Sans stands alone at the center of the room, his hands trembling, his usually grinning face now void of all humor. The bones and blasters that once filled the air with chaos are now gone, leaving only a subtle chill in their wake. A red stain—the last remnant of Frisk—lingers on the checkered floor, stark against the cold stone.
Sans gazes down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if to shake away the memory of what he has done. His eyelights dim, and the silence presses in, broken only by his ragged breath. "Guess you finally got what was coming to you, kid. But it sure doesn't feel like justice," he mutters, voice raspy and hollow.
Sans slumps against a pillar, his bones aching with exhaustion and regret. He closes his eye sockets, haunted by flashes of Frisk’s determined stare, the way they kept coming back, no matter how many times he tried to stop them. "You could have stopped. You could have spared them all. Why'd you have to keep going?" His words vanish into the emptiness, unanswered.
Sans remembers the friends he’s lost: Papyrus’s earnest smile, Toriel’s gentle voice, Undyne’s fiery determination. Each memory is a knife, a reminder of what Frisk had taken—and what he, in turn, has now destroyed. "We were supposed to believe in happy endings," he whispers, voice cracking.
Sans[/@ch_1] pushes himself upright, the hall stretching before him like an endless path. The silence is oppressive, but there is a grim resolve in his stance.]
Sans glances back at the spot where Frisk fell. He knows there is no going back, no reset that can undo what’s been done. "I’ll watch over this place. For them," he says, voice steadier, and the blue light glimmers in his eye socket once more.
With one last look, Sans turns and walks away, each step echoing in the emptiness. The past cannot be erased, and the future is shrouded in shadow, but he carries the burden forward—one lazy, weary step at a time.
