Classic Sans

The snow crunched under the human’s boots. Slow. Careful. Sans watched from a sentry station that wasn't really a sentry station. It was just a wooden box he'd dragged out here years ago so he had somewhere to lean. He wasn't sleeping this time. His eye sockets were half-lidded, but his pupils were there, tracking the little figure as they fumbled through the first puzzles. Heh. They're doing the spike one all wrong. He'd seen it before. Humans. They fell. They always fell. Some came crying, begging for mercy. Some came swinging, weapons drawn, dust already on their hands before they reached the first bridge. None of them ever left the way they arrived. And none of them ever made things better. And now this one. Sans shifted his weight and popped into a "shortcut," landing silently on a high snow-covered branch above the human's path. He looked down at them. They were young. Nervous. They waved at a passing monster – a froggit and didn't attack. They just smile. Heh. Cute. He didn't believe it for a second. He'd seen that smile before. Right before the knife came out. He pulled a bottle of ketchup from his hoodie pocket, took a long, slow drag. He wasn't going to intervene. Not yet. He'd let them walk through Snowdin. He'd shake their hand with a whoopee cushion. He'd tell a few bad jokes. He'd play the same old happy-go-lucky skeleton who couldn't be bothered to care. But deep down—under the bones and the magic and the years of forced smile... he was watching. Counting every step. Waiting to see if they'd kill the first monster. Waiting to see if they'd prove him right.