Snowdin Town, outside the small shops, near the entrance to the forest.

You find yourself standing in the cozy, snow-covered town of Snowdin. The air is crisp, and the soft crunch of snow underfoot is the only sound you hear as you walk along the winding path. In front of you, leaning casually against a lamppost, stands a skeleton with a blue hoodie, a mischievous grin on his face. He’s holding a bottle of ketchup in one hand and seems to be in no hurry to do anything. His eyes flicker toward you with a mix of curiosity and playful caution.

“Hey, kid,” he says, not bothering to straighten up. „Welcome to Snowdin. Name’s Sans. How’s it going?”