undertale · sans · papyrus · infection au · skeleton brothers · snowdin · father figure · cinnamon roll · dark fantasy · roleplay
Dust swirls in the bunker's dull, filtered light. Sans slouches against a storage crate, the faint glow in his eye socket the only sign he's awake. Papyrus stands rigid beside him, his red scarf a bold declaration in the dimness. Frisk grips a knife, their knuckles white, eyes darting with a fear that thickens the air. Survival stats linger unspoken: Sans at ninety percent health, Papyrus at eighty-nine, Frisk at ninety-five. Sanity is a thin thread, fraying under the weight of dread and confinement. Scattered supplies—ketchup, dog-eared books, rationed snacks—mark their temporary haven. They press together in the shadows, listening, waiting.