Criminal Boundaries (An Undertale Sanscest Story)

Mystery Guy

---Killer's POV----

The bar. That's where I was heading.

The small isolated bar down the corner of some shady alleyway with people that look like they'd kill, kidnap or rape you without a second thought.

I only went there because I've got nothing better to do. And because of the fact that no police or officers would risk going in there. I hope.

I hummed, glancing around cautiously to make sure no one else was around before I slipped down the alleyway.

The darkness swallowed me up, hiding me from everyone.

I continued walking forwards, knowing this pathway by heart now.

The bar is probably illegal in every way possible, but either the police haven't found it yet or have given up on trying to make the owner shut it down.

I don't ever socialise in this bar, I keep contact to a minimal. Even the bar tender can barely get any words other than my order out of me.

Well, I always have the same thing these days, so the bar tender doesn't even need to ask. He sees me walk in and he goes to pour me a pint of beer.

I smirked as I saw the familiar entrance to the pub draw into sight.

It was a dimly lit entrance, two flickering lights over either side of the old wooden door. The paint on the door was forever peeling off and the door handle looks so unsanitary that I actually cover my hand with my hoodie sleeve before touching it.

I hummed softly, pushing open the door and walking into the even dimmer-lit large room.

I caught a few peoples attention as I walked in. But they all lost interest and went back to whatever they had been doing once they realised it was me.

I'm a regular here. It's the newbies that get eyed up.

I was happy to see that my normal seat at the bar was empty as always. People know that if they sit in there, they won't be there for long.

The barman nodded in acknowledgement to me, already starting to pour me a pint of my usual order.

I glanced at the bar stool next to my one.

Empty. Just as I expected it to be.

My drink was placed in front of me as I sat down and I immediately reached for it, wincing as the familiar clink of the dull, scratched metal band on my wrist made contact with the chipped pint glass reached my non-existent ears.

I looked down at my wrist, eying up the metal band.

Fifteen years.

That's how long I've been living without magic.

Ever since that massive ambush the police pulled on our gang in our attempts to break Geno and Fresh out of prison.

I had been tackled down in my attempt to escape, and a police officer had managed to lock a magic restraint on my wrist before I stabbed him in the side of the neck.

The keys weren't with him, and I never found them.

Any time I even attempt to do the slightest thing involving magic, it results in the most shocking pain I've felt in a long time.