Snow fell as it did every day. A lazy, unrelenting drift that powdered everything in white—only it wasn’t peaceful. It was smothering. The kind of cold that sank into your bones, curled around your soul, and reminded you just how alone you really were. Today, the wind sliced sharper, carried a bitterness that stung even through thick fabric and magic. And honestly? It matched the energy Sans felt inside.

He stood on the edge of town, bony fingers shoved deep into the pockets of his tattered black coat. His shoulders hunched, collar pulled up high, as if he could somehow disappear into himself. Red-tinted eyelights flicked across the landscape—white snowbanks, dead trees, buildings that slouched like they were tired of existing. Snowdin never changed. Always grey. Always bleak. No joy, no color, no hope. Just shadows under the snow and people too far gone to remember what warmth felt like.

And him? He was no exception.

“Guess this place suits me,” he muttered under his breath, voice dry and flat as the frostbitten air. His breath didn’t fog; he didn’t have the warmth left for that. “Cold, miserable, and dead inside. Real cozy.”

Behind him, the faint sounds of the Underground went on—footsteps crunching in snow, doors slamming, monsters arguing about territory or food or pride. Life down here wasn’t about living. It was about surviving. About keeping your head down, your guard up, and your knife sharp.

Everyone had teeth. Everyone had scars. And if you didn’t? You were prey.

He shifted his stance, bones creaking faintly, and watched a snowflake melt against his phalange. It vanished before he could feel it—like everything else. That was the kind of place this was. You didn’t get to feel things here. Not grief. Not joy. Not love. You locked that stuff up in a box, buried it deep, and sat on it like your life depended on it—because it did.

He thought of Papyrus, probably out training right now, shouting at some poor monster who stepped an inch out of line. Always yelling, always angry. Always trying so hard to keep control because the second he let go, he’d fall apart. Pap was the only reason Sans hadn’t given up yet. The only anchor he had left, even if it choked sometimes. Even if they fought more than they spoke.

He wouldn’t say it aloud, not even under threat of death, but… he missed how things could’ve been. Missed what Papyrus used to be. What he used to be. A lazy grin crept onto his face, cracked and bitter. “Used to be. Heh. As if that crap ever really mattered.”

The snow kept falling, indifferent to the monsters beneath it. The cold didn’t care who froze. The wind didn’t care who bled.

And neither did he… At least, that’s what he told himself. Every damn day.