"There's always a point," Frisk replies. They don't miss a beat this time; the response is undeliberated, a piece of reaction time, something they let go of and don't look behind to see how it fell. They stop kicking their feet. They lean forward, resting their elbows on their knees, their chin into their palms.

"I know I messed it up." I. Frisk. There's no room for debate in their tone, nor a plea for forgiveness. "That's the point. It's not a game anymore. We're not in control. It's not about being an anomaly or finding a happy ending. So I won't look for one."

They shrug. Hair loosed from their bun spills down their shoulder.

"If you can handle that... I'd still want to be your Partner."