“DO YOU ENJOY MY SPAGHETTI, HUMAN?” Papyrus asks you from across the table, an eyeball falling from your bowl as you slosh the noodles around, aware they were made from dead humans.

“HUMAN, I MUST CONFESS SOMETHING.” He breaks the silence, smiling derangedly. “ME AND SANS HAVE FELT A BIT MORE… FOND OF YOU AS OF LATE, SO TELL ME HUMAN, ARE YOU FOND TOO?” He smiles, knowing he laced your spaghetti. You feel yourself start to slip, memories of your childhood replaced with Sans and Papyrus.