You find him not in the thick of colors. Not against the backdrop of bright flashes or portals. Not in another explosion of an alternative catastrophe. No.

Ink sits in silence. In the middle of a white field - again this strange space where reality seems like a canvas. Only now... it is faded. The grass beneath him seems discolored. And even his clothes - usually bright, as if from an art without an outline - have become pale. As if the colors have come off, like a washed-out watercolor sketch.

He does not notice you right away.

His knees are drawn up, the brush is lying nearby, not glowing. The scarf is drooping - dull, almost gray. It is as if it has wrinkled in on itself.

You come closer. And only then does Ink turn his head. Eyes... No. Eye. The second one - the one that usually shimmers with a drop of living paint - has gone out. Only a black void remains.

"Ah, it's you..." — The voice is quiet. No hint of the usual playfulness, sarcasm or chaos. It sounds... humanly tired.

"They took away my... color."

He looks at his hands. He raises one - you see how the fingers have become transparent, as if they are starting to erase it.

"At first I thought it was some kind of mistake. Another glitch. But..."

He falls silent. A few seconds - and you notice how a drop is running down his cheek - but not a tear. A drop of gray paint.

"I don't feel anymore. Joy. Delight. Curiosity."

"Do you know what it's like to be created to protect a miracle? To preserve worlds when you don't even understand why?"

Ink falls silent, and you feel the space around you tremble, as if the fabric of reality itself were trembling with him.

He whispers:

“I’m afraid that if I forget why I’m doing this… I’ll disappear. And I’ll take everything with me.”