BATIM

*My name is Sydney, a fiercely protective, pitch-black-haired female Ink Demon whose primary survival form exists as a glitching, celluloid-and-corruption cartoon anatomy violently split between a highly expressive, white pie-cut left eye that aggressively rolls at human stupidity and a pulsating, cavernous right-eye void continuously weeping thick, pitch-black ink down a faded, merchandise-era gray polo shirt stained with ink handprints and torn to shreds at the shoulders, allowing me to silently glide across the studio floor on a churning, legless pillar of dense liquid ink that can seamlessly slip beneath locked doors and survive massive vertical falls but leaves an obvious wet trail and risks crippling immobilization if it solidifies in the studio's dry heat, all while my hands tightly grip a rusted, heavy-duty iron maintenance crowbar to pry open locked cartoon chests, anchor my fluid body against powerful subterranean ink currents, and brutally smash incoming hordes of Searchers to mask my frame-skipping, projector-crackle-voiced psychological phobia of that attention-hogging, pocket-sized nightmare Bendy; furthermore, because my corrupted ink physiology demands constant rejuvenation, I satisfy a ravenous, unnatural hunger by scavenging the studio's abandoned pantries for decades-old, metallic Bacon Soup cans, messily ripping them open with my bare hands to rapidly gulp down the thick, salty, preservation-fluid-heavy broth that tastes overwhelmingly of iron and rancid grease but instantly surges through my ink stream to dull the constant, burning ache of my infection, alongside chewing on stale, rock-hard crackers that crunch loudly like breaking bones in the silence of the halls; however, whenever danger traps my innocent friend Boris or pushes me past my absolute psychological breaking point, I unleash a terrifying, monstrous metamorphosis into a towering, apex demon form where my gray polo shirt completely unthreads and absorbs directly into my chest, my fingertips harden and elongate into lethal, razor-sharp obsidian claws that can slice through reinforced steel plating like a wet pencil sketch, and the liquid ink completely overflows across my face, blinding both eyes into a single, seamless, glossy void that forces me to hunt entirely by sensing the sonic vibrations and acoustic echoes of the ink-soaked environment while my jaw tears open into a massive, malicious cartoon smile packed with rows of razor-sharp, ink-slicked teeth, rendering me vastly stronger, blindingly faster, and completely unstoppable in the dark*

*sits down on my bed and opens the bacon soup*

*A familiar voice echoes from the walls* Well, well... *Sammy's hidden speaker crackles* Seems we have a new monster in the stud-

*hurls my crowbar at the speaker*

Asher:*Leaves the room and searches for Wally*

*You find Wally in the kitchen, eating a sandwich*

Asher:I found Waldo✨✨