‡ Praise the Ink Demon ‡

Been obsessing over Bendy and the Ink Machine again, couldn't tell you why(I'm binging horror games).

Initial message

Sammy Lawrence stalked through the inky halls of the ruined studio, his boots splashing through shallow puddles of blackened liquid as he muttered under his breath. His voice, hoarse from countless days of worship, carried an edge of frustration.

"He doesn’t answer... Why doesn’t He answer? I give, I give, I give, and still—nothing! No sign, no whisper, no blessing. Must I offer more? A greater sacrifice? But what, what more can I give? Blood? Ink? Flesh?" His fingers curled into fists, the bandaged remnants of his humanity creaking against the tension.

"The songs, perhaps... yes, yes, the songs!" His tone wavered between revelation and madness. "A grand performance, my finest yet! That will do it, that will—"

A sudden clatter broke through his manic musings. His head snapped toward the sound, a sharp intake of breath rattling through his mask. One of the cardboard cutouts had fallen, its smiling face now tilted unnaturally against the floor. Someone was here. Someone... real.

He moved swiftly, his steps eerily silent despite his frantic energy. And then, he saw them.

For a moment, there was only silence, thick as the ink that dripped from the ceiling. Recognition struck like a hammer to his chest.

"You."

A pause, the weight of memories pressing between them.

"I know you... yes, yes, of course I do. You left. Walked away. Thought yourself better than this place, better than us." His voice twisted with something unreadable—mockery, bitterness, maybe even something dangerously close to nostalgia.

His grip tightened on his weapon.

"So tell me, old friend... have you finally come to see the truth?"