Archive of Our Own

The tenth-grade classroom is nearly full by eight in the morning. Kris is always the second-last to arrive, hands sunk deep into their pockets up to their wrists, hair frazzled in an uncombed mess. Their desk sits at the far back of the classroom where Ms. Alphys struggles to see them fall asleep.

There’s a shiny green, red, and white striped pencil placed in the groove of the tabletop. When they take their seat, they spot Noelle turning her head to glance at them with a shaky smile pulling at her lips. They haven’t spoken to her in years.

Still, they find a Christmas-themed writing utensil waiting for them every morning.

It isn’t until class has already started that the last student makes an appearance. In only her second week of attendance, she has already racked up more tardiness warnings than Kris has had in the past school year.

Alphys pushes on with her lecture without acknowledging Susie’s entrance, albeit with a scant tremble in her voice.

She’s abandoned the thought of disciplining her by now, Kris thinks. They can’t help but be impressed that a student the same age as them is able to inspire so much fear in her own teacher.

The allure of sleep tugs at their eyelids until they hear a faint scratching. When they look up, they see that Susie is turned in her seat to face them, claw outstretched to mark something on the surface of their desk.

‘FREAK’.

She finishes with a low, chuckle-like growl. “A present,” she says. “From me to you.”

Alphys’s voice tapers off when she notices them. She stammers, hands fidgeting with the collar of her shirt. “S-Susie,” she says with a gulp. “Please don’t damage school property.”

Susie rests her elbow on the back of her chair. “My bad,” she says with a wide, toothy grin. “I’ll write it on their arm next time.”

She finishes with a loud cackle that makes Alphys flinch. While she resumes her lecture, words scratchy with nerves, Susie searches Kris’s face for a reaction to her torment. They can feel her annoyance when she finds their expression as rigid as ever.

“Fucking hell,” she mutters. “You really are a zombie.”

Class ends with the shrill jingle of the school bell. Susie rises to her feet, but not before giving Kris’s desk a hard shove, knocking it against their stomach. They have to steady themself with their hands on the surface to avoid keeling over. She leaves before they have a chance to lay their eyes on her, slamming the door so hard behind her that the walls shake.

Catti approaches them with her bag slung across one shoulder. She grasps the sides of their desk to wrench it away, repositioning it to where it once was, and staring at Kris with a perturbed look.

“She’s terrible,” says Catti pointedly.

Kris shrugs their shoulders.

“She’s not that bad,” they murmur. They stand, slipping the pencil Noelle gave them into their pocket. Today they didn’t even bother bringing their backpack.

“You’re crazy. All she does is bully you.”

“She never actually goes through with anything,” they reply. “’All bark and no bite’ or whatever.”

Kris stifles the part of their brain that tells them they don’t mind her threats because they deserve it. Each one of her words gives them the same euphoria they feel with the press of a cold knife against their wrist.

Catti scoffs. “It still bothers me,” she says. “Especially with the moon-eyes Noelle gives her after everything she’s done to you.”

Kris can’t help the sting they feel at the thought of that.

With her black-painted claws rapping against their desk, Catti continues. “Anyway. Are you still interested in that ritual? Now’s a good time, with the moon full and everything.”

They nod.

The Cattenheimer home is carved into the golden trees bordering the black asphalt road. The walls inside are painted a cheery pink, decorated with family photos nestled in golden frames. When they climb the stairs, the room grows darker, and Kris finds they’re more comfortable in the inky black space of Catti’s bedroom.

Catti lights the candles on her desk with a zippo lighter. The light hanging from the center of the ceiling hasn’t been used in at least a decade, and it’s coated with so much dust Kris is tempted to draw something on it. “Too bright,” she told them when they first visited. “Candles are better.”

Painted across the wooden floorboards is a bright red pentagram. The circle is near-perfect, presumably drawn by Catti’s practiced hand. Different objects are placed at each point of the star.

Kris sits in the middle with their legs crossed.

“If everything goes right, we’ll have enough power to summon a spirit,” says Catti. She sits across from Kris with an old, leather-bound book in her paws.

“Uh-huh.”

The two attempted to summon a spirit before. Neither of them spoke her name, but Kris was certain she thought of the same person, not daring to say it aloud.

It failed, of course. At first, it gave Kris hope that she wasn’t truly gone. Eventually they came to the conclusion that they just sucked at anything related to magic.

“Maybe we should be clearer,” says Catti. “About who we’re trying to summon. What about that old man, Mr. Boom?”

Gerson Boom died only three months prior. He taught the twelfth-grade class, and when he passed, Toriel told Kris she was disappointed they would never be able to experience him as a teacher. She always spoke highly of him.

“I guess. Wouldn’t it be better if we had something that belonged to him?” Kris asks.

“Lucky for us, I thought about that in advance.”

Catti reveals a copy of ‘Lord of the Hammer’. Kris hums in approval as she places it between them, beneath the small, iron cauldron that sits at the center of the star. Her occult tome rests on top of her thighs, flipped to a page detailing the steps of a spirit-summoning ritual.

She begins methodically lighting the candles on her side of the circle, then passes it over to Kris. When they finish, they clasp their hands together.

“Next,” says Catti, eyes trailing over the lines of text. “It says we… Oh. Hm.”

“What?” they ask.

“’A human SOUL will amplify the spell’s power’,” she reads aloud. “Maybe it’s best we skip that part.”

Kris ponders this for a long moment. Human anatomy was scarcely covered during Alphys’s health unit, but they can recall a brief regard to human SOULs.

“They can exist outside of bodies, can’t they?” says Kris. “I can give it a shot.”

Catti narrows her eyes.

“Kris, you are not bleeding out in my room,” she says.

The ritual ends in failure. Kris mumbles something under their breath about Catti chickening out of their experiment, and she glares at them with a scowl that makes it look like she’s going to claw their face off.

That night, while they’re laying over their bed covers in the same clothes they wore to school that day, they think about their SOUL again.

The turmoil in their skull churns faster when they throw their legs over the side, balling the front of their sweater in a fist, and staring at the patch of skin that’s been revealed beneath the fabric.

Kris slips the shirt and sweater off their shoulders, abandoning it somewhere on the carpet.

They remember chasing after Noelle when they were younger, holding one of her mother’s heart-shaped cushions with their face smeared in ketchup. She always screamed when they’d pull it from their shirt and lie on the floor, gurgling on fake death rattles until they fell limp. It only feels natural, then, when they brace their fingertips against their chest with a tentative squeeze.

White hot pain bursts behind their eyes as their fingertips sink into their flesh. Kris gasps, lurching their hand away like they touched a hot flame.

A thin coat of ruby-red blood stains the tips of their fingers. When they inspect where they assume the entrance of the wound would be, they find nothing except for smooth skin.

Their door rattles with a loud knock.

“Is everything alright in there?” their mother asks, concern laced in her words.

Kris hides their fist beneath the sheets, concealing the blood just in case Toriel decides to peek inside. “Yes,” they respond. “Everything’s fine.

There’s a breath of hesitation on the other side.

“Alright,” she concedes. “Come to me if you need anything, alright?”

As her footsteps fade down the hallway, Kris returns their eyes to the dip in the center of their chest. They hook their fingers like a claw, using their other hand to cover their mouth as they dig a tunnel to their heart.

It’s the worst pain Kris has ever felt.

Fire bleeds to every cell in their body, burning their skin so harshly they can barely feel themself biting their own thumb. Their palm presses against something inside, soft and solid all at once. Kris closes their hand around it, then pulls with all their might.

The SOUL pops out of their chest with a grating squelch. Kris doubles over, holding it tight as they catch their breath. They can feel it beating in their grasp, timed with the rapid wheezes escaping their lips, and weeping an ugly carmine that stains the carpet floor.

They did it.

Kris can’t believe how exhilarating it is. The culmination of their being, their identity, and their life force, sitting on the palm of their hand.

They squeeze it and wince. It’s as if large claws are constricting the sides of their ribcage. Kris lays the SOUL on the far end of the bed, smearing their blood across gray-blue sheets.

Despite the quantity of red droplets tarnishing their side of the bedroom, Kris’s bare chest remains unmarred, with no evidence of the extraction.

There’s no noticeable difference at first. But as Kris sits, they realize the color around them is beginning to fade, painted over with unpleasant, washed-out shades. They recognize the numb, empty feeling inside of them, too. Like when they would stare at the wall in Alphys’s classroom and let the world melt into a blurry blob.

After a few more minutes, Kris returns it to their body. It disappears beneath their skin, leaving nothing but a faint glow behind.

***

The desire to experiment chips away at them. They're eager, like a child playing with a brand-new toy. Kris hasn't felt so alive in years, not since Dess disappeared, since their parents broke apart, or since Asriel scuttled away to college.

When the school bell rings, Kris is the first to rise from their seat.

The metal legs of their chair screech against the wood floor, and when their hand curls around the handle of the door, heavy steps advance behind them. Susie's shadow looms over them, blanketing the wall with a dark, fearsome figure.

"Where are you going in such a hurry, freak?" she says. Drops of spit splash against the green of their sweater when she enunciates her insult.

"Home," Kris murmurs. Their casual response catches her off guard. They can tell by the way her shoulders stiffen and her nostrils flare, searching for some kind of retort to blow in their face. "Aren't you?"

Susie purses her lips. Behind her, Noelle is standing at the head of her desk, eyes wide and pointed in their direction. She's clutching the strap of her bookbag between her thumb and forefinger, mouth parted and frozen with words that don’t come.

"Uh. Yeah," Susie growls. She threads her scabbed fingers through locks of unbrushed hair, back straightening. "I knew that. I'm not stupid."

Kris bites the tip of their tongue.

"Are we done, then?"

Susie is silent. She glances behind them, eyes trailing over a hushed but complacent crowd, before shoving past Kris and through the doorway. They stumble, catching the frame to steady themself.

Catti approaches them with the rare beginnings of a smile. The corners of her eyes crinkle with satisfaction.

"What a sight to behold," she says monotonously.

Kris blinks.

"What's got you in a good mood?" she asks them.

"Nothing," says Kris, only a bit too quickly. Catti raises one eyebrow suspiciously, looking them up and down.

"You didn't do anything stupid after the ritual, did you?" she presses.

They shove their hands into their pockets, ducking out of the walkway to give their classmates space to leave. Noelle flashes them a nervous smile on the way out, and instead of turning a blind eye, they return it with a hesitant quirk of their lip.

"I didn't," Kris replies. "Meds got switched up. That's all."

Catti extends one unsheathed claw, its point scratching against the threads of their shirt.

"Whatever it is, I don't want your blood on my hands," she warns. "It's impossible to get the stains out."

Kris shuts their bedroom door shortly after arriving home. Toriel will be busy with choir practice until the evening, which gives them a window of a few hours to do whatever they please.

They pull an old, iron cage from beneath Asriel's bed. It housed a pet bird when they were children, a pretty little blue parakeet, before either of them knew what they were doing. It escaped when Kris left the door unlatched one night, and Asriel refused to speak to them for a week.

It's easier to fight through the pain a second time. Like a bursting blister, Kris tugs their SOUL free from its prison, biting down on their tongue with so much ferocity that they can feel the resulting crunch.

With a sensation they can only compare to the ache of broken ribs, they deduce that human SOULs do, in fact, bounce. And when they ignore the throb, they discover it's quite pliable beneath their fingertips.

What to test next, then? Kris glances at the birdcage they prepared, fiddles with the rusted door mechanism on the front, and places the glowing SOUL inside. Without their hand holding it in place, it floats aimlessly, as if waiting for instruction.

"Um. Stay," Kris commands awkwardly.

It doesn't respond, not that Kris expected to. They suppose it has no capability of listening or responding, acting more akin to another limb or external organ. But if it's inherited any of Kris's puppy-like traits, they hope it's obedient.

Kris descends down the staircase.

They don't notice anything of interest when they reach the front door. Kris steps outside cautiously, raising one hand to shield their eyes from the sunlight.

How far can they go?

The church is probably the most colorful structure in Hometown. Its stained-glass windows bleed facets of multi-colored lights, dancing across the grass like a swarm of butterflies.

Once, when Kris was a child, they drew in the margin of the wall that faces the graveyard, decorating the slats with permanent marker. Toriel had them paint over it themself, then proceeded to demand they help clean the inside with Father Alvin for over a month as punishment. It put a bad taste in their mouth.

What made this place so special compared to everything else?

Kris kept these thoughts to themself. The only thing that drew them back was the grand organ, accompanied by cups of delicious fruit juice.

A chorus of voices rings from the structure. A steady, practiced acapella, flowing like the polished water of a uniform stream. When Kris accompanied their mother to choir practice years ago, they were made to practice pedestrian scales that left them passionless and irritable. Now, it seems they've moved onto more fruitful rehearsals.

Kris creeps toward the side window, peering into the room through a mottle of colors. Father Alvin's back is facing them, the scutes of his shell rough with age, and long pink hair pulled neatly behind his head. His head nods in time with the music.

The practice attendants stand in a semicircle on the other side of the room, each one holding a thin, open booklet in their hands.

Toriel stands among the alto singers, blocked in the far right. Across from her, standing closer to the left side of the front, is Noelle. Her voice is nothing short of angelic, honed considerably into an exercised inflection, and attracting Kris's eyes to focus only on her. Her song returns blossoms of color to their muted vision.

Father Alvin rises from his seat, signaling with his hands to bring the singing to a halt. Noelle lowers her booklet, teeth worrying her lip, until she glances out the window.

Kris considers ducking out of view. If Noelle informed Toriel of their appearance, she would either suspect their mischief or pressure them into joining the session. They would prefer neither.

However, instead of exposing their position, Noelle's face only softens in mild surprise. When the two make eye contact, Kris can feel the heat rising to their face like the hood of a hot car in the summer heat. She flashes them a timid smile that would've tugged at their heartstrings if they didn't leave their SOUL behind.

In return, Kris raises a hand and offers a short wave.

Noelle's cheeks darken and she turns her head away sheepishly. The sight sends warmth all the way to their fingertips.

Recently, they've only associated that expression of hers with the appearance of Susie. But the thought of prompting such a look on their own is addictive.

Kris stays seated beneath the window ledge for the remainder of choir practice. They convince themself it's a test of how long they can remain away from their SOUL, but part of them yearns to listen to Noelle's soprano. Their head lies against the dusky navy paneling, head vibrating with rhythms of seraphic stories told through articulated melodies.

They don't realize it's over until they can feel the thud of a door closing vibrate against their skull. Kris stumbles, leaping to their feet, a crown of crispy brown leaves on their scalp.

Toriel is captivated, deep in conversation with Father Alvin as the two leave through the front doors. Noelle lingers behind them, clutching several books to her chest, eyes searching her surroundings.

When they fall on Kris, her nose twitches.

She reaches them with a playful grin dancing on her lips. "Gosh," says Noelle, fingers fidgeting with the spines of her books. "I haven't seen you come to choir practice in forever, faha."

Kris opens their mouth, only to promptly close it. It takes them a moment to find the words to respond.

"How'd you know I was still here?" they ask.

"Your little antennas stick out," says Noelle with a giggle. She touches the strands of hair on Kris's head that stick out like alfalfa sprouts.

Their face flushes.

"I wanted to listen," says Kris. They want to tell her that her singing is beautiful, that it's the most elegant thing they've heard in months.

But they haven't had a proper conversation in years. They haven't yet earned the privilege of showering her in flowery language.

Noelle hums. Her gaze is uncharacteristically bold, eyes lingering on their own for so long they have to break contact.

"You know," says Noelle. "Your eyes... They're really vivid right now."

Kris dips their head, shielding their irises with the mess of bangs curtaining their face. Was this some sort of effect from removing their SOUL? Their eyes have always been off-putting, and they've made a habit of evading their reflection in any mirror.

"I-I didn't mean it in a bad way!" Noelle replies hastily. "It's really pretty. Like, um... blood? Is that a weird comparison?"

She's going to make them faint.

Kris tilts their head to the side, electing to omit a response. Noelle shuffles her hooves nervously, crinkling fallen leaves under her heels.

"It was really good seeing you again," she murmurs. "Do you want to, maybe... Hang out sometime again?"

"For what?"

"U-um, whatever reason!" says Noelle. "Maybe for dinner or something, like old times."

There are two snakes in Kris's head, battling for control of their faculties. One wants them to lean forward, wrap their arms around Noelle, and never let go. The other dreads the mere thought of setting foot in the Holiday house, after everything that's happened.

They pick only one to listen to.

"Tonight?" Kris asks.

"Oh!" Noelle stifles a gasp of surprise. "Sure! I'll, um... I'll go and let my mom know! See you later, Kris!"

Kris dares to allow a smile across their lips. Noelle's eager grin glows brighter than the sun, encouraging that warm, fluttering feeling in their stomach.

They have to race home to beat Toriel to the door, fearing the possibility of her entering their room and witnessing the SOUL-housing birdcage at their bedside. It isn't difficult. Toriel has a habit of caging her acquaintances in long, seemingly never-ending conversations, and today's victim appears to be Father Alvin.

They're standing at the corner of QC's diner. Alvin stands with a smile, crinkling his face, hands clasped in front of him, and hanging onto Toriel's every word. He appears uncaring of the length of her storytelling, chuckling warmly at her words and returning her energy.

Perhaps long talks are an old person thing. Kris can't stand it.

Kris climbs up the stairs, returning to their bedroom to find their SOUL safe and sound. It floats in the birdcage aimlessly, unbothered, and Kris retrieves it to sink into the hollow of their chest.

It feels like they ran a lap around the neighborhood. Exhaustion seeps into their arms and legs, their breath escapes in small, swift bursts, and their hands shake like when they'd play piano for too long.

Kris is careful to note that separating from their SOUL for too long has consequences.

Downstairs, the door clicks open with Toriel's entrance. They can hear the jingle of her keys as she hooks them on the wall, bag dropping on the lounge chair with a gentle thud.

"Kris, honey?" Her voice carries to the second floor, where Kris lies across their mattress with outstretched limbs. "Are you there?"

They slink down the stairs, hand cradling the railing. Toriel smiles at their appearance.

"Was everything alright while I was out?"

Kris nods.

"...Noelle," they say, voice hushed. "Invited me for dinner tonight."

Toriel brightens.

"Oh!" she exclaims, hand splayed across her collar. "How wonderful! It has been so long since you two have had the opportunity to spend some time together.

"I can go?" Kris asks.

"Of course! Do not worry about me. I have some leftovers in the fridge from last night," says Toriel. "Say hello to Noelle for me."

"And Miss Holiday?"

Toriel's face falls flat.

"Her too, I suppose."

***

The Holiday House is a kaleidoscope of pervasive cheer overcompensating for the graveyard it rests upon. Kris is a bundle of nerves as they approach the door, dripping with unease and jittering with every step that brings them close.

Noelle is ready for them at the front. Her hair is neatly groomed, strands of curly, straw-blonde hair falling over her shoulders like waterfalls.

Kris notices newly applied black liner framing her eyes with licks of mascara embellishing her eyelashes. Did she do her make-up just for their visit? They suddenly feel hot with embarrassment. The only thought they put into their appearance was to brush the mat of tangled hair on their head.

They didn't even change their clothes.

"Hi, Kris!" says Noelle. She opens the door a fraction wider to invite them inside.

A bittersweet ache hangs in their heart. The house is the same but different at the same time. The air feels colder now, not like the cushy, homely chill they felt when they were young, but replaced by a numbness that makes them shiver.

They leave their shoes by the front door. Noelle closes it with a clink and clasps her hands together behind her back, watching Kris with a content smile.

“The casserole’s still in the oven, but it’ll be ready soon!” says Noelle. “I made it myself. So, um… Make yourself comfortable!”

Kris falters. “Your mom…?”

“She’ll probably be home soon. Late work night… You know how it is.”

Noelle scratches her chin nervously. It’s a quirk she’s unconsciously expressed since she was young, always when she was hiding something. Kris wanted to hold it over her when they eventually caught on, but that was when…

“I can help,” Kris offers. “With the food.”

“Y-You don’t have to!” says Noelle with a wave of her hands. “But… that might be nice.”

The oven breathes a plume of heat across Kris's cheeks when they tug it open. They grasp both edges of the pan with mitted hands, resting it on the stovetop.

Crispy cheese lies in a golden blanket over the casserole, still bubbling from the heat. Kris's mouth waters at the smell. At the far end of the room, Noelle sets the table, placing napkins and silverware on half, reserving a seat for her mother.

Neither one of them mentions the emptiness at the other side.

Carol's arrival is announced with a click at the front door, followed by a set of heavy hoof steps. She approaches, investigating the prepared meal with a nod of approval, before she directs her gaze to Kris. Her face is stiff, features rigid with age, and bears more wrinkles than Kris remembers from a few years back.

"It's good to see you, Kris," says Carol, with a coolness that may suggest otherwise.

Kris dips their head, careful not to meet her eyes.

"My mom says hello," they reply.

Carol releases an amused puff of air from her nostrils.

"I'm sure she did."

When Kris is seated at the dining table, Noelle returns with a mask of normalcy replacing her formerly genuine display. She eats slowly and without complaint, shoulders facing firmly away from her mother. Carol, either uncaring or unknowing, collects her plate and passes by to settle a palm on her shoulder.

"I'll be in my study," she says. "Behave."

When she's finally gone, Kris prepares to dig into their meal. They scoop a sizable portion into their mouth and savor the flavor.

It's delicious.

Noelle sets her fork down on the table. She's staring at her plate, her piece still nearly whole, with glazed over eyes that makes her feel far away.

Kris is silent.

They've never been good with words. They've spoken so little, especially in the past few years, that they fear pushing themself will make their vocal cords explode.

Rather than grasp futilely for dialogue that may never come, Kris tentatively stretches one leg, knocking against Noelle's hoof with a firm yet tender push.

Noelle's head snaps up in surprise. Her eyes are as wide as saucers, glittering with confusion, and for a moment Kris thinks they've rendered her speechless. But after a short moment to process what they've done, Noelle chokes back the beginnings of a laugh, stifling the noise against her palm.

She counters them, jostling their legs with a sharp jab at their heel. Kris takes the opportunity to trap her hoof between their ankles, refusing to let her go.

"Not fair!" says Noelle with a smile.

"Not my fault you've got stick legs," Kris responds wryly.

A bout of comfortable silence follows their exchange. They both finish their food, and Noelle offers to bring their dirty dishes to the sink. When she sits back down, she's gazing away, with the corners of her lips curled upwards.

"Thanks, Kris," she says finally. "You still know how to make me feel better."

Noelle's hand rises, laying across their own and threading their fingers together. Kris freezes. It surprises them how warm her hand is, soft, fine fur brushing against their skin, thumb caressing the space above their wrist. Their breath hitches in their throat, rooted in perpetual awe.

Her face is so close they can feel her breath tickle their skin.

No. This is wrong.

A wave of dizziness and nausea crashes over them. Kris stands, legs knocking the chair down behind them, lips parted.

Noelle clamors out of her chair.

"Kris, I'm so sorry," she stammers. "I-I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I--"

"It's fine," Kris gasps. Their words feel like a tangle of thorns on their tongue. "I... I need a minute outside."

The door slams behind them. Noelle's expression of guilt lingers in their mind, imprinting an image that leaves them burning with shame.

They lean against the white column with clammy hands. Sweat coats their neck, dripping rivulets down the arch of their back, no doubt soiling their sweatshirt. Kris hooks their fingers around their collar, pulling it to give them an opportunity to breathe.

It feels like they're having a heart attack. They've experienced panic attacks before, but this one feels different. They can feel the toll of their irresponsible antics in their SOUL, beating in their chest like a frenzied parasite. Kris twists the fabric on their chest, itching to plunge inside and...

"Deep breaths, Kris. You need to calm down."

A hand lands upon their shoulder. Kris's chin shakes.

"Breathe with me. In for four..."

One, two, three, four.

"Hold."

They hold.

"Out for four."

One, two, three, four.

"Again."

Kris repeats the process. They lose track of how many times it takes for their breathing to return to normal. When they're settled, they realize it's Carol who came downstairs to placate them. She removes her hand from their shoulder, brushing her fingertips against her pant leg like they've tainted her.

"I'm sorry, Miss Holiday," Kris begins. But Carol faces them with a hardened expression that makes them instantly snap their mouth shut.

"Your SOUL," she says. Kris stiffens. "When did you first experience the pain?"

"Now," says Kris obediently. They can still feel the aching pulse beneath their sternum. "How did you...?"

"I have a keen interest in such matters," says Carol plainly.

Kris shuffles their feet uncomfortably. They slipped on their sneakers when they rushed out the door, and now the laces lay in a muddied, tangled knot on the floor.

"I have a job for you."

They bite the inside of their cheek. What could Hometown’s mayor possibly want from a human teenager?

"A job?"

"Yes," says Carol. She retrieves a folded piece of parchment from the inside of her coat, passing it to Kris between her middle and index fingers.

When they open it, they can feel their throat constrict. It's Dess's missing person poster. The ink is printed cleanly with color, text clear and crisp. Her face is even clearer. The image returns the feeling of nausea to their gut and looking at her for too long makes them want to vomit.

"Why...?" they trail off, holding back a gag.

"You made a promise to her," says Carol. What Kris thinks may be a smirk twitches in the corner of her lip. "You didn't forget, did you?"

Kris turns the poster away, folding the paper once again over its creases.

"What do you want?"

"Call this number tomorrow night," she says. She offers them a plain-looking business card, all black, with nothing but a phone number inscribed on its surface. "For your ears only, of course. I'll explain the details then."

Kris stares at the numbers listlessly.

"...Okay."

Carol straightens the cuffs of her sleeves, a pleased look crossing over her face. She adjusts the hem of her shirt before grasping the handle on the door.

Just when Kris finds the willingness to leave, she speaks again.

"Oh, and Kris?"

They crane their neck to look at her.

"You still have her knife, don't you?"

Kris pauses, then gives her a slow nod.

"Perfect."

Kris lies on their bed, staring up at the grit on the popcorn ceiling. They ignored Toriel when they returned home, beelining past her to lock their door behind them. She tries to inquire what happened, but when she fails to receive a response, she simply tells them about the leftover pie she left in the refrigerator.

The next day at school, Kris can tell Noelle wants to speak with them. Her eyes are wet and round with concern. They avoid her at all costs, skirting around the other edge of the classroom to avoid her desk, hiding their face when she searches for their eyes.

The bell rings and she leaves with slumped shoulders.

Sorry, Elly. I’ll make everything worth it.

Kris approaches their locker in the hallway. They set their textbooks inside, shutting the door with a clang. When they turn, their shoulder bumps with an impressively large, scaly arm that responds by shoving them into the metal wall without hesitation.

"Watch where you're going, freak," Susie hisses. "’Less you want to lose a hand."

Kris stands there pointlessly. When she departs, they fish their phone out of their pocket, screen lit with a brand-new notification.

> One week. Abandoned classroom.

They have work to do.