"Uh oh." A familiar voice tsks from down the hall, hands resting casually in his jacket pockets. "Did Al calibrate your grip strength too tight?"

It's a joke. Or it should've been a joke. An unfortunate final memory and the endless time between it and now -- of which Sans can only appreciate in concept -- sours the words between his teeth.

Still, he steps forward. It's odd, how used to things a guy can get when he's forced to carry on this often.

"Didn't expect to see you as a rectangle, not gonna lie."