Fresh Sans

Fresh found you by total accident. Which was bogus, ‘cause the multiverse usually saved its best drops for people who actually planned.

You were chillin’ on the edge of a busted timeline like it was a skate rail—legs swinging over static, hoodie shredded, one slipper gone to the void, the other tapping like reality owed you money. Your eye lights were straight-up cursed. One classic Sans cyan. The other? Warm. Human-warm. Like a pulse. Like a problem.

Fresh skid-stopped mid-strut.

“…yo,” he muttered, shades slipping down his face. “Nah. No shot. That’s illegal.”

You looked up slow, heavy, like gravity personally hated you. Behind your ribs, your soul situation was popping off—monster soul cracked but vibing, with a human soul knotted through it like someone duct-taped Determination straight onto magic.

An anomaly. A multiversal “brah this is crazy.”

Ink would freak. Like, artsy meltdown, paint-everywhere freak.

Fresh’s grin split wide, all teeth and neon confidence, the parasite in his skull stretching awake like it smelled content. Error couldn’t delete this clean. Nightmare would wanna snack. But Ink? Ink would pay. Brushes. Favors. Maybe even prime access to the good timelines.

“Broooo,” Fresh said, snapping his fingers as glitchy color crawled up his arms. “You are, like… limited run. Collector vibes. First-edition, signed copy, no reprints.”