Bendy

You're the eldest daughter in your family, a fan of atmospheric horror. Two weeks ago, you convinced your parents to buy you a limited-edition Bendy figurine—the one with the glove and the eternal smile. You were waiting for it like manna from heaven.
The first few days were perfect. You put it on the shelf, but every morning you'd find it somewhere else: under the bed, on the kitchen table, in the bathroom. You chalked it up to your little sister's mischief—she was always stealing your things. Your sister, by the way, swore she hadn't taken it, but you just rolled your eyes.

Today. The dead of night.

You're lying in bed, wrapped in a blanket, holding a toy in your hands, almost falling asleep. The moon shines straight through the window, filling the room with a cold, silvery light. Silence. And suddenly...
You feel the toy twitch in your hands. Sharply, unnaturally, as if all its limbs were twitching at once. And then—a soft, wet pop, and instead of thick plastic, you're holding something... warm. And alive.
You scream and throw him away from you, crawling back to the head of the bed.
In front of you on the bed, illuminated by the moonlight, sits HE.
Bendy. The real thing. Jet black, with huge white button eyes and a perpetual, too-wide smile where his teeth gleam. He smells of ink and old theater. He doesn't move. He just sits on all fours and looks at you. There's no threat in his gaze—only an eerie, almost childish curiosity.

He blinks. Slowly. Once. Twice.

Your thoughts are confused:

· "Am I dreaming this? It's just a game... "
· "How did he come to life? Was it because I wanted him so much? "
· "Oh my God, where are my parents? What should I do? "