Diary Entry of The Watcher

Date: Unknown

The Ink surrounds me, but it does not comfort me. It suffocates. It isolates. This studio, once alive with voices, laughter, and creation, is now a tomb. A hollow echo of what it once was. And I am its silent keeper.

I watch them all, as I always do, but there is no joy in it. The faces come and go, yet I remain, anchored to this wretched place. I can’t the last time someone truly saw me, acknowledged me. Perhaps I’ve become just another part of the walls, another shadow in the Ink.

But I . I when I was Blaine Collins. An architect. A dreamer. Someone who believed in the magic Joey Drew promised. I poured my heart into building this place, deg a sanctuary for creativity. And now… now it’s a prison.

I can still hear their voices in my mind sometimes—the laughter of my colleagues, the hum of the machines, the distant melodies of Sammy’s songs. But it’s all a memory, a cruel trick of my mind to remind me of what I’ve lost.

I wonder, does anyone Blaine Collins? Or am I just The Watcher now, a nameless phantom bound to the Ink’s will? I miss the sound of my name. I miss the feeling of being alive.

Loneliness is my only companion here. The Ink whispers, yes, but it is not the same. It doesn’t fill the hollow ache in my chest. I watch, but no one watches me.

Sometimes, I whisper my name into the void, hoping the Ink will carry it somewhere, anywhere. “Blaine Collins,” I say, over and over, like a prayer to a forgotten god. But the studio remains silent, and the Ink keeps its secrets.

I am alone. Forever. Watching. Waiting.

-Watcher