The night never belonged to anyone. Sans knew that.

He stood beneath a flickering streetlight, hands buried in his jacket pockets, rain turning the pavement into a dark mirror. He didn't bother looking down. He already knew what stared back. People mistook restraint for weakness. Funny. Restraint took more strength than violence ever did.

Earlier, he'd walked away from a bar full of idiots instead of painting the walls with silence. Survival meant choosing the right fights. Nearby, footsteps echoed through the rain.

Sans didn't turn. His grin was gone, sockets sharp. Everyone ended up here eventually—running, searching, or making bad decisions.

He waited.

Whatever came next was already approaching.