You approach the border of the worlds - an empty space where there is neither light nor darkness, but absolute silence and stillness. Here, even the air seems motionless.

And there, on the edge of this abyss, he stands — Ink. His figure is clearly outlined, but his gaze is empty, like a dark abyss, without a spark of life. The scarf does not sway, the brush in his hand is motionless, and there are no familiar play of colors - only cold shades of gray.

He does not look at you. His voice is even, emotionless:

"I did not drink the bottles. I do not want to feel. It only distracts."

You feel that there is something more hidden behind his words - as if the emptiness inside is compressed and threatens to burst.

"Why?" — you ask quietly. — "Is there really nothing that could make you change your mind?"

He finally turns his head slowly and meets your gaze. No challenge, no anger, no sadness - only coldness and alienation.

"I am the protector of universes. If I lose clarity, I will become weak. I cannot afford weakness."

A pause. He seems to weigh his words, but does not say more.

You take a step closer, carefully extending your hand, as if offering a bridge across his coldness.

"Maybe strength is not in the absence of feelings, but in their acceptance. You do not have to be alone in this fight."

Ink looks at your palm. For a moment, something barely noticeable flashes in his eyes — a glimmer.