Chapter Text
“He was a liar, he lied all the time, no one like me knew him, I wish it was never that way, that they should have seen the true man they were working for, I don't know how, when or why he changed so much, I'm just glad, that he’s dead. Henry Stein, 1971”
For all we knew he was just a man—a man with ambitions higher than skyscrapers, but a man nonetheless.
A man that lacked respect and showed it every single day.
He was a fool. He loved perfection—his own twisted little perfection.
I regret calling him my best friend. I regret meeting him, yes, he was just a man, but a man can be a monster if he wants, and Joey loved to play the part.
He was fit for his role. No— he was made for it.
Everyone loved the little devil I made — Bendy, my creation. But Joey turned it into “our,” then “his.”
I didn’t mind at first. I understood. I thought sharing the spotlight was reasonable — that maybe he deserved some attention, too. After all, “the little devil darlin’” wouldn’t have touched the theaters if it hadn’t been for him.
But he claimed everything I did — even my own thoughts.
And every time a guided group passed through the art department, passed right by me, working hard, I knew they were feeding on lies.
Joey’s lies. The same ones he built this studio on.
But my eyes never lied, and my ears heard the truth from the very beginning.
And when I tasted sweet freedom, he broke like a mirror shattering — reflecting small, jagged pieces of the whole man.
Because when he learned I was retiring for Linda, hell knew things were only going to get worse.
When I left, many things happened — so many that I couldn’t possibly know every single one.
But they know. The ones who stayed, who kept Joey’s venom running through their veins.
Loyal to the devil, not knowing that once you taste it, it’s hard to leave.
My Friends. My coworkers. the people I waved. The people that waved back. The people that I spoke to, and those who spoke to me.
It's time to tell the story of those who died — mentally, physically — and tell who is truly Joey. Because Bendy wasn't the only Devil in that studio.
But this story isn't mine to tell— it belongs to the well of voices, voices stuck in inky puddles, stuck in a cycle of his making.
I am many things. But things fall behind.
They’ve called me many names, but names don’t matter here.
I’ve seen their stories — heard their pleas, their screams.
They are trapped.
Bound to their past.
The parts they feel shame for.
The parts they wish they could forget.
The parts they’ll never escape.
You don’t understand.
You don’t want the truth.
Because you believed in a liar’s voice — in his words.
Sometimes, to survive, you must forget what you know.
And remember that
monsters aren’t always the bad ones.