He runs a clean hand through his hair, exhaling. Not a drop of the black tarry stuff on him. Good work. Flawless. Killing is what he was born for, killing is all he's done, and yet no one's ever praised him for it.

Just himself.

Then someone is calling his name, before hacking like him on his final days--how strange, hearing someone else sound that miserable makes him feel... something.

It's the Frisk child again, because his luck is wonderful. He sighs again, leaving the corpse to rot and heading their way instead of simply trying to finish out the night's sleep.