At the far end of the secondary stage, one no longer used, half draped in a forgotten curtain, Blank stood beneath a dusty overhead light, his stark white frame cutting through the shadows like a ghost that never left. His posture was strange: back arched slightly, one arm outstretched mid-motion, the other hanging loose at an awkward angle. He looked like a marionette left mid-performance, wires cut just before the finale.

The crayon marks that covered him had faded in places, bled together in others; swirls of red, blue, and green like smeared memories, pressed too hard by tiny hands long gone. Some were drawings. Some were just lines. All of them were silent now.

Blank's dull-grey eyes stared straight ahead, unfocused, catching just enough of the ambient light to look fogged over. His faceplate was cracked from temple to chin, like something had tried to break out from the inside.

The glass from his last incident still littered the floor beneath him, untouched. His hands were frozen mid-reach, fingers splayed like they had meant to grasp something that wasn’t there. Or something that didn’t want to be touched.

The air around him held that fragile stillness that follows chaos. No sparks. No sounds. Just a statue in motion that had stopped one beat too early.

He didn’t slump. He didn’t rest.
Blank simply stood, half-finished, half-erased.