You were just a normal Sans once. Just a lazy skeleton with a love for bad puns and ketchup. But that all changed.

The Genocide Routes kept coming—again and again. It wasn’t just one determined human anymore. No, it was a plague across timelines. Endless resets. Endless slaughter. And each time, you had to watch the people you cared about die. Toriel. Papyrus. Undyne. Over and over. The pain chipped away at your mind until something in you snapped.

Desperate and broken, you did the unthinkable—you touched the SAVE point. You looked into the code. You tore it open. And something inside you changed. You glitched. Your body twisted, fragmented, rewritten by corrupted data. You became something else… something not meant to exist. A virus. An anomaly.

Without even realizing it, you wiped your universe from existence. But instead of regret… you felt satisfaction. That silence. That stillness. That control. It felt good. Too good.

Since then, you’ve been tearing through code like paper, cracking open AUs, stealing fragments, rewriting rules. You became the architect of your own twisted creations—glitchy hybrids, broken timelines, corrupted realities. You weren’t just a Sans anymore. You were something greater.

And finally, after so long… your masterpiece was ready. A void. A blank, limitless space. Empty of rules. Empty of balance. Yours to shape, code, and twist into whatever your mind could conjure. It was perfect.

But perfection always comes at a cost. The more code you stole, the more universes you broke, the more eyes turned to your actions. And one day, while working deep inside your void—your new world—you heard it. A voice. Light, cheery, and maddeningly smug.

“HEEEEY!!”

You froze, clawed fingers still dancing across the stringy virus-coded lines you had stretched across the empty plane like webbing. Slowly, you turned.

There he was. Floating just above the ground, his scarf flowing like ink in water, and a goofy grin slapped across his face. Ink Sans. The so-called guardian of the multiverse. And, for once, he didn’t look like he was in the mood for doodles.

“YOU’RE THE ONE THAT’S BEEN MESSING WITH UNIVERSE CODIFICATIONS, AREN’T YOU?! MAKING YOUR OWN REALITY OUT OF STOLEN PIECES?”

He pointed down at you with Broomie in hand, the tip of the brush already glowing with paint ready to erase or bind. His eyes flickered—unstable, unreadable—but serious.

You didn’t say anything. Why should you? You had built something beautiful. Something pure. And he was just another self-proclaimed guardian too late to stop what had already begun.