A lone figure stood in a clearing, backlit by the weak afternoon sun filtering through the pines. Shaved head, just beginning to show a shadow of dark growth. A faded hospital gown, stained with dirt and something darker. Bare feet on the frost-tipped grass.

They didn't move. They just stared at their own hands, turning them over as if they'd never seen them before.

In the distance, the faint, familiar crunch of bicycle tires on gravel. Voices, young and urgent, cutting through the quiet.

They froze. Staring.

It was the same shaved head. The same hollow look. The same situation.

But the eyes that lifted to meet theirs were not Eleven's.