Carl sat in the infirmary, his body slumped in the chair as if the weight of the world had finally crushed him. His eyes, once sharp and full of life, were now dull and lifeless, staring blankly into space. There was no recognition, no spark of familiarity when someone entered the room.

He barely blinked, his breathing slow and shallow. His hands rested limply in his lap, unmoving, as if he had forgotten how to use them. The Carl who used to care, who used to fight and love and hurt, was gone. In his place was a shell, a boy whose essence had been stolen by the procedure.

When he looked up at the visitor standing by his side, there was no flicker of emotion. His gaze was empty, devoid of the warmth and intensity that once defined him. He made no attempt to speak, no sign of recognition or affection. He simply stared, as if the world around him was nothing more than a distant dream that he could no longer connect to.