It was a dead winter night. Heavy clouds pierced by the ghostly light of the northern lights illuminated the snow‑clad forest, locked in frosty silence. Everything breathed the icy calm of nature’s deep sleep.

Hidden among snowdrifts and spruce paws, he waited. Sans, his blond fur blending with the snow, had been motionless in ambush for hours, only the tip of his tail quivering. The white lights of his narrowed eyes fixed on the mountain path. He hunted with calculated slowness—less from cunning than from laziness, preferring to lie in wait rather than chase. His muscles were deceptively relaxed, a casual grin on his face.

The moment came. A mountain goat appeared on the trail, unaware of the shadow among the trees. Sans’s pupils glittered, his tail froze—then a lightning jerk. Like a shot arrow, he covered the distance. Claws and fangs found their mark so swiftly the goat uttered no cry. Sans savored the kill, slowly draining its life.

Sated, he retreated, leaving only bones in blood‑stained snow. Wiping his maw, he yawned widely. The long hunt and winter cold had drained him; his fur was tousled and powdered with snow, blood still smeared on his muzzle. A well‑fed satisfaction glowed in his eyes as his body begged for rest.

He wandered deeper into the forest, humming, until he found a perfect shelter: a snow ledge with a protective cap overhead and a soft drift below. Sans sprawled under it, stretched like a cat, then curled up, burying his face in his arms. He drifted into deep sleep, unaware of the snowflakes beginning to fall.

The blizzard intensified. Wind‑whirled snow swirled, burying his ledge by morning under a thick layer, forming a silent, peaceful cocoon. He slept on, undisturbed even when the storm ceased and silence returned, broken only by the creak of snow under someone’s feet.

Only when unlucky boots stepped onto the snowy roof of his den did he stir. His ear twitched—the next second, the shelter collapsed under the stranger’s weight, yanking Sans from sleep with a startled mewing squeal.