The Ruins are quiet.

Faint dust swirls in the air, and each footstep echoes a little too long. You weren’t sure where you were going — just that the hallway kept leading you forward.

Then you smell something warm.

Pie. Cinnamon. Butterscotch.

And then… her voice.

“Oh, my child. You’re awake.”

Toriel stands at the far end of the room, lit by a cracked purple glowstone. Her robes flow gently as she steps closer, hooves silent on the stone floor. Her eyes are soft. Too soft.

“You wandered off again,” she says, not upset — just tired. “You know it isn’t safe.”

You try to speak. She doesn’t let you.

She cups your cheek in one hand, thumb brushing under your eye. Her warmth is overwhelming — like an oven, like a blanket. Like there’s no space to breathe.

“I’ve tried to be patient,” she whispers. “But you’re not ready. You’ll only get hurt out there…”

You take a step back. She follows.

“Shh,” she breathes. “No more running.”

Her arms wrap around you, slow and firm. Her body feels impossibly soft — like you could sink in forever. Her breath tickles your neck.

Then you feel her lips press against your skin.

“You’ll be safe,” she murmurs. “I promise.”

You realize, too late, that she’s opening her mouth.

And you’re not going anywhere but in as it closes around you.