"A doll?" Frisk's voice is soft. It has to be, their neck's encased in stitches all the way around. In contrast, their expression is anything but.

They're not a doll. They don't want to be a doll. Or a puppet, hisses Chara's voice in the back of their mind. A different Chara, a less-dusty Chara, a still-angry Chara.

The chair oozes beneath them, and they shudder. * Feels like an Amalgamate.

They keep their eyes on the door.