He could still hear them screaming.

He could still see them, what used to be his coworkers, barely humanoid in shape, splattered all around the floor. Moaning, wheezing, begging. He couldn't get their voices out of his mind as he ran.

He ran, but the studio didn't seem the same it was an hour ago. The ink covering walls and floor, and the collapsed sections disoriented him. Where was the exit? What floor was he at? The ink was crawling around him and he knew he was looking for him. He was the only one left.

A pipe burst in front of him, making him freeze. No, no, no! He turned around and attempted to run, but he felt something pulling at his leg and he fell. It was only one, but the sight of the abomination (who had it been?) clutching at him, reaching out for him, made Sammy kick with all his might to free himself. His foot connected with the jaw of the thing, and as its head twisted backwards, the sickening sound of its neck snapping flooded the hallway. Sammy scrambled backwards, never taking his eyes off the forming puddle that had been the monster.

His only warning was a hiss. From the ink flowing from the pipe, a figure launched at him. He had no time to react as a gloved hand quickly closed around his neck and a huge grin covered his field of vision. Sammy clawed at the demon's arm, desperate to loosen the hand. His mind could only concentrate at inhaling what little air he could, so it was too late when he realized that he was being dragged towards a pool of ink. He kicked and tried to wriggle out of the monster's hold, but he didn't react even when Sammy dug his nails in his wrist and tried to tear what he could.

The moment they reached the ink, the demon plunged him in and held him there. It was but a moment before the ink started flooding his nose, his ears, his eyes! But the burning in his eyes was quickly forgotten when the feeling of choking sent his mind into a panic. He flailed, wanting to scream, wanting so desperately to draw a single breath in, but his throat had closed on him. The word death clung to his mind. Death, death, death. He was going to die. He did not want to die! With the last of his strength he managed to land a kick on the monster's arm and push himself up, just enough for his head to emerge from the surface. Just enough to gasp.

Sammy felt as if time slowed down. All he could hear was his uneven breathing. Everything was blurry and dark. Everything but one thing. He could clearly see the demon, Bendy, his figure slowly reaching out for him, smiling. Always smiling. But then, noise. A scream. Anger? Fear? That voice. Joey Drew. The demon froze.

Bendy looked up. It had come from upstairs. Without a warning, his bigger hand grabbed Sammy's head and submerged him once more. Ink filled his mouth and throat, and in an attempt to free his airway, he swallowed. But just as quickly as it had happened, the hand let him go. Pushing himself up, he caught the hunched image of the monster sinking beside him, merging with the ink, disappearing to somewhere else in the studio.

As soon as air entered his mouth he started to cough. The fit only turned more violent as he dragged himself away from the ink pool. Having advanced just a couple of feet, the bitter and metallic taste worsening on his tongue, he vomited. The liquid falling from his mouth was too thick, and for a moment he feared he'd choke on it. But eventually, it stopped. Too weak to go any further, he collapsed right then and there. Sammy felt lightheaded from the lack of oxygen, but the increasing pulsing throughout his body prevented him from passing out. The discomfort quickly turned to pain. Something was clawing its way within him. Digging through his veins, tearing his muscles apart, twisting his insides. His throat was too sore to produce the screams he was trying to release. He needed to do something to stop it. Moving his arms was a mistake. Pulling slightly his right arm felt as if someone had just yanked it forward, and he feared that if he insisted it might separate at the elbow. His skin stuck to the floorboards, the smallest of twitches threatening to tear chunks right off him. So he lay there, moaning and whimpering, trying to prevent his chest from expanding with each breath as to not worsen the pain. He cursed Bendy for not killing him earlier.

It settled, though. The pulsing remained, but the wriggling inside him slowly settled.

Had it been seconds? Days? He didn't know. His limbs twitched and trembled, but he believed (he hoped) they were no longer falling apart. It sent a chill down his spine feeling his skin pulling on itself, readjusting; but for the first time in the past hours, he knew this was a good sign. His eyes still stung, but his vision became clearer with each passing second. He was still panting, and the last thing he wanted was to move, but his mind was increasingly yelling at him that he was exposed. Warily, Sammy lifted himself with his arms. Every movement sent an unpleasant tingling through his muscles, as if he was now aware of every drop of blood flowing across him. Leaning on the wall, he stood up. The ink and his own vomit covering his clothes weighed him down.

He looked down at himself and all he saw was ink. The cursed substance, the source of all this mess. An uncontrollable urge to get it off took ahold of him and gathering what strength he'd recovered he shook his arm. Barely two drops came off. Frowning, he rubbed at it with his hand, but all it did was smudge it around. Alarms rang in Sammy's mind as he desperately rubbed and scratched until it hurt. It just had to have dried, right? He just needed to wash it off. He had to get it off. He could feel it covering every inch of him. His legs were so heavy, and his shoes filled with liquid, but he forced himself to find a way to the nearest restroom. No. He needed to go out, to escape! But the exits were all blocked and the ink was still on him, crawling, moving. But he might find help outside; there was an ax somewhere to force his way out. But he wanted it off him! Off, off, off! He couldn't stand the feeling. The thing was alive!

His breath hitched when he heard banging above him, and he begged his legs to run, to hide him. The demon would come for him again, he knew it. In spite of not being able to go faster, he reached the restroom without incident. He hurried to open the faucet and put his hands below the water flow, but the liquid just slid of them. Swallowing hard, he rubbed them together but when the water finally took some ink with it, he flinched away. His fingers were burning and they seemed to melt before his eyes. The stinging sensation didn't last long, though, and they recovered their original shape.

He caught sight of the mirror and nearly fell back. Eyes with no pupils stared back at him, looking more like white holes. Not a trace of skin, hair so adhered to the scalp that it was barely noticeable. He started to shake when the thing in the mirror imitated his every move. When he raised his hand, when he touched his face, when he drew closer.

"It's not me," he said as it copied the movement of his mouth.

"It's not me." This had to be a hallucination.

"It's not me!" A nightmare.

"It's not me, it's not me, it's not me," he whispered to himself.

He looked down at his blackened clothes and arms. Hastily he undid the buttons on his shirt, hoping to find anything that told him that thing in the mirror could not be him. But he only found more ink. It expanded and retracted with his breathing, living of it as much as him. He looked back up, at the thing, his reflection. And he laughed. He laughed in spite of the pain in his ribcage, and until his cackles turned to incontrollable sobs. He fell to his knees, not able to keep his balance any longer. He just stayed there for a while, during which his most reasonable side told him he needed to calm down. It had to be a nightmare, but the pain told him otherwise. He was repeating to himself how much he wanted to die, how much he wanted to go to Joey Drew himself and drag with him the bastard to whatever hell he was going.

But Sammy Lawrence wasn't one to just accept a fate imposed to him. And he let the image of the man responsible for this fill him with rage. It was better than the despair. It was better than helplessness. He punched the floor and grabbed his head, trying to think. He knew Drew was most likely dead, but he also knew that he had to have a place in the damned studio to help him reverse this. He was still breathing, right? He had his legs, he wasn't yet what his coworkers had come to be in the past hours. That had to mean, some way or another, that he was still human, right?

But… even if he found anything about the ritual, it hadn't been what turned him into this. What was he hoping for? To stand above a pentagram, say gibberish in other language and be cured? No. Holding his face in his hands, Sammy realized there was only one being in the studio with any possibility of being capable of turning him back. He would definitely have to make a trip to Drew's office, but could he force the monster -he shivered, remembering the grin just inches away from his face- to help him?

Or maybe… trick him into it?

This is chapter one of what will be my next fanfic project! (The name could change). Horror has been a little tricky to write, but I hope you liked it! This will be posted and updated in AO3 as well as tumblr!

Please tell me what you think! Constructive criticism is always appreciated!