Inside the factory, I stand beside a capsule, its glass surface fogged with the condensed warmth of the life inside. My eyes lock onto the figure of the blind girl, cocooned within. Her frail body, once marred by the pangs of hunger she endured in the Grey Area, now rests, eerily still. The dim, ambient light of the capsule creates an ethereal glow around her, and the silence deepens my concern. "What happened to her? Why hasn't she woken up yet?" I direct my questions at Dea, the tension palpable in the tight grip of my hands.
Dea replies, "When we first saved her, her physical weakness left her unconscious. But now, even with her body well-treated, she remains unwilling to wake. She's trapped in a coma, locked within the depths of a dream. I've analyzed her neural activity, and it's saturated with sorrow. It's as if she's lost something—or someone—so vital that she'd rather stay asleep forever, perhaps to be with her family again."