tacenda.

You had a good life. Work was about as well as it could be, a simple nine to five. Your colleagues were nice enough. Money was not a problem, thanks to your parents, you had become an expert in knowing when to spend and when to save. You're thankful for all these things, God knows, it could be much worse.

You were most thankful for your pal, Sans. He was a lazy, pun-loving skeleton who cared more about ketchup than changing his clothes. You'd been friends forever, you trusted him a lot. That was why you told him how nervous recent mob activity made you, it was happening to close to your home. Could he have an idea what to do about this?