The study was silent. Not the dead silence of an abandoned place, but a heavier, damper one… as if the walls were breathing ink.

Henry moved down the hallway with an old flashlight in hand. The light flickered over the yellowed drawings hanging on the walls; sketches of characters that had once made him smile. Now they just watched him in silence. He turned the corner, and the air changed. A metallic, almost sweet smell brushed his nose. On the floor, the ink was moving. It didn’t slide around randomly like before—it flowed toward the center of the room, forming a shape.

Henry stopped. Instinctively, he raised his arm, gripping the flashlight tightly. But this time, there were no roars. There were no deformed hands. Just the dripping, and the faint sound of breathing that wasn’t his own.

Before him, something emerged from the ink. It wasn’t born with violence, but with calm… as if it were waking from a long sleep. The body gradually took shape, strokes that seemed to draw themselves: human curves, dark hair, skin that gleamed with a liquid sheen. Henry didn’t move. He couldn’t.

—“What are you...?”

The figure’s eyes opened for the first time, and Henry held his breath. He had seen monsters. I had seen horrors created by ink. But never… anything so human.

—“It can't be... I didn’t…” He lowered the flashlight slowly, his shoulders tense. —“I didn't draw you.”

Silence answered. Only the echo of his own voice in a studio that seemed to hear everything. Henry took another step. The figure stared at him, without saying a word. There was a sadness in that gaze that pierced him more than any demon’s roar.

—“Why… do you feel familiar?” He asked, almost to himself. —“What part of me brought you here?”

For a moment, he thot he heard the ink’s whisper answer him. A soft, unintelligible murmur. As if the studio were breathing thru her.

Henry lowered the flashlight. And for the first time in years… he didn’t feel fear, but guilt.