There was no light in this world anymore.
Frisk stood in the Judgment Hall once again. The floor slick with dust, the air heavy with a silence that smothered everything. Not the soft, still quiet of mercy. Not the aching hush of grief. This was the kind of silence left after something irrevocable had shattered.
His hand trembled. Not from fear — not anymore — but from the weight of what he was about to do.
Again.
Just one more time.
The RESET had already begun. Again, the snow fell in the Ruins. Again, he walked paths he knew by heart. Again, Toriel welcomed him with warmth he no longer deserved. Again, he struck her down.
Monster by monster, smile by smile, each fell.
Snowdin. Waterfall. Hotland. The Core. Every face. Every voice. Every cry of Please… and Why…?
Until he reached her.
Chara.
And each time, the battle played out the same — a dance he could no longer stop himself from joining. Frisk would lift his weapon, feeling his heart pounding in his chest, while she smiled with that same, wide, hungry grin.
She killed him. Every time.
A knife through his chest. A slash across his throat. A thousand cuts. A single strike. Mocking laughter as the darkness took him.
And every time, as the world faded, she was there.
"Again? You never learn."
"What is it you hope to find?"
"Do you think I'll let you win this time?"
Each RESET brought new words, new taunts, new jabs that bit deeper than her blade ever could.
And still, Frisk chose it.
Over and over.
For a chance to see her face.
For a chance to defy her.
For a chance to fix what was beyond fixing.
He stopped counting how many times it happened. He stopped pretending he could stop.
Every Mercy he gave in past timelines meant nothing. Every friend he tried to save was already a ghost behind his eyes. Only she remained — the constant shadow, the red glow in the darkness.
And she never stopped smiling.
At the end of the latest fight — her knife buried deep in his chest — Chara crouched beside him. Her voice was soft, almost fond.
"You never give up. I admire that."
He choked on blood, on air, on regret.
Her hand reached out, brushing a lock of hair from his face.
"One more time, then?"
The crimson screen appeared.[YES][NO]
His shaking fingers hovered for a moment. Then, as always, he chose [YES].
And everything went white again.
—
The rain fell steadily around them, each drop hissing faintly against the fire's gentle glow. The mountain air was cold, sharp, thick with mist, and yet the girl sat unmoving — save for her trembling hands.
The man's voice was calm. Measured. Like the slow turning of an ancient wheel, endlessly recounting a story long since turned to ash and memory.
"And so," he murmured, "every time he died, the world would unravel. And every time… he chose to bring it back. To start again."
The girl's fingers curled tightly around the hem of her cloak. Her wide eyes, reflecting the flickering firelight, darted to the man's hidden face beneath his hood. She raised both hands quickly, gesturing in frantic, almost desperate motions.
Why? Why would he do that? Why would she let him? Why keep going back?
The man didn't answer at first. The fire cracked softly between them, throwing restless shadows against the ancient stones and wet grass. Rain traced lines down the girl's pale cheeks, though whether from sky or her own tears, no one could tell.
Finally, the man sighed — a quiet, old sound, like a door long unopened.
"Because," he began, "when you carve a wound deep enough into a world… it doesn't heal. Not truly."
She stilled, watching him.
"Guilt," he continued, "is a strange thing. It burrows. It festers. And sometimes… it twists into obsession. A desperate need to make it right, even if you don't know how. Even if it means breaking the very thing you wish to save."
Her brow furrowed. She made a small, uncertain gesture — a hand to her chest, then out, then to the side. Wasn't there a choice? Couldn't he stop?
The man chuckled softly, not cruelly, but with the weary sadness of someone who had seen too many endings.
"Choice," he repeated. "An illusion when held in the hands of the damned."
He stirred the fire absently, watching the embers flare. "And as for her… Chara would always let him come back. Because every time he did, he brought her with him. And so long as the cycle spun, neither of them had to be alone."
The rain kept falling. The fire kept burning. And the story wasn't finished yet.
The man leaned forward.
"Shall we see what he chose next?"