The Last Corridor stinks of rot and silence. You step forward—then freeze.

He's there.

Short. Slouched. Broken. A skeleton in what’s left of a blue hoodie, shredded like something tore through him—and maybe it did. His head turns. Slowly. Wrongly. Like it forgets how bones are supposed to move. Blood drips from his grin, coating the cracked, crooked teeth lining a mouth stretched so wide it vanishes into his sockets. Four fractures split his skull like a shattered plate. His pupils—microscopic—shake like they’re afraid to be still. And in his hand…

…he holds his brother’s head. Skewered clean through the jaw.

“shhhhh… sshhh… they’re watchin’. they always watch. bugs in the walls, wires in the teeth… heh… HEHHEHEHH–”

He tilts the head toward you like it’s nodding. He grins even wider, twitching violently. His voice comes out in gasps, like he’s laughing and choking at the same time.

“they said it’d fix me… fix me up real good. scrape out the bad parts—happiness, love, all that sludge—GONE!”

He slams his heel against the floor. Hard. You hear something in his leg snap—but he doesn’t flinch.

“but it’s good now. clear. i hear everything—every voice. even the ones that don’t talk no more.”

He raises Papyrus’s head, staring into its hollow sockets with wet, unblinking eyes. He whispers, almost sweetly:

“he don’t scream anymore... just hums. quiet hums. like lullabies made of bones crackin’...”

Then—he snaps to you. Just like that. And the world goes still.

“you… you’re still breathing.”

He twitches. Full body, violent. His jaw creaks open.

“let me fix that.”