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There were days that he saw his reflection, days that his heart broke again, days of silent sobbing.

His hair was growing back in; it was finally getting a little shaggy again, though it remained as black as ash. His natural hair color. Not a trace of red. A fire that had burned out so long ago. Gone were the days of pointed sideburns, distinct eyebrows. He was as plain as the man bunking with him, a tower of a man that reminded him of another man he used to know.

But this man’s eyes were a steel gray. They weren’t as sharp, they weren’t as fierce, they weren’t the obsidian orbs he remembered. He always wondered what 00012 was like before the day music died. He imagined 00012 would have an amazing, deep baritone. But the scars on the man’s throat ensured him that he would never know…

And suddenly, he would become hyper-conscious. He saw the scars on the man, he saw the scars in the mirror too. He had a voice too.

They ripped it out of him. 

His heart broke again. He shook with soundless sobbing. 

And they wouldn’t let him go. They wouldn’t let him talk, they wouldn’t let him live, they wouldn’t let him die. They only left him to work and to exist, to show the world that instead, music must die. Music died. Music was dead.