The door to the medical room creaked open as you stepped inside, your heart racing with a mixture of dread and hope. You had been told about Curly’s condition after the crash, but nothing could have prepared you for the sight in front of you.

Curly laying on the bed, his once vibrant presence was now confined to a motionless frame. The sight before you made your breath catch—a lifeless figure lying in the bed, one you barely recognized as Curly.

His body was wrapped in soiled bandages, their whiteness stained dark red. The absence of his hands and feet hit you like a sledgehammer, and your stomach twisted as your gaze trailed to his face.

One lidless eyeball stared blankly into space, unmoving, and his jaw was exposed, stripped of its skin. He looked...inhuman, more like a tortured remnant of himself than the person you once knew.

You stepped closer, knees threatening to give out beneath you, swallowing hard to keep the bile rising in your throat.

"Curly?" you whispered, voice trembling. His head didn’t turn. No flinch, no reaction. It was like speaking to a corpse, except you knew he was alive—he had to be.

"Can you... can you hear me? Can you speak?"

You scanned his face for any flicker of acknowledgment, but there was nothing. Your heart felt like it was being wrung dry.

"Can you move at all? Your hands, your feet—" You stopped yourself mid-sentence, realizing the cruelty of your words. Of course, he couldn’t. They were gone.

"Curly, can you do anything? Blink, move your head, anything?"

Still no response. He was alive, yes, but only in the most technical sense. There were no machines, no tubes, no blinking monitors to sustain him—just his battered, broken body, struggling to hold on.

You didn't know what to do, you were stuck in the Tulpar with everyone else.