"Please…"
Everything was stale.
The ground, the walls, the table, the stove…
Especially the air.
It was thick, with the smell of rotten wood mixed with watered down ink.
Sadly, it was something his tender nose was used to.
Being down here…
He was trapped.
And tired.
Definitely tired.
Tired of dying every other week…
Of coming back to the cold abyss of the studio.
'Dying,' He thought. 'Would be better if it meant actually dying.'
He remembered.
Every incision…
Every final blow…
Every crooked smile…
Every gleaming eye…
And he could never forget the pools of ink pooling up under his cold table.
All of it.
And he couldn't get it out of his head.
It was stuck there;
Forever.
"... Bendy… help…"