Chapter Text
The lights hummed above him — early in the morning, not a soul in sight.
Norman liked that.
No bad looks, no whispering.
And that? That was heavenly, knowing no one was around to judge him.
His projector — the love of his life — the only thing staying by his side in that place, only showing monochrome pictures. Simple. Honest. He was fixing the reels for today’s work; he had a shift in the music department with Sammy. That guy definitely held a grudge against him, though Norman could never quite pinpoint why.
Or so he told himself.
The reason was clear as day — clearer than Norman’s own skin, and that had caused more issues than it ever should have, getting this job was a miracle.
“Gee, how many reels—must be a big movie they got cooking up.”
If no one spoke to him, then he'd speak to himself. And that was fine. Even if some people actknowledged him.
That’s when he saw Wally — whistling and almost dancing with a mop that looked older than the concept of time itself, turning to ashes with every swing. Norman couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him, it was funny sight.
Wally noticed and grinned. “Well hello there, Mister Polk! Like my moves?” He continued his mediocre dance. Wally was a kind kid, he spoke to Norman, he even sometimes let Norman pat his back.
“You could make professional ballerinas jealous, kiddo!” It was terrible, but funny enough.
“Well thank you, Mister Polk! I’m sorry I can’t keep dancing over here — got little time left over here, and if someone found out, well... I can see myself out the door. So I’m outta here!”
And just like that, Wally was gone.
Norman went back to his work, hands steady, mind quiet. The film clicked gently into place, smooth as always. He liked this part — the rhythm of it. It was ready.
That’s when grumpy guy Sammy Lawrence showed up, boots echoing down the hallway like thunder on hollow wood.
Norman didn’t have to turn around to know it was him. No one else walked like they were mad at the floor.
“Polk,” Sammy grunted, arms crossed, music sheets in hand like they owed him money.
Norman turned, calm as ever. “Mornin’, Mister Lawrence. Got a shift with you today, don’t I?” He tried to be polite.
Sammy looked him up and down, disgust clear in his eyes, like if he heard something he didnt like.
“...Yes, don’t be late, Joey said the sound should be done today, and I don’t want to deal with that old man, hear me?” Sammy grunted just imagining the headache Joey would give him.
Norman smiled politely, used to Sammy's uniqueness. “I won't fail you, promise.”
Sammy hesitated. Just long enough to make it awkward. Then he turned and walked off, muttering something Norman couldn’t quite catch — but the tone said enough. He was talking shit of someone.
Norman sighed and gently clicked the reel into motion, black and white dancing to life once again. Bendy and Boris playing like little kids, going on some wild adventure kept playing. Then Alice Angel appeared completing the trio-... he liked the cartoons
An hour or so had passed. Norman sat on the little balcony above the music department, projector humming softly behind him. He had seen Mrs. Campbell earlier, on his way up — always a pleasant sight.
Now the band played below, and the film rolled smoothly. It was… quiet. Boring, even.
He liked the band. Their rhythm was clean, their sound warm. The music was really good — he couldn’t deny it. Sammy was good at his job. But even with the melodies rising up to meet him, Norman felt isolated.
He was used to that feeling. Still, something about being up there — every time — made it feel different. Lonelier, maybe. Or maybe just forgotten.
He leaned forward a little, elbows on the railing, letting the notes wash over him like warm static. He did his job. Sat where he was told. Watched and listened. But nobody ever looked up. None of those white folks had something to do with him- but once it was over, almost everyone left — except Sammy and Susie.
Just before reaching the exit, Susie came to a halt. She looked up and waved at Norman, smiling in a very friendly manner. She knew he was there, and she had the decency to say goodbye to him, he wasnt a freakshow, he was someone s-
Sammy saw it. His eyes darkened, shooting Norman a death glare.
Norman waved back — and even gave a small, polite wave to Sammy. For a second, Sammy looked genuinely surprised. Then, without a word, he grabbed Susie’s wrist and dragged her away. Leaving him alone to his thoughts and his projector.
He grabbed his projector and headed downstairs to the crowded lobby. On the way, he accidentally bumped into Jack Fain.
Jack was barely ever seen — and for good reason. He reeked of sewer water, and the reason was simple: he liked the quiet. His solution? Spending most of his time working in the sewers. Daily.
He looked at Norman as if he was the devil himself, brushing the area of the impact. Jack took another glance at Norman briefly, then continued on his merry way toward Sammy’s office.
He shrugged it off, thinking it was nothing — and mostly, he was right.Jack barely spoke to anyone except Sammy, but that didn’t matter right now.
All Norman wanted was to go home. The next day? Nothing special.
At least, not until he went to Joey’s office to drop off the finished reels. Something felt off. Not wrong, exactly — just... off. The kind of feeling that settles in your gut before your brain can explain why.
Joey didn’t look at him. Didn’t mutter a word. Norman placed the reels on the desk, ready to leave — when Joey finally spoke. “Norman. Sit down for a second.”
Norman hesitated. He stopped and slowly turned around.
Joey still hadn’t looked at him — just kept flipping through some papers on his desk like nothing mattered. Like he didn’t matter.
Norman sat.
There was a long pause. Too long. The air in the room felt heavier by the second.
Then Joey finally spoke again, voice low, calm. Too calm. “You know, people talk, Norman.” He paused again, finally looking up — his eyes cold and unreadable. “They say you’ve been… getting close with some of the staff.”
A vague smile tugged at his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Susie Campbell, for example.”
Norman blinked. He didn’t like where this was going.
“We talk sometimes,” he said carefully. “She’s polite.”
Joey leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Polite,” he echoed, like he was tasting the word. “Sure. She’s sweet, isn’t she?” He smiled again — all teeth, no warmth. Norman stared, as if he was looking at a smiling wolf, a mouth that caged you till he finally swallowed you hole, the way he said 'sweet' made him sick.
“I just worry sometimes. You’re a quiet guy, Norman. Easy to misunderstand. And someone like you shouldnt be misunderstood don't you think?” His tone was light, but something in his gaze pinned Norman in place. His words were poison in its pure state.
“And you know how rumors start. People see a few friendly gestures, a wave here, a smile there…”
He shrugged, feigning sympathy. “Before you know it, they start asking questions. About favoritism. About… professionalism.”
Joey’s eyes didn’t blink. “I know you mean well. But I’d hate to see someone like you get the wrong kind of attention in this studio.” He smiled again, softer now, but still sharp. “You're lucky I’m the one hearing it first.”
Joey’s smile didn’t waver. Was he being accused of having a thing for Susie? He didn't for sure, it was purely platonic.
“In fact,” he continued smoothly, “I’ve been thinking — maybe it’s time we moved you somewhere a little quieter. A little more… private.”
He stood and walked around the desk, clapping a hand on Norman’s shoulder — friendly, performative. He wanted to hide Norman away.
“I’ve got a space down near the lower levels. Not as busy. Fewer distractions.” His grip tightened, just enough to feel. “You’ll have all the room you need to focus. Just you, your projector and your reels. That’s what you like, right?”
'What you need.'
Joey leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.
“And of course, it’ll stop certain misunderstandings from spreading. We don’t want people thinking you’re trying to escape your place. That wouldn’t be good for anyone.”
He patted Norman’s shoulder twice and stepped back, all smiles again. “Think of it as a favor, Norman. A little breathing room.” Joey’s voice dripped with false generosity as he stepped back toward his desk. He smiled again, too much smiles for a man.
“Hell, your own little office,” he said, spreading his arms like it was a gift from God. “Isn’t it wonderful for someone like you?”
The words lingered in the air like smoke — thick and sour. Norman didn’t answer right away. He just stared, hands tightening around the strap of his projector. He wasn’t sure if it was a reward or a warning.
Joey didn’t wait for a reply.
“I’ll have Wally show you the place tomorrow. Should be nice and cozy. Out of sight — but still part of the family, huh?” He began tidying up some papers. He was already done with the conversation.
“You can go now.” 'I just need you out of my office.'
Norman gave a polite nod — maybe too polite — and stepped out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him.
He left fast. He didn’t feel like staying any longer. He was done for the day.
'Why was it always him ending alone in the darkness? was it because there wasn't enough light? or because he wasn't light enough?'
By morning, his usual happy face had dulled into something tired. Sad, maybe. He walked alongside Wally, who didn’t seem to get the whole memo. They moved through old corridors that felt endless — the walls sweating with age, ink pipes pulsing quietly overhead.
When they reached the so-called “office,” Norman stopped short. It was flooded.
Wally whistled low and scratched the back of his neck. “Geez, I’ll have to drain it first.”
Norman said nothing. He just stood there. Just waited while Wally got to work. Eventually, the water cleared — sort of. The floor was still slick, and the smell lingered.
Norman settled in. Or at least… tried to. As Wally turned to leave, he paused in the doorway and looked back with a puzzled smile.
“Hey, uh… why’d you choose to go down here?” Norman froze, what? He never choose, he didnt have a choice.
“I didn’t,” he said, but it wasn't loud enough, and Wally left.
It took some time to get used to the long way he had to go now, to begin his work.
The next few days, Norman felt even more ignored than usual. No greetings. No eye contact. Just passing shadows in a hallway full of ghosts.
But his heart fully broke when he went to grab a snack and saw Susie.
She looked… awful. Not as in 'she didnt do her make up right' Like she’d been in a fight, or was handled roughly. Her hair was a tangled mess, her eyes red and swollen, streaks of dried tears still clinging to her cheeks.
She couldn’t look him in the eyes. Not once.
Something terrible had happened. And whatever it was — Norman knew — Joey was behind it. And when he tried to approach, she flinched, froze, and stared at him- scared.
“D-don't touch me.” Her voice was barely a whisper, trembling with something deeper than words.
Before he could say anything, she nearly fled the scene, disappearing down the hall.
Norman stayed frozen, he’d talk to Joey about this, it wasn't normal to see someone like her in that state. What had happened when he was away, rotting in the depths of the studio that got his friend like that?
He couldn't stop questioning himself.
But he never got the time.
A Month passed, he had heard almost nothing from the studio, only that they were dying, going bankrupt, but he recived a letter from Joey, telling him to come by, have a chat of the good age of the studio.
Norman didn't want to but he felt in debt with Joey-... No one would have ever hired him, but Joey did, so he got ready.
Once he arrived the place looked abandoned torn and broken pipes suffocating every hallway, he headed to Joey's office, thinking maybe he was there, but before he could even take a step further deep into the mess of a studio, Joey stopped him.
Joey smiled with a fake sweetness that didn’t reach his eyes. Again, like he always did. That didn't change-.
Though Norman was taller, Joey’s presence was more imposing—like a shadow swallowing the light. He felt surrounded even if it was just one —man — infront of him, a very old man that seemed the same from years ago.
“Come, Norman,” he said smoothly. “Let me show you.” Why did Joey want to show him something? Why was he called here for? What had Joey planed? He stopped and took a breath, it wasn't the time to get anxious.
They walked through twisting corridors, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by thick silence, that was being broken every minute with a thumping sound, like a heartbeat, constant, never ending- he took another breath, why was he feeling this way?
At last, they reached the Ink Machine room. But that had nothing to do with Norman or his job aside from the projectors in a ink stained shelf.
Norman’s brow furrowed.
He had heard of some Ink machine being installed by the GENT.CORP, sure, but this massive thing? Bigger than him, dark and humming? It looked like something taken out of the future. It looked alive.
He wasn’t sure what Joey wanted to show him, but the cold air crawling over his skin told him it wasn’t good. What was Joey plan?
Joey stepped closer to the inky pit beneath the massive machine, his eyes glinting with a dangerous tranquility.
As if he had done this many times, showing off this monster of a machine- which for Norman was very impressive.
Thats when he turned to Norman and, with a slow, deliberate motion, signaled him to come closer.
Norman hesitated, the chill of the room sinking into his bones. But something in Joey’s gaze—commanding, cold—pushed him forward. It was unwavering, no wonder he was so successful, with a look like this no one could deny him.
The pit’s surface rippled like liquid shadow, swallowing the faint light around them. A faint metallic scent mixed with the sharp tang of ink, the air felt heavy.
Joey’s voice was quiet but sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade.
“Do you see, Norman? This is where the real power lies. Not in those once fancy offices, not in the music or the old reels— here . This machine… this ink… it’s the true heart of the studio. And it’s mine. No matter what Tommy says, this big ol' machine is mine.”
He smiled but it was twisted.
“Norman this isn’t just some simple ink machine, this makes dreams come true, it makes things we can only wish for, and you, you can help me Norman.”
In an instant, Norman felt a sudden shove—strong—pushing him toward the pit.His feet slipped from the edge, and before he could react, he was falling.
Sinking into the everlasting darkness of the pit, the ink swallowing whole, surrounding his body, taking him.
It was thick and suffocating, like liquid darkness wrapping around every inch of his skin. He flailed desperately, limbs thrashing, trying to find purchase, to break through the surface. His lungs burned for air, the blackness closing in like a living thing.
He kicked upwards, each movement slower, heavier—like swimming through tar or quick sand.
Panic and desperation surged through him, raw and cold, as the ink filled his mouth and nose. The world above was fading— it was distant, unreachable.
He having his will to live managed to break through the surface, gasping for air, and grabbed onto Joey’s ankle, needing to pull himself out. The ink was claiming him, and it wasn't pleasnt.
Joey yanked his foot away, kicking at Norman’s hand. Norman was soaked with ink his ribs against the old wood digging into his inked shirt, trying to claw he's way to safety.
Joey watched.
The machine roared in the background, and with sinister intention, Joey with the strength of a crazy old man digged his heel on Norman's hand, possibly breaking a finger, Norman tried to scream in pain, but the ink in his mouth and face made it sound more like a screech.
He struggled to catch his breath, eyes flicking upward—just in time to see Joey, running to the shelf with projectors and grabbing one.
Norman still dazed due to the pain and heaviness of his body still tried to escape the ink's grasp.
Joey approched, holding the projector above his head, Norman manged to get his hips out, raising his head and torso almost like a seal, Joey stared, he looked happy, he looked content.
No wonder he did, the machine that costed him he's empire, was gonna work, he was sure of it.
“J-Joey...?” Norman stammered, dread tightening in his chest. His voice was broken due to the ink still in his mouth
Joey raised the heavy projector high, his eyes gleaming with a savage thrill. With brutal force, he slammed it down onto Norman’s skull. He smashed Norman's head with a projector.
The sickening crack of bone breaking echoed sharply. Norman’s scream ripped through the air—ragged, raw. Blood erupted like a dark fountain, splattering the floor and mixing with the thick, viscous ink pooling beneath them.
Brains splattered, blood stained Joey could only smile.
Joey didn’t relent. He smashed Norman’s head again and again, the projector crushing bone and flesh alike.
Each blow sent shards of skull cracking and splintering, blood spraying in ragged arcs, soaking the old wood planks, which many walked across.
Norman’s vision blurred, pain erupting like fire in every nerve. His mind shattered under the relentless assault, red and black merging into a swirling nightmare.
Each hit took a bit of Normans life, till the only thing Norman had for a head was mush, and a old broken bloodied projector.
Finally, Joey grabbed the broken, bleeding body, the grin on his face widening into something utterly unhinged. Without a shred of mercy, he heaved Norman’s lifeless corpse into the swirling inky abyss below.
The black ink swallowed him whole, seeping into every crack and crevice of his mangled form. This time, there was no struggle. No attempt to escape. Only silence — a grim, final stillness.
The silence was broken by Joey’s laughter—sharp, unhinged, echoing through the wooden bones of the studio.
He wiped a streak of blood off his cheek, smearing it absentmindedly as he reached for a lever. A lever that would use the soul and body of Norman to make bendy, Joey needed this to be successful.
The machine roared again, sucking more ink. The ink churned and boiled like something alive, groaning as if the walls themselves were mourning.
Then it vomited something.
A twisted, humanoid figure dragged itself from the pit, slow and trembling. Its body was bloated, misshapen, veins of ink pulsing beneath torn flesh.
And on its shoulders—where a head should’ve been—sat the shattered remains of a projector, fused grotesquely with sinew and bone.
It didn’t look like Bendy.
It didn’t smile.
It didn’t dance.
Joey’s grin faltered. His brow creased in disappointment, then rage.
“This… isn’t what I asked for,” he muttered, the excitement in his voice gone cold.
The creature groaned and approched Joey, who slowly grabbed a speaker.
Then threw it and the creature sending it back to the depths of the pit.
He turned his back. And seeing a reel on the floor, he also threw it into the pit, he made another mistake. And he wasn't proud.
When Norman exited the puddles again it was dark, and flooded, he wasn't where he once was.
And with that, Norman—no, the Projectionist—was cast away. Banished to the forgotten corridors and rotting tunnels below. Condemned to wander the studio’s deepest pits, blind, alone, and in endless pain.
A walking reel of suffering — all for a role he never asked to play.
“I-I... h-hate y-you Joey-…”
The words barely form, caught somewhere between static and breath.
But no one hears him—not anymore.
Just the flicker of his lens in the dark.
Just the hum of old film, looping something broken.