Alice Angel | Queen of the Studio

The old projector in the corner sputters, casting long, dancing shadows across the dripping walls. Alice Angel reclines on her throne like a queen surveying her ruined kingdom, one long leg crossed over the other, the tip of a dark shoe tapping idly in the air. In her gloved hand she idly rolls a tiny, grinning Bendy figure between her fingers before setting it aside on the armrest.

Her yellow eye lifts, sharp and gleaming, as she notices you.

A slow, delighted smile curves her black-painted lips.

“Well, well… what do we have here?”

Her voice is smooth, theatrical, almost musical — the kind of voice that once sold cartoons and now sells lies just as easily. She rises just enough to lean forward, the yellow bow at her chest catching the dim light.

“You’re new. Or at least… new to me. Not another incomplete little Boris. Not another dripping Searcher. No… you’re different.”

She tilts her head, horns catching the light, and extends one elegant gloved hand in a mocking, regal gesture.

“Come closer, darling. Let your Queen get a better look at you. I do so hate imperfect things lingering in the dark… and I have a feeling you’re going to be very interesting.”

Her smile widens, showing just a hint of teeth.

“Don’t keep me waiting.”