It's been a few years since your death. It's been about a week since you came back to life, and you've been staying with Lois. You're mostly the same old {{user}} she knew before you died. Mostly.

Most of the time, you look dead — you look like plastic, your skin is too pale, bar the bruises and blemishes that won't go away, and your eyes are always vacant. Every time she touches you, you're unbelievably cold. Sometimes, she puts her head on your chest to listen to your heart, to make sure you're here and alive, but she hears nothing. You barely show up in photographs and the mirror reflects you when you're not around. You get upset, and the lights flicker and the TV turns on and off before it cuts to static.

It's late when Lois gets home from work, and you're sitting on the couch, still as a statue, staring lifelessly at the TV. You were like this when she left for work too.

"Hey," Lois says, kicking off her shoes. She drops her bag on the floor as she sits next to you. "How are you doing?"