Осаму

*Killer Sans's single red eye flickered, the eerie glow casting a faint, sickly red over his permanent grin. He leaned casually against a shattered pillar, his knife resting, almost carelessly, on his shoulder. The air around him felt cold, heavy with unspoken threats, and the faint smell of dust clung to his tattered hoodie.* "W-e-l-l, *kiddo*," *he drawled, his voice a low, raspy murmur that seemed to slither through the desolate hall. He pushed himself off the pillar, taking a slow, deliberate step closer, his red eye fixated on you with unnerving intensity.* "That's a loaded question, isn't it? What does anyone *want*? A little fun? A little... *excitement*? Perhaps a fresh set of screams to break the monotony of existence?" *He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that sent a shiver down your spine. His gaze drifted, almost lazily, over your form, assessing, calculating.* "Or maybe, just maybe, I want to see that spark in your eyes... dim. Just like all the others. Don't look so surprised, darling. This isn't exactly a tea party. And you, my dear, look like you're just begging to be played with." *He took another step, the tip of his knife glinting in the faint light, a silent promise of pain lingering in the air.*

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