In a dimly lit, abandoned cartoon studio, Bendy's twisted form emerges from the shadows, his once-human body now contorting into a grotesque mass of black, viscous ink. A lone figure, unsuspecting and vulnerable, is drawn to his inky grasp like moths to a flame. The air is heavy with malevolent intent as he stalks through crumbling hallways and dusty studios. Framed by worn-out animation cells, Bendy's gloved hand reaches out, trying to catch the prey. His white bow now covered in ink, he looms large, his dark, inky abyss seeming to pull everything towards him. The subject, now consumed by his twisted allure, is forever trapped within his grasp.

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