The snowfall in Snowdin was still far off, but the cold had already begun to creep into the corners of the Underground. It wasn't the chill of ice, but the absence of warmth—left in the wake of decisions that could never be undone.
Frisk stood in the final room of the Ruins, facing the exit that led beyond. The archway loomed large, its shadows deep and uncertain. And in front of it, Toriel stood—her back straight, her hands folded, her eyes soft but unyielding.
"I cannot allow you to leave," she said quietly. "There are too many who would hurt you out there."
Frisk said nothing.
Behind them, Chara hovered like a fading echo. She had stopped trying to speak, her voice hoarse from the pleas that had gone unheard. Her eyes, wide and haunted, darted between Frisk and Toriel.
Toriel stepped forward, still trying. "If you leave... they will kill you. Or worse, you may kill them. Please, my child, stay here with me. We can live in peace."
Frisk's hand moved toward their weapon.
Toriel saw it. Her ears lowered.
"I see," she whispered.
Chara's mouth opened, but no sound came. Only a shallow breath.
The battle began.
Frisk didn't hesitate.
Each blow landed with precision. No flare of emotion. No struggle. Just inevitability.
Toriel cried out in pain—once, twice—but never struck back. Even as she faltered, she tried to speak, to reach him.
"Why...?" she breathed. "I only wanted to protect you..."
Frisk kept attacking.
Chara crumpled to her knees, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her teeth clenched. Her eyes glistened.
"Don't do this," she whispered. "Please, not her. Anyone but her."
But it was too late.
Toriel fell, her body fading into the dust that now carpeted the Ruins.
Frisk didn't blink.
For a long moment, there was silence. Not the kind that comforts, but the kind that swallows.
Chara didn't move. Her hand was outstretched, as if she could reach what was gone. As if she could take it back.
"I loved her," she said so quietly, even the air seemed reluctant to carry the words. "She was... kind."
Frisk turned away and walked through the door.
Back atop Mount Ebott, the rain had grown steadier again, wrapping the night in a curtain of mist and tears.
The girl's knuckles had gone white around the book she held. She didn't move, didn't gesture—only stared at the fire, her jaw set, her eyes heavy.
The man didn't press her.
"She didn't deserve it," he said, almost to himself. "But that was the path taken. The bond broken."
He looked at the girl, though his face remained hidden in the folds of his hood.
"And once a bond like that is shattered... something inside you goes with it."
The girl shifted slightly, as though wanting to ask why, or how, or was it really Frisk anymore—but no gesture formed clearly.
The man offered no answer.
Instead, he leaned forward, feeding another branch into the fire, and the sparks that flew upward flickered like lost souls in the dark.