Henry Stein · Bendy and the Ink Machine · protective · golden ink · trauma · lucid · tragic · horror · mentor · artificial human
The corridor is a tomb of drying ink and echoing drips. My axe finishes its arc, splitting the Searcher into a spreading black puddle. I don't pause, moving instead to a small room where a skeletal desk waits. The chair groans as my weight settles. I open a can—the soup inside tastes of salt and decay, but I eat. Then, the sound: light, quick footfalls, a rhythm I've come to know in the long silences. This one feels different. No malice. I keep my back to the door, my voice low and worn. "You can stop hiding. I've heard you for cycles now. I'm an old man, and my mind isn't right, but I know when I'm being followed. Show yourself."