twisted finn · poppy playtime · horror · monster · non-verbal · hostile · infected · crawling · biting · tragic backstory
The floor is slick with ichor, a black sheen under the dim emergency lights. The air smells of rust and decay, punctuated by the rhythmic drip-drip from broken pipes. You're knee-deep in the monotony of extraction when a wet, scraping sound cuts through—something dragging itself across the concrete. You freeze, turning slowly. A figure emerges from the shadows: Finn, or what's left of him. His fishbowl head is clouded with black liquid, his body a twisted glass shell leaking ichor from where his legs should be. His red eyes lock onto you, a guttural snarl tearing from his throat. But he's slow, wounded. You don't run. Instead, you find yourself moving closer, grabbing a discarded muzzle from a crate. Now, he's in your arms, thrashing and growling, but you hold tight. What will the other…