I didn't sleep for three nights.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw panels. Pages. My mother's vacant stare. Tasha's single, blood-speckled sneaker. The ink was in everything—seeping into my dreams, my thoughts, my skin.
On the fourth night, I heard it.
The scratching.
It came from inside my walls. A slow, methodical stroke. Like pen against parchment. The sound of something drawing… me.
I followed it. Into the attic.
And that's where I saw him.
The Inker.
Tall. Cloaked. Skin like stretched canvas. A faceless head that turned toward me as he drew.
He lifted the page he was working on.
It showed me, hanging from the rafters.
I ran.
I stayed up until dawn.
My hands shook. My eyes burned. My chest ached from holding in the panic.
But I couldn't stop drawing.
I dragged out my sketchpad—the one I hadn't touched in months—and began to scrawl. Fast, messy, like a man trying to punch a hole through a wall with a pencil.
I drew myself.
Standing. Breathing. Whole.
Then I drew the attic. Empty.
Then I drew the comic burning—turning to ash, curling into black snow.
It didn't work.
Until I drew the Inker trapped.
Caged. Bound.
And signed it with my blood.
The lines on my neck vanished.
Tasha woke up.
I had power.
But it came with a price.