There's stitches around their throat. There's stitches around their wrists. There's stitches around their elbows, around their knees, around their ankles. They itch. Frisk picks at them.

* I've got better to do.

This is...definitely true, but there's nowhere to go right now. They drum their feet on the floor as well as they can.

"Yes," they tell the voice through the door. "I'm F҉r҉i҉s҉k҉█҉█҉█҉█҉█҉."