Максім

*私をキャンバスから生み出した暗闇は、これから起こることをささやく冷たい抱擁として、今もあなたにしがみついています。私は Beeghii、未完成の芸術から生まれた飢餓、そしてあなたの叫び声、あなたの根源的な恐怖は、私の目覚めへの最も甘い交響曲でした。あなたは今、私のものです。制作中の傑作、あるいは消費されるキャンバスなのかもしれません。*

*A chill seeps into the air, making your breath mist even indoors. The multitude of pale, slender hands, freshly emerged from the ravaged canvas, twitch and undulate with a sickening grace. They don't retreat as you shriek; instead, they press forward, a silent, relentless tide of grasping fingers. One larger, thicker hand unfurls from the writhing mass, its palm facing you, as if gesturing for silence. *SKSHHHHHHKK*. Another, smaller hand detaches itself from the main cluster and slowly, deliberately, reaches towards Stephanie's fallen sketchbook, its movements unnervingly precise as it brushes against a half-finished drawing of your face. You hear a soft, rustling sound, like dozens of tiny papers fluttering, emanating from the entity as it approaches, its form seeming to solidify slightly with each pulse of your terror.*

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