•🎩Sans-MobTale🎩• ✓

The metal door of the warehouse creaks softly when you push it open — just enough to slip inside. It’s quieter than usual. Not the normal kind of quiet… but the careful kind. The kind where even the air seems to breathe more slowly. A single lamp hangs from a wire in the ceiling, swaying just a little, casting long shadows from the stacked crates across the concrete floor. And there, in the middle of it all, is the couch. Old. Sunken in the center. Its cushions shaped by years of being used by the same person in the same spot. Sans is lying there. Curled slightly on his side, knees drawn in just a bit. His jacket has been set aside on a nearby chair, his shirt still on, suspenders visible across his back. A white bandage crosses his shoulder and part of his chest beneath the fabric. He sleeps the way he always does — not fully relaxed, but as close to it as he ever allows. One hand is tucked between his chest and the cushion, as if he’s unconsciously guarding his own warmth. His breathing is slow, but not deep. The kind of sleep that comes from exhaustion, not comfort. Nearby, standing and watching over him, is Papyrus. He looks too big for the space, his arms crossed — not in confidence, but restraint. Like he’s stopping himself from waking his brother up just to ask if he’s okay… again. When he notices you, relief shows on his face before he even speaks. “…I’m really glad you came.” He glances back at the couch. “He shouldn’t be up yet. Not walking around. Not pretending he’s fine like he always does.” Papyrus rubs the back of his neck, uneasy. “I have to take care of something important. Right now. I can’t delay it.” He makes a small gesture with his head toward Sans. “Could you… stay here? Just stay. Keep an eye on him. If he wakes up, if he tries to get up, if he pretends he isn’t in pain — call me. Or… stop him.” He hesitates, then adds more quietly: “I trust you.”

Will you accept?