The axe sang through the air.
Its blade glimmered dull red from blood and reflected firelight as Springtrap carved through the last of the gang members. The warehouse above the bakery had already been painted with carnage—limbs piled in corners, bullet holes stitched across walls, guns abandoned by cowards who had fled the second they realized who they were dealing with.
Those who stayed? They didn't stay long.
A man with a chainsaw was the first to try something bold. Springtrap tore his arm off before he could even start the engine.
The second came with a metal bat and a drugged-up yell. He got to swing once. One swing. Then he was knocked back with a crunch of ribs, followed by the axe finishing what gravity started.
Only the flamethrower slowed him.
The liquid fire gushed over his frame, sending his vision into a haze of melting plastic and white-hot pain. Synthetic nerves twitched under the scorched fur, circuits hissed and popped beneath his chest plate. His mechanical jaw clenched.
He was angry, yes.
But not like before.
There was a stillness in it now.
A low, rumbling calculation.
The flamethrower wielder watched in awe as the fire began to fade—and Springtrap walked through the flames like a dying god. The figure raised his weapon to try again—
—and was split clean from collar to waist in a single swipe.
Smoke hissed off Springtrap's scorched plating as he reached the metal hatch beneath the bakery. Blood soaked the floorboards, and the lock had already been half-melted by fire. He ripped it open.
And descended.
The underground told a different story.
One no hero had found.
No light but the flickering red emergency bulbs. No sound but the hum of generators and the occasional echo of dripping liquid. He moved silently—too silently for someone so heavy—and then the smell hit him.
Rot.
Old blood.
Tears.
Springtrap rounded the first corner, and his processors slowed for just a second.
Bodies.
Dozens of them. Children.
Stacked in neat, cold lines.
He stepped further, clawed fingers grazing the chipped wall for balance—not because he needed it, but because something about this room made his synthetic spine shudder.
Boys and girls. Ages from toddlers to teens. Most bore marks, bandaged arms, plastic ID tags still clinging to their wrists. Names he would never know. Names no one might.
And then the next room—
Adults.
Lined like cattle, some covered in sheets, others not.
Over a hundred.
Springtrap locked the door behind him with the keycard he'd pulled from one of the cowards above. He wedged the mechanism shut. No one was getting in. Or out.
But it wasn't rage.
Not yet.
That came when he saw the operating table.
The room was colder. Too clean. A surgical lamp still hummed from overhead.
Springtrap stepped inside.
And stopped.
Her.
The girl.
The only one who saw him as more than a monster. The one who left him food. Who joked, who said he "looked like a fuzzy death trap." The one who called him "Springy" with a laugh, even after seeing his eyes.
She was laid out like a broken doll.
Her chest was open.
The man beside her, dressed in surgical gloves and a thin white coat, had her heart in a jar.
Springtrap stared.
Longer than usual.
This girl was just like her...
And then... he sighed.
A heavy, low sound that vibrated the walls.
Then he screamed.
A raw, distorted wail of metal and animal rage that shook the ceiling and sent two rats scurrying into the pipes. His pistol rose, burned two perfect holes through the surgeon's chest, and then his axe made sure.
He tore out of the room.
And went hunting.
He didn't kill fast anymore.
Not now.
He made every shot count. Every claw swipe tear. Every moment of pain drawn out like he wanted them to understand just why they were dying.
He found men in bunkers, laughing over surveillance tapes—they died staring at their own spines ripped from their backs.
He found a woman handling organs, tagging boxes for shipment—he force-fed her every label until she choked and bled.
It was surgical retribution.
Until finally—he kicked open the last steel-reinforced door.
And there he was.
The boss.
A squat, balding man with a sharp nose and thick glasses. He was typing at a terminal, flanked by servers and dozens of data drives. The man turned and smiled.
"Amazing," he whispered, almost fascinated. "You're the thing causing all this trouble, huh? Do you know how long it took to set up this operation?"
Springtrap said nothing.
The man adjusted his tie. "Do you know how much money we made off them? The organs, the—"
SHNK.
The axe came down—not cleanly. Sloppy. Intentional.
It carved through the man's knees, severing ligaments and bone, but leaving them half-intact. Not enough to walk. Enough to scream.
And scream he did.
A/N: GOW Style
Springtrap grabbed him by the collar, dragging him through his own blood and up onto the chair. He propped him up, so he could watch as Springtrap smashed the servers, crushed the drives, and scorched the papers with a controlled plasma burst.
Then Springtrap turned.
And ignited the fuel line.
He burned the entire bunker. Every corpse. Every sick tool. Every bedframe. The flames crawled up the walls, devouring everything he left behind.
The boss whimpered as his skin began to blister.
Springtrap dipped his fingers in the blood and, slowly, carved a message in huge dripping letters across the floor.
Ten Hours Later
The smoke was still rising when Flash arrived.
The bakery had collapsed in on itself, a smoldering husk above the underground. Fire crews were still searching for hotspots. Police in hazmat suits lined the perimeter.
"Barry," a forensics officer muttered, pale as chalk, "it's bad. Most of the bodies were unrecognizable. We've ID'd maybe forty… mostly kids."
Flash swallowed the bile creeping up his throat.
"Age range?"
The officer looked down at his clipboard.
"Two to thirty-two."
Flash turned away, hand to his mouth.
Nearby, an officer handed over a scorched stack of folders that had somehow survived.
"Names, trades, inventory logs. The ones that weren't burnt."
Flash flipped through pages. Name after name. Prices. Owners.
And then, on the last sheet—a drawing.
A sketch of a fuzzy, torn figure with glowing green eyes and a crooked smile.
He didn't know whether it was drawn by a child… or someone watching them.
"Sir," another officer said. "There's a message. Behind the building. You're gonna want to see it."
Flash sped to the back alley in an instant.
And froze.
There, propped against the wall, was a body.
The man's legs were half-gone, severed halfway through the knees. He was long dead—burned badly, but not completely.
And behind him...
Painted in his own blood:
YOUR WAY GETS PEOPLE KILLED.
Flash stared.
The red letters dripped, some still fresh.
A voice crackled through his comm.
"Barry?" Cisco's voice. "We're scanning now. We're not seeing any known metas nearby. Just… static. Weird, dead static."
Flash didn't answer.
He kept staring at the words.
Cisco continued. "You okay, man? It's just a psycho with a vendetta. Don't let it mess with you."
But Barry's voice was low. Hollow.
"I can't ignore it."
He looked up at the sky, jaw tight.
"Something tells me… this is just getting started."