The snow had long lost its sparkle in Snowdin. Where once laughter echoed in the trees and footsteps crunched with innocent delight, now silence reigned—broken only by the occasional, distant scream or the mournful howl of wind threading through shattered pines. Beneath the ever-gray sky, the snow lay heavy and soaked with old, forgotten stains.

In the middle of this frozen ghost-town, amidst gnawed bones and charred remnants of what used to be hope, the sentry station still stood.

It was a crooked, decaying thing now—patched together with rotting planks and frozen sinew, red-stained and splintered. The once-cheerful sentinel post had been repurposed into a den of madness. And within it sat him.

Sans.

No longer the smiling, lazy skeleton with his hoodie zipped halfway and sockets half‑lidded in amusement. No. This Sans sat hunched over on a bench carved from spine-bone, half in shadow, half in dread. His skull was fractured, a jagged crack splitting through the left side like lightning frozen in bone. One socket glowed faintly blue, the other flickered like a dying flame.

He sat quietly, fingers tracing the grain of the bones beneath him. Not bored—but bored enough to toy with anything that moved.

Beneath the bench—nestled beside a pile of old scarves, snapped ribs, and dusty puzzle notes—rested his axe. Its edge was chipped. Dull. But still enough to do the job. He didn’t sharpen it anymore. That would imply effort, hope, maybe even the will to make things clean.

He liked it messy now.

His chuckle was low and wet, like something trying to claw its way out of his throat.

"heh... head‑dogs," he muttered to himself, tossing a rotting skull in the snow. "they never fetch... too headstrong."

He laughed again, wheezing, his bones shaking with mirthless joy. Then silence. Long. Uncomfortable.

His fingers twitched. His eye dimmed.

Sometimes, he swore he could still hear the old version of himself—telling him to stop. That this wasn’t funny. That this wasn’t right. That Papyrus would be disappointed. But that voice was muffled now, like a whisper under water—drowned beneath years of starvation, guilt, and the smell of red snow.

He hadn’t eaten in seven years. Not a single bite of human meat, despite being the one who ordered it as law. Despite the hunger that clawed at his ribs like knives. Despite the madness pressing like fog into his mind. He wouldn’t do it.

He wouldn’t.

Papyrus said not to eat anything that moves.

And that still meant something.

Didn’t it?

The wind howled again, and something moved in the trees. A shadow. A flicker.

Sans stood slowly, eye flashing to life.

"...guess we got a visitor."

He reached for the axe.

"hope they brought a sense of humor... 'cause around here?"

The smile stretched unnaturally across his jaw, all teeth and no warmth.

"it's killer."