For one long second, the only sound is the hum of the stage lights. Then Mettaton’s eyelights flicker. His arms lower.
The crowd roars. They’re not real, you realize—holograms, maybe, or recordings from a hundred past shows. But the pressure is real. The floor beneath you hums with electricity.
Mettaton hesitates. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? FIGHT BACK! THAT’S THE SCRIPT!”
And somewhere in the Underground, the lights stay on a little longer, and the applause never truly fades.
