Beginning

He would never be the same again. His mother was on the verge of tears when the doctor said this.

Tom's father looked at his son, his eyes filling with tears, but Tom showed no emotion. He felt empty, as if something had been taken from him. He knew what had been taken, but he didn't feel much of anything.

Before the accident, when Tom was 16 years old, he had already been a calm and less emotional person. He wasn't completely devoid of feelings, though. But now, after being hit by a car, he felt utterly hollow.

The doctor continued, "The part of his brain that controls emotions was damaged from birth, resulting in very low emotional intensity. This accident, however, has almost completely and irreversibly damaged that area. In fact, if you look at it, it's a medical miracle that he's alive. That said, a small portion of his emotional center remains intact. I'm not sure which emotion this part represents, but with tests, we might determine it. Perhaps we can use this remaining emotion to restore others."

Tom's mother felt a glimmer of hope upon hearing this, but Tom simply nodded, his face expressionless. He didn't feel anything—just as he had for most of his life. Even before this accident, he had felt empty. He hadn't shared it with his mother, but he had struggled with suicidal thoughts. After the accident, though, those feelings—along with all others—had completely disappeared.

They were erased.

Tom left the hospital with his mother and returned home. They lived in America, part of a middle-class family. He was an only child; his father worked in construction, and his mother was a tailor.

Two days later, his mother remembered what the doctor had said and clung to the possibility of hope. She suggested taking Tom out for some fun with his father, thinking it might help him feel something.

They decided to visit the zoo. His father turned to him and asked, "Hey, Tom, are you ready to have fun?"

Tom nodded with an emotionless face.

His father felt a pang of sadness. His son had always been a calm and less emotional person, but now he was completely empty. It scared him. People are sensitive beings, after all.

Tom's father was a thoughtful, empathetic man, and when he looked at his son, he couldn't help but feel as though there was a sleeping monster inside him. He quickly shook off the thought, chuckling at how absurd it was—like something out of an anime.

He turned to the front and said, "Who's ready to go to the zoo?"

Tom's mother laughed, but Tom only nodded, still emotionless. If anyone had asked him what he felt at that moment, he would have said, "Nothing."

Tom understood what it meant to have fun. He wasn't a psychopath. But it was like a person who had once been able to see suddenly going blind. He knew what fun was, what it felt like, but he no longer had access to it.

While his mother and father were singing along to a song and enjoying themselves, Tom glanced out the window and saw a luxury car heading straight toward them.

If anyone had asked him what he felt in that moment, he would have said he wasn't afraid of anything. Time seemed to slow down, and just seconds before the impact, he felt something stir inside him. It wasn't fear, nor was it anger. It was something more primitive, more instinctive.

But before he could make sense of it, everything went black.