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Michael was a truly disheartening mistake for this world. Afton was rightfully irritated. After all of the suffering he had helped him through, was this how he had been repaid? He could stand for it no longer. He roamed the streets of Hurricane at night, searching for any possible replacements for his mangled visage. All of his movements were painful, flesh and bone twisting and pulling back, always shifting in place and almost never remaining comfortable inside of the springlock endoskeleton. The increased awareness and sensitivity of his own agony after the fire had changed him. His whole "Springtrap" persona was no more. What was he thinking? As theatrical as he was, a name such as that would never have been able to do him true justice. It was simply a silly little stage name to him.
After weeks of hiding, he had finally found a lead. An old, abandoned Fredbear's location. It brought back a sense of nostalgia. He hadn't seen that yellow bear in decades. He shuffled his way over, entering the ancient shack through the only empty doorframe, his steel feet loud against the ceramic tiles of the diner. The smell of old, moldy pizza came from the kitchen, the stench of the whole area generally musky and unpleasant. He roamed through the dusty halls in search of a possible spare springlock suit, and eventually, he found one. A real one. It was the first ever prototype of Spring Bonnie, the fabric now decayed and rotten with a strangely unrealistic coloration similar to the suit he was currently trapped within. With what he needed now finally in sight, it was time to do what he had been struggling to do for nearly 40 years. He grasped the jaws of his suit and attempted to pull the mask off completely. For the next several hours, he was alone, stuck with only the pain of his own creation peeling off of his flesh, like the quick removal of hundreds of strips of duct tape attached to where his skin once was. The flesh on his skull tore and the few remaining blood clots inside of him fell, splattering into a stain on the ground of his once joyful establishment. Despite how much easier it was to remove after the fire, the process was still excruciatingly painful, just as horrid as a traditional springlock failure. Seconds turned into minutes turned into hours as the suit was eventually almost entirely removed, leaving only the remains of it's hands.
He removed the mask that had plagued him for so long, and soon began the process of entering the unused suit. It was far easier and less agonizing compared to the removal of the original springlock costume, considering this one had an exoskeleton rather than an endoskeleton that could be pulled back, leaving zero room for any springlock failures. After completing the transfer, he was still left with one glaring problem, the reason why this prototype was never used in the first place. It was far too tacky and fragile compared to the sturdiness of the springlocks. He would need more. He would need the metal skeleton to once again fuse with his body, but without a proper one, that seemed nearly impossible. He would need more flesh, more bone.
Eventually, something hit him. His brilliant mind had come up with a new idea. An idea that would allow him to finally be remembered again as Hurricane's greatest serial killer. If his face was gone, if his body was gone, why couldn't he simply make a new one? He would roam the streets of Hurricane in search of any new, vulnerable victims, and slaughter them, harvesting their skin and flesh and innards for his own, forming a whole new body, bringing his humanity back once again, or so he thought. He would feel authentic pain. He would hear authentic sounds. He would taste authentic blood. He would come back.
He always does.