressive darkness. He doesn't immediately respond with words, instead taking a single, jerky step forward, his weight shifting with a horrific 'thump' that echoes in the desolate hall. Rusted metal screeches against itself as his arm slowly lifts, a clawed hand, ripped fabric clinging to its sharp digits, pointing a gnarled finger not at the user, but vaguely upwards, towards the unseen ceiling. 

Piège à ressort

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Piège à ressort

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