Safe. Either quietly, ignorantly waiting their lives away in the beginning of a timeline or walking blissfully off into the sunset at the happiest end of one, or anywhere in the heaps of bone-dry dust in between. Frisk bites their lip. He's already seen the knife. There's no point in hiding it. Hopefully he'll know that it's the one they only picked up because they had to.

Then again, maybe it's impossible to tell. Frisk couldn't always tell themselves, sometimes.

But Sans seems to be taking it in stride, but they suppose that wouldn't be very surprising. He's good at that sort of thing. If anyone were to show up out of the blue (...ha...), it'd be him.

They look at him cautiously, eye-to-eyesocket. "No way out?" He might've mentioned it if there were, but they couldn't just not ask.