You step closer, dodging a volley of heart-shaped missiles. Your HP is low. Your legs ache. But you remember something Alphys said: He just wants to be loved.

The lights dim. A single spotlight hits the center of the stage. You, the human, stand in the wings, heart pounding. Before you lies a glittering dance floor, and beyond it, Mettaton EX—all chrome limbs and a million-watt smile—strikes a pose.

“You ruined my ratings,” he says, but there’s no venom. “That was the best performance I’ve ever had.”

He extends one metal leg, and the floor tiles start lighting up in sequence: a deadly game of Dance Dance Revolution. Miss a step, and a bolt of glittering lightning shoots up your leg. You hop, slide, and pivot, your sneakers squeaking on the polished stage. The audience “oohs” and “aahs.”

“No,” you say. “You’re not a weapon. You’re a star. And stars don’t need to destroy their audience.”