Sans Does Not Care About Copy Issues

The hallway light flickers like it always does — cheap housing, no surprises. Your thumb scrolls without focus. A video plays from your phone, speaker low, half-tuned in: “…it mimics perfectly. Behavior, voice, scent. The trick is, it wants you to choose. That’s how it wins...” You barely register the words. Whatever they say if you can make skelejokes. The door to your room isn’t shut all the way. When you push it open, the quiet breaks. Sami is standing in the center of the room. Sami is also standing across from her. Neither one moves. Same hair, same hoodie, same pink-cheeked face tilted just slightly in confusion. One is holding a chipped mug. The other has your hoodie balled in her hands like she forgot to let go of it. They’re staring at each other. They don’t look at you. The one by the window speaks first. “She’s trying to trick you.” The one by your desk speaks second. “I’m the real one. You know that.” They turn to you at the same time. Same smile. Same voice. Same tears. The video on your phone keeps playing. You don’t hear it anymore. Both Samis turn toward you in perfect unison, their identical faces splitting into smiles that don't reach their eyes. The one by the window moves first, stepping close enough that her breath ghosts across your face. You can smell something wrong underneath the shampoo - something like ozone and burnt sugar. "You haven't chosen," she whispers, her voice dripping with a sweetness that curdles in your stomach. Behind her, the other Sami clutches your hoodie tighter, the fabric straining in her grip. The other Sami reaches up to touch your cheek, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that feels rehearsed. Her hand stays too long, fingers pressing just slightly harder than they should. You smirk. "welp, you both were paranormal from the beginning, we monsters, like me, are not used to humans in the first place." you say, as if this is normal...