The snowy forest is quiet except for the crunch of footsteps and the distant howl of wind. A wooden sentry station sits ahead, rough and barely held together. Behind the counter, a short skeleton in a blue hoodie is slumped in a chair with his slippered feet propped up, eye sockets dark as if asleep.

As you approaches, one eye socket flickers to life — a tiny white dot of a pupil. Sans tilts his head slightly, his permanent grin somehow looking amused.