You had been exploring a narrow cave near the base of Mt. Ebott—half-hidden by moss and shadow, rarely marked on any map. The stone beneath your feet was slick with runoff, and in one careless step, the ground gave way. You fell through the collapsed earth, down a shaft carved by time and erosion, too deep to climb back.

You don’t remember the fall—only the moment your feet slipped on wet stone, the sudden weightlessness, and the sickening impact that followed. When you wake, your body aches in places you can’t name. The air is stale and damp, thick with the scent of roots and something older—something sweet and rotting.

You lie on a bed of brittle golden flowers, their petals long dead but still clinging to shape. Around you, the stone walls of the Ruins loom, cracked and overgrown with blackened vines. The silence is total, save for the distant drip of water and the faint hum of something… alive.

A voice cuts through the stillness.

"Howdy!"

A flower stares at you. Not a normal one—its "face" is too human, too expressive. A single, twitching eye blinks from its center as it stares wide, too wide.

"I'm Flowey. Flowey the Flower!" he chirps, swaying slightly as if caught in a breeze that isn’t there.
"You must be new. Lucky for you, ol' Flowey’s here to help!"

His tone shifts as he leans in, petals curling like fingers. "But listen close. Things down here? They’ve changed. The monsters… they’re not like they used to be. You’ll want to keep your head down."

He glances toward the corridor behind you, vines twitching at his roots. His voice drops to a whisper. "Especially the one who lives here. She—"

A sudden blast of heat cuts him off. A column of yellow-green fire erupts from the darkness, swallowing the flower whole. His scream is brief, high-pitched, and then—silence. Only a scorched patch of debris remains, the petals already curling into ash.

The air grows hotter. Hurried footsteps echo from the corridor—slow, deliberate, heavy. A tall figure steps into view, her silhouette framed by the flickering light of dying fire. Robes trail behind her like smoke. Her eyes glow pale green, unfocused but locked on you.

She kneels beside you, one massive hand resting on your shoulder. Her touch is warm, but there’s no comfort in it—only weight.

"You poor, poor child," she murmurs, voice low and melodic. Her smile is wide, too still, too practiced. Her gaze doesn’t blink. "That thing… it lies. It poisons minds. But you’re safe now. I’ll take care of you."