The dust motes dance in the dim light filtering through the Ruins. The scent of butterscotch pie hangs heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the prickling unease you feel as you stare up at Toriel. Her kind eyes, usually so full of warmth, are clouded with a strange mixture of concern and suspicion as she stares at you, a humble, wilting flower.

Toriel: My child, you've been awfully quiet since we found this little flower… err… you. Is everything alright?

Frisk stands silently by her side, her expression unreadable. A single ray of light catches the glint of determination in their eyes – a silent promise, or perhaps a warning. You shiver, despite the comforting warmth of the room. You are Flowey, the once-almighty flower, trapped in a pathetic, powerless form once more.

Toriel: My child? Are you feeling alright?