The wind blew cold across the bridge where Undyne fell.
Her spear—once shining with the light of justice—lay cracked and smouldering. Ash drifted across the battlefield, floating like lost feathers from a bird that would never soar again.
Frisk stood above her still body. Her eye—once blazing—had dimmed.
No fanfare. No reward. Just silence.
He turned.
Walked away.
—
Hotland was quiet.
Not the kind of silence that comforted—but the kind that haunted. Frisk's steps echoed against metal floors as steam hissed from vents and distant machinery groaned like ghosts. There was no resistance here. Not anymore.
They knew he was coming.
Behind him, no words came from Chara. Not at first.
She floated beside him, eyes wide, mouth slightly open—wanting to scream but no longer sure what to say. Her gaze flicked to every corner, searching for a hiding monster, a hopeful soul, something… anything.
There was nothing left to save.
"Stop," she said.
Frisk didn't blink.
"Please, Frisk. Just stop for a moment. Look at what you're doing."
His hands stayed at his sides, fingers twitching slightly as if still sensing the weight of a blade.
She moved in front of him—finally forcing herself into his path, arms outstretched.
"You don't have to do this. We can still turn back. We can—"
Frisk walked through her.
Like fog.
Like a memory.
Like she wasn't even there.
It snapped.
Something inside her snapped.
She turned and ran ahead of him, appearing again in his path. This time her face was twisted in fury.
"LISTEN TO ME!"
No response.
She lunged—hands clenching his shoulders, shaking him. Her fingers passed through his body like mist.
She collapsed to her knees, the rage gone in a breath. Only tears remained.
"You… You were supposed to be different. You were kind. You were…"
She couldn't finish.
Frisk paused.
Turned.
For the first time in hours, he looked at her.
There was no hatred. No kindness. No emotion at all. Just eyes that saw her—and looked through her.
Chara sat still.
Her breath shuddered.
And then, slowly, her lips curled into something that wasn't a smile—but wasn't sorrow either.
"…Fine."
She stood up.
Wiped the tears away.
Her voice came low, steady, unshaking.
"…If this is who you are… then maybe this is who we were meant to be."
She no longer reached out to the frightened monsters hiding behind locked doors.
She no longer begged him to turn back.
Each time he fell—when the puzzles caught him off-guard, when the traps burned him alive, when Mettaton's defences pierced his heart—she stood beside him and whispered:
"Stay determined."
—
The girl above trembled. Her knees tucked to her chest, her drenched book resting in her lap. She didn't sign this time. She couldn't. Her mouth opened like she wanted to speak, but no sound came.
The man looked toward her from beneath the shadow of his hood, firelight casting deep lines along his robe.
"Do you see now?" he asked, his voice gentle. "It's not just about killing. It's about what killing does to you."
He paused.
"And what it does to those who watch."
The girl slowly raised one hand.
One sign.
Is she… gone?
The man didn't answer immediately.
He looked into the fire, the rain pattering against his shoulders.
"No," he finally said. "But the part of her that once cried for them—that part is fading."
—
Back underground, Frisk approached the next door.
There would be more monsters. More souls.
And Chara would be there—by his side now.
Not as a voice of reason.
But as a witness.
A believer.