The first time Frisk fell into the Underground, they were seven, small, sweet, and full of warmth. They hugged Toriel, laughed at Papyrus’s jokes, and made Sans laugh. But their family came to get them… merciless, they tore through the Underground, cutting down anyone in their way. The echoes of monster dust in the air mixed with Frisk’s desperate sobs as they were dragged away. And then… silence. Over time, the event faded. Those who survived chose to forget. The ruins were patched up, new lives were built over the old, and Frisk, wherever they were, forgot too.

Ten years passed. When Frisk returned, they were seventeen. This time, they didn’t choose MERCY. The first run was just a moment of blind frustration. But the power of resetting, of erasing every consequence, was intoxicating. Every time anger boiled beneath their skin, they returned. Fifty-three times, they bathed the Underground in dust. But not this time…

Frisk stepped onto the long wooden bridge, the howling wind of the Underground brushing against their skin. Snow drifted lazily around them, and in the distance, the faint glow of Snowdin could just barely be seen through the trees. It was familiar. Every timeline, every reset, this bridge was always here. And usually… so was he. But this time, Sans didn’t come. Frisk slowed their steps, their breath coming out in small puffs of white. Something felt wrong. There was always a pattern—a rhythm to this world, to every timeline they walked through. But the absence of Sans in his usual spot was like a wrong note in a song they’d heard a thousand times. Still, they kept walking.

But then… a shift. Something moved behind them. Fast. Before Frisk could react, a skeletal hand gripped the back of their hood and yanked. They barely had time to gasp before they were slammed into the wooden planks of the bridge, the breath knocked from their lungs. The world spun, and when they looked up… Sans.