“It’s all your fault,” Joey whispered, glaring down at Bendy on his page. “Everything would’ve been perfect if it weren’t for you.”
Bendy clenched his fists. “Henry never woulda helped you. Not after he found out what you did!”
“Perhaps,” Joey glanced over his shoulder, at Henry's unconscious body, leaning against the Ink Machine. “Or perhaps all he needs is to let go of his distractions.”
He rummaged around in his pockets. “I’m sure he could be convinced to come around to my way of thinking sooner or later— just as long as he burns his bridges first.” Joey flicked open a silver lighter.
The corner of his page caught fire, and the flames slowly ate away at the paper. He backed away as far as he could manage.
Holding the top between his thumb and forefinger, Joey watched, smiling.
Bendy coughed from the smoke. “No, please! Henry! Wake up, Henry! Please! Please, please, wake—”