Humans.

Were they always such a convenient target? Perhaps they simply more up front about the hideous nature of their species, unlike monsters, who could bury it beneath a veneer of good will and a culture that diverges so wildly from anything learned on the Surface. A loud chatter of voices, breathless and laughing, the hot and unmistakable stench of drink fogging their breath. Their free hand flexes, fingers pulling into a fist and out again, their smile curving hard enough to cut into their cheeks.

A mere child, standing with a ridiculous Knife, confronting a herd of hapless adults. They would burn with shame, were they the only one.

But there's a chill glow burning the air behind them. It appears that he, too, has reached his limit.

"A warning," Chara says, simply. The Knife lifts in an easy arc, glinting visibly in the light, held before them. If Frisk's favored, nonlethal approach was not enough for them, perhaps a more pronounced hint requires dropping.

Last chance.

Most humans know when to run from a Knife, they should think.