Act I – The Folder
After days of returning to my narrative and messing with Kai, boredom started sitting heavily. Then Papyrus — actin' like my secretary now — rushed in with a folder clutched in his bony hands. He said a woman had dropped it off at the desk. No name, no trail, just a folder that smelled like bad news.
I cracked it open. Inside: case of a child assaulted. Suspect's name — William Johnson Jew Smith. Location: some small town in Oregon nobody writes postcards about.
I didn't say much, just closed the file and let the silence hang. Papyrus's eyes were big, waiting for me to crack a joke, but there weren't any good ones here.
"SO, SANS?" he asked, voice low but steady. "ARE YOU GONNA TAKE IT?"
I slid the file into my coat, lit a cigarette, and let the grin come slow. "Yeah, Pap. I'll take it."
The second I said it, the light overhead buzzed and flickered, like the whole room winced. Maybe faulty wires. Maybe somethin' else. In this line of work, you don't rule out somethin' else.
Papyrus fidgeted, his gloved hands clasped tight. "THIS ONE FEELS… DIFFERENT. LIKE IT'S NOT JUST A CASE. LIKE IT'S A TRAP."
I exhaled smoke into the dim office air, watching it curl like a lazy ghost. "Heh. All cases are traps, Pap. The trick's figurin' out what kind before it snaps shut."
For a moment, the office was quiet except for the buzz of the ceiling light. Then, faintly, I could swear I heard it — a child's laughter. Soft. Echoing. Not outside. Not inside. Just… in between.
My grin slipped. I tapped ash into the tray, narrowed my sockets. "Guess we're already bein' watched."
Papyrus tilted his head. "WATCHED? BY WHO?"
I didn't answer. Some questions, you don't say out loud. Not unless you want the answer knockin' on your door.
Papyrus lingered by the desk like a shadow that didn't know where to fall. His hands drummed against the wood, restless. He wasn't good at sitting still when the air got heavy.
"BROTHER…" His voice cracked slightly, though he tried to hide it with volume. "ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE THE RIGHT ONE FOR THIS? MAYBE… MAYBE WE SHOULD CALL ALPHYS. OR UNDYNE. OR SOMEONE WHO DEALS WITH… YOU KNOW. REAL PEOPLE STUFF."
I leaned back in my chair, the springs groaning under me like they knew a confession was coming. "Pap… I am real people stuff."
That didn't comfort him. He shifted, towering over me, his scarf brushing the dusty blinds. His eye sockets flickered like a fire on bad fuel. He wanted to say more, but the words stalled at his teeth.
I opened the file again. A photo slipped out — black and white, grainy, probably rushed through a copier a dozen times before it got here. A small shoe lay in the dirt. Torn. Stained. Wrong.
My grin didn't move, but I felt it — the silence behind the picture. Silence is heavier than grief.
"THE WOMAN WHO LEFT THIS," Papyrus said finally, his voice lower, "SHE DIDN'T EVEN GIVE HER NAME. SHE JUST SAID… 'HE WILL UNDERSTAND.' AND THEN SHE LEFT."
I looked up at him. "Heh. Cryptic types. Gotta love 'em."
But inside, something twisted. "He will understand." Not "he will solve." Not "he will try." Understand. Like I was already supposed to know.
I shut the file and tapped it against my knee, the weight of it rattling like chains.
The child's laughter whispered again, closer this time. Too close. Papyrus didn't flinch, which told me what I needed to know — only I could hear it.
The lights dimmed, just for a second. Long enough to catch the outline of another shadow on the wall behind me. A shadow that wasn't mine.
I didn't turn. I just muttered, "Looks like this case picked me before I picked it."
Papyrus was still pacing, his boots thudding against the floor like the clock was ticking louder with every step.
"BROTHER, IF THIS CASE IS REALLY THAT SERIOUS… WHAT IF YOU GET HURT? WHAT IF—"
"Pap." I cut him off, voice low. "I don't get hurt. Not the way you think."
He froze at that, staring at me like I'd said somethin' worse than a curse.
The lights hummed overhead, weak and sickly. The shadow on the wall still lingered behind me, stretched long and wrong, but every time I blinked, it bent into another shape. A man. A child. Something in between. I kept my grin, but my hand tightened on the folder. "Don't wait up tonight. I'll be back when the script lets me."
"WHEN THE SCRIPT…?" Papyrus tilted his head, but before he could question it, the phone on the desk rang once. Loud. Sharp. And then silence. No one reached for it.
Papyrus whispered, "BROTHER, MAYBE THIS ISN'T A CASE. MAYBE IT'S A TRAP."
I finally stood, brushing dust off my coat. "Aren't they the same thing?"
The cigarette between my teeth burned down to its last ember. I crushed it in the ashtray, grabbed my coat tighter, and walked past him.
Papyrus tried one last time, his voice shaking though he yelled in full volume: "SANS! PLEASE… JUST PROMISE ME YOU'LL COME BACK."
I didn't answer. Not with words. Just gave him the half-smile he hated — the one that didn't reach my eyes — and opened the office door.
The hallway outside was darker than it should've been, every bulb buzzing like it wanted to scream but couldn't.
That's when I heard it again — that child's laughter, floating right above my shoulder. This time it wasn't playful. It was sharp. Intentional.
I exhaled slowly. "Guess we're goin' to Oregon, huh?"
And the shadow on the wall followed me out.