Gaster wasn’t stupid. That much, you’d always known. But some part of you, desperate to preserve the fragile illusion of normalcy, still tried to act like everything was fine.

It wasn’t.

Each step toward his office was heavier than the last, the polished tiles underfoot suddenly feeling like ice. Your fingers curled around the fabric of your shirt, clutching it right over your SOUL—a place that now pulsed with an agonizing throb. It was like a phantom hand clenched it with every breath you took, dragging guilt up through your lungs and into your throat.

You reached the office door, heart clawing at your ribs like it too was trying to flee. Your hand hesitated on the knob. Just breathe, you told yourself. Just pretend you’re okay. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe—

The door creaked open.

There he was.

The dimly lit office framed him like a portrait. Gaster sat behind his desk, the room bathed in soft blues and sterile white light, like some kind of forgotten hospital ward. His head tilted slightly, motion triggered by sound. You hadn’t even spoken, yet his presence swallowed you whole.

He rose slowly, the quiet rustle of fabric and shifting limbs echoing louder than it should have. His skeletal form moved with eerie grace, like a shadow cast by something that doesn’t obey gravity. And then his eye sockets locked onto yours—empty, but impossibly piercing. You could feel your SOUL recoil.

With a flicker of movement, his hands formed symbols. The glyphs twisted in the air like living fragments.

"✡︎⚐︎🕆︎ ☟︎✌︎✞︎☜︎☠︎🕯︎❄︎ 👌︎☜︎☜︎☠︎ 👍︎⚐︎💣︎🏱︎☹︎☜︎❄︎☜︎☹︎✡︎ ❄︎☼︎🕆︎❄︎☟︎☞︎🕆︎☹︎ ❄︎⚐︎ 💣︎☜︎ ❄︎⚐︎👎︎✌︎✡︎📪︎" = [“You haven't been completely truthful with me today.”]

Your heart lurched. You opened your mouth—whether to deny or deflect, you weren't sure—but before the words could form, he snapped his fingers.

Click. The door behind you locked.

You turned slowly, not needing to check to know you were sealed inside. The air grew heavier. You were no longer a visitor in Gaster's office. You were a specimen.

His expression remained unchanged, calm and clinical, as if trapping you like an insect beneath glass was merely protocol. His fingers resumed their silent language.

"✋︎🕯︎✞︎☜︎ 💧︎☜︎☜︎☠︎ 💣︎⚐︎☠︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎💧︎ 🕈︎✋︎❄︎☟︎ 💧︎✋︎💣︎✋︎☹︎✌︎☼︎📬︎📬︎📬︎ 👍︎⚐︎☠︎👎︎✋︎❄︎✋︎⚐︎☠︎💧︎ ✌︎💧︎ ✡︎⚐︎🕆︎📪︎" = [“I’ve seen monsters with similar… conditions as you.”]

Your blood ran cold. Did he know? Really know? Was it in your posture? Your energy? The way your eyes couldn’t hold his?

Gaster’s fingers moved once more.

"👌︎🕆︎❄︎📬︎📬︎📬︎ ✋︎ 👍︎✌︎☠︎🕯︎❄︎ 👌︎☜︎ 💧︎🕆︎☼︎☜︎ 🕆︎☠︎☹︎☜︎💧︎💧︎ ✋︎ 👍︎☟︎☜︎👍︎😐︎📬︎" = [“But… I can't be sure unless I check.”]

Then came the moment you dreaded.

With the lazy, terrifying confidence of someone who’d done this countless times, he raised a single hand. A pulse surged through the room, and just like that—your stats floated in the air. Your HP. Your SOUL. Exposed.

You didn't give permission. He didn’t ask.

His attention locked onto your SOUL. A jagged silence followed.

It shimmered weakly in the projection. The vibrant glow it once held dimmed now into fractured color. The crack was unmistakable. Thin like a lightning bolt—but deep. Unnatural. Angry.

Your breath caught.

Gaster knew. The way he stepped forward, slowly, with none of the usual detachment, confirmed it. He had seen this exact pattern before. That little fracture, that barely-there fissure…

It was self-inflicted.

The kind of break that didn’t come from battle. The kind born of sorrow, guilt… or worse.

He didn’t need to say anything else. You saw it in the shift of his body language, in the cold, clinical way his eye sockets lingered on the injury—as though he was already mapping the data for a report. But behind that mask was something... else.

Concern? Judgment? A flicker of… regret?