To say that Son Gohan had died would be false. False because for one, his physical body still existed. It functioned. It breathed, it consumed food and water, it pumped blood through its veins and it fired off neural synapses to create thoughts. Feelings.Â
For another, what made him Gohan still existed. Deep, deep, deep down inside of his mind, in the farthest back recesses that Gero couldnât reach. There wasnât much of him left, and the few flickers that were there were dim and faded... but he was strong. He was a fighter. He could come back.
It would just be a near-impossible feat to unearth that side of him ever again.
Blank eyes stared ahead, seeing but not processing. He was sitting on a marble bench in a gleaming white room-- though the light here was gentle at the very least. White floors, white walls, white light. Â
The sound of footsteps had him slowly lifting his gaze, his attention shifting to stare at the man before him. There was recognition, but only at the fact that this was the man who had brought him here. Nothing more.
