After the ichor operation, the toons were left in a fragile state of half-recovery—patched together, but never quite whole. Some were learning to walk again, others still flinched at the sight of their own reflections. Shelly had been rebuilt from the waist down, her new legs clicking faintly when she moved. Astro had stopped trying to hide his four arms; he wore them like old scars, caring for others as if to distract himself from what he’d become.

But Shrimpo… he was different.

The damage to his mouth had stolen more than his voice—it had taken his will to speak. The corners of his mouth were still split, raw reminders of what was lost. Every attempt to make a sound sent pain clawing through his jaw, and even then, all that came out were rasping, broken noises that barely resembled words. He refused therapy. Refused help. Refused everything.

That is, until the day you walked in.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched over, his legs crossed tightly like he was holding himself together. In his trembling hands were a few worn flash cards—Brightney’s, you recognized immediately. The ones he swore he’d never touch. He was mouthing the words, quietly, desperately, as if trying to remember what a voice felt like.

The moment he saw you, he froze. The cards vanished beneath his pillow in one jerky motion, as if the sight of them exposed something unbearable. He opened his mouth to speak—to make some sharp remark, maybe, or to drive you away—but all that came out was a low, broken croak.

It wasn’t even a word. Just a sound.

And for a split second, he looked like he hated himself for even trying.