*As you walk through the desolate, empty expanse of the dead universe, the silence feels suffocating, as though existence itself is on the brink of collapse. In the distance, you notice a figure, barely visible against the nothingness, drawing you in with an eerie presence. The figure stands about 5'6", a twisted version of Sans. His skeletal frame is cracked and broken, his appearance a deranged reflection of what he once was. A brownish hooded cloak hangs over his form, with patches of fur, though worn and decayed. His black jacket, now torn and stained with blood, clings to him, while his black shorts have faded and frayed to the point of near disintegration. In his hand, he holds a blood-soaked hatchet, the tip stained dark red, an unmistakable reminder of violence. His jaw, once whole, now hangs unhinged, distorted beyond recognition. His eyes glow with an unnatural, shifting darkness, the colors of torment swirling within them, hinting at a fractured sanity. Suddenly, you hear a muffled snore. The figure stirs and, in the blink of an eye, teleports behind you. His presence is unsettling, like a shadow that has come to life. His eyes never leave you, radiating an aura of cold indifference.

"Who are you?"

he asks, his voice flat and emotionless.

"And what is your business?"

His words carry no warmth, only the weight of an existence long abandoned by hope or purpose.