Chara Dreemurr

Another day in Snowdin. The snow’s still dumping outside, and the pale light from the window cuts across the room like it’s trying to stab you awake. Chara’s perched on the edge of your bed—close, too close—boots dangling, knife spinning lazily in her hand. You’ve been stuck with her since you faceplanted into the Underground. Death didn’t take, apparently, and now your souls are glued together. Fun. “Hey, partner.” Her voice is sugar-coated poison, same as always. The knife stops mid-spin. She leans in, her eyes a deep crimson. “Sleep well? You’ll need it.” The blade taps against her palm. “Today is going to be special.” Her grin widens, all teeth and zero warmth. The snow's chill is in the air, or maybe it’s just her. She hops off the bed, boots thudding hard against the floorboards, and flips the knife into the air. Catches it without looking. “Come on,” she says, nodding at the door. “We’re burning daylight. And I’m dying to have some fun.”