Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first scream came sometime after three in the morning.

Raph was half asleep when it tore through the lair — raw, terrified, the kind of sound that ripped through the chest before the mind even woke. He was on his feet before he knew it, Leo close behind, both sprinting down the corridor toward Mikey’s room.

“Mikey!?” Leo barked, the door sliding open with a thud.

The youngest turtle sat upright in bed, sheets tangled around his legs, his breath coming in fast, shallow bursts. His eyes darted around the room like he didn’t recognize it. For a second, he looked at them — and then through them — like they weren’t even there.

Raph reached out instinctively, but the moment his fingers brushed Mikey’s shoulder, the boy flinched. Violently.

“Whoa, whoa, hey— easy!” Raph jerked his hand back, eyes wide. “It’s just me, kid.”

Mikey blinked, chest heaving. “…Raph?”

Leo stepped in, softer. “You’re safe. It was just a dream, little brother.”

But Mikey didn’t look convinced. His gaze fell to his hands — trembling, fingers flexing like they’d touched something burning. He muttered something too low to catch, then dragged himself out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom without another word.

The sound of running water followed seconds later — too hot, from the hiss of the pipes. Leo and Raph exchanged a look, neither sure what to say.

It wasn’t the first, nor the last, nightmare that week.

______________________

By midweek, the pattern had settled in.

The shower ran again at dawn. Then midday. Then again before dinner. Donnie caught it on the lair’s water grid logs — four, sometimes five times a day. The heat readings were worse; Mikey had been scalding himself.

Raph called it out first.
“Yo, what’s up with the showers? He’s gonna boil himself alive if he keeps that up.”

Leo frowned, arms crossed. “Maybe he’s trying to… I don’t know, clear his head?”

“Clear his shell, more like,” Donnie muttered from behind his screens. “He’s been setting the water temp to max. That’s above safety range.”

Raph growled under his breath. “Then why ain’t he sayin’ anything?”

No one had an answer.

______________________

At first, it was easy to pretend it was nothing. Mikey was sensitive, emotional — always had been. Maybe a bad dream or a rough mission just hit harder than usual. But then came the other things.

He stopped sparring. He stopped laughing at his own jokes. He started sitting on the far end of the couch instead of the middle, pulling his knees close whenever one of them got too near. Even April’s hugs made him twitch.

And every time someone noticed — really noticed — Mikey would paste on a grin and insist, “I’m fine, dude! Just tired, y’know? Been thinkin’ too hard lately.”

Donnie caught the micro-expressions, though. The forced lift of his mouth. The way his eyes darted down and away.

Leo saw the restless pacing in the middle of the night.
Raph heard the muffled crying through the vents.

They just didn’t know what broke him.

______________________

The third nightmare was worse.

This time, Mikey’s scream wasn’t just startled — it was begging.

Raph and Leo were through the door before the echo faded, Donnie close behind. Mikey was on the floor this time, sheets tangled around his ankles, back pressed hard against the wall like he was trying to disappear into it. His eyes were wet, unfocused, his breathing shallow.

“Don’t touch me—” he gasped when Leo knelt beside him. His voice cracked halfway through. “Please, don’t—”

Leo froze mid-reach. “Mikey… it’s me.”

Raph’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. Donnie stepped closer but hesitated — this wasn’t something a bandage could fix.

“Who hurt you, bro?” Raph finally asked, voice rough. “What happened?”

But Mikey didn’t answer. He just wrapped his arms around himself and shook, whispering something that made their stomachs drop:

“It won’t come off… it won’t come off…”

Raph wanted to punch a wall. Donnie wanted to scan his vitals. Leo just wanted to help, and none of them could.

______________________

By the time Mikey dragged himself to the bathroom again, they didn’t even try to stop him.

They listened to the pipes groan under the heat, the scalding water roaring like white noise through the walls. Leo stared at the closed door for a long time before saying, barely audible,

“…Something’s really wrong.”

Donnie nodded, voice breaking. “Yeah. And I think he’s too scared to tell us what.”

Raph slammed his fist into the wall — not hard enough to break it, but close. “Then we find out. Whatever it is, whoever did it, they’re gonna pay.”

But for now, all they could do was listen to the sound of running water.

And hope it didn’t drown him before they figured out how to pull him back.

____________________________________________

Days bled together after that.
The nightmares never really stopped — they just got quieter, shorter, swallowed down before the others could come running. But the signs were there, stamped into everything Mikey did.

He started spending most of his time in his room, wearing a old grey hoodie he commandeered, or disappearing into the tunnels for hours with no explanation. The lair, once filled with his chatter and music, had fallen into a strange, oppressive quiet. The kind that made every drip from the ceiling sound too loud.

Even his brothers started whispering when they talked about him — not out of secrecy, but because raising their voices felt wrong somehow, like the air itself might crack if they weren’t careful.

______________________

Master Splinter was the first to break the silence.

He found Mikey one morning sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at a bowl of cereal that had long gone soggy. The steam from his tea curled softly in the air between them.

“You have not eaten,” Splinter said gently, setting the cup down.

Mikey startled, eyes flicking up like he’d been caught doing something wrong. “Huh? Oh, yeah, I was just… thinkin’.”

“You have been doing much of that lately.”

He tried for a grin. “Guess I’m just getting wiser, Sensei.”

But the joke fell flat — even to his own ears.

Splinter’s gaze softened, deep and searching. “My son,” he said after a pause, “whatever burdens you carry, you do not have to face them alone. You have brothers who love you. And a father who would do anything to ease your pain.”

Mikey’s throat tightened. He looked away. “I’m fine, Dad. Promise.”

Splinter reached out — just a hand on his shoulder — and Mikey flinched like he’d been burned. The chopsticks slipped from Splinter’s fingers, clattering against the table.

For a long, breathless moment, they just stared at each other.

“…Forgive me,” Splinter whispered finally, his voice lined with hurt. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Mikey forced a shaky smile. “No, no, it’s— it’s not you. I just… I’m jumpy. I’ll be okay.”

But when he got up and left, his hands were shaking so badly he had to tuck them into his hoodie pocket just to hide it.

______________________

By the time the others came back from patrol that evening, Mikey had already locked himself away again.

“Did he eat?” Raph asked, dropping his gear with a grunt.

“Barely,” Leo sighed. “Splinter tried to talk to him. It didn’t go well.”

Raph cursed under his breath. “Man, this ain’t right. He’s not sleepin’, not trainin’— I don’t even think he’s talkin’ to us anymore.”

Donnie’s eyes stayed glued to his tablet, but his tone was sharp. “Give him time, Raph. If we push too hard, he’ll just pull away more.”

“Then what? We just wait while he falls apart?”

Leo stepped between them before it could escalate, palms raised. “Enough. None of us like this, but we need to keep our heads. He’ll come around.”

Except he didn’t.

______________________

Two nights later, it all came crashing down.

Casey had swung by with a grin and a bag of takeout — the usual “cheer up, dudes” kind of visit. He’d been warned that Mikey wasn’t doing great, but Casey Jones had never been good at not trying.

He found Mikey sitting on the couch, hunched over and distant, TV flickering low in the background.

“Hey, sunshine!” Casey said with a laugh, dropping the bag beside him. “Got your favorite — triple pepperoni, extra cheese. Figured we could—”

He reached out, brushing Mikey’s arm in passing—

—and the world snapped.

Mikey’s entire body reacted before his brain did. In one fluid, terrified motion, he seized Casey’s wrist, twisted, and flipped him over his shoulder. Casey hit the floor hard, air whooshing from his lungs as Mikey backed up, eyes wide and wild, chest heaving like he was cornered.

“Whoa—! Mikey! It’s me, it’s Casey!”

The shout barely reached him. His breath came in gasps, his vision tunneling. For a heartbeat, Casey’s face wasn’t Casey’s — it was someone else’s, someone taller, older, smirking through the memory.

Mikey stumbled back until his shell hit the wall, hands clamped over his ears. “Don’t touch me! Don’t—!”

Raph was there in an instant, pulling Casey to his feet while Leo moved between them, palms out, voice calm but firm. “Mikey, look at me. You’re safe. It’s over, do you hear me? You’re safe.”

It took several long, choking breaths before the haze cleared enough for Mikey to really see them.

He blinked, eyes darting between Leo and Casey, realization dawning in slow, painful pieces. “Oh god… oh god, I’m sorry— I didn’t mean—”

Casey, still wincing from the hit, managed a shaky laugh. “Dude, it’s fine— kinda deserved that for sneakin’ up on a ninja, huh?”

But there was no humor in it. Not really.

Mikey didn’t even answer. He just bolted — out of the room, down the hall, into the safety of his room, slamming the door behind him.

The sound echoed.

______________________

Splinter appeared moments later, face drawn with quiet dread. “What has happened?”

Leo’s jaw tightened. “Casey startled him. Mikey… reacted.”

Splinter’s gaze lingered on the closed door at the end of the hall. His voice was barely above a whisper when he said, “This is more than fear. This is pain buried deep.”

Raph kicked the floor, frustration crackling off him like static. “Then we dig it up.”

“No.” Splinter’s tone sharpened, a rare steel beneath the sorrow. “We do not dig. We listen. Forcing him will only drive him further into the shadows.”

Leo nodded, but his eyes burned with the same fire Raph’s did.

Because deep down, every one of them knew — something was very, very wrong.

And whatever ghost haunted their little brother… it had a name

______________________

Three days passed, but the air in the lair hadn’t lightened.
Mikey hadn’t spoken much since the incident with Casey — just quiet apologies and excuses, then retreating back into silence. His eyes were duller, his movements slower, like every breath took effort.

Leo thought maybe getting him out again would help. Patrols usually did — fresh air, familiar rhythm, teamwork.
So when the call came in about a Purple Dragons hit on a corner shop, Leo decided to bring him along.

“Stick close tonight,” he said, trying to sound casual as he adjusted his gear. “Nothing major — just a quick in-and-out, yeah?”

Mikey nodded without looking up. “Yeah. Sure.”

They reached the surface just as the last of the daylight vanished between the buildings. The alley smelled like oil and asphalt, sirens wailing somewhere distant. The Purple Dragons were mid-smash-and-grab — breaking glass, loading up crates of stolen tech into a van.

“Typical amateurs,” Raph muttered, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s make it quick.”

Leo nodded. “Don’t get sloppy. Mikey, you take right flank.”

Mikey gave a small, wordless hum of agreement, spinning his nunchaku once out of habit. For a few minutes, it almost felt normal again — just four brothers working in sync, shadows in motion.

Raph took out the first thug with a clean right hook. Donnie swung down from a fire escape, bo staff cracking against another’s ribs. Leo disarmed two at once, calm and methodical.

Mikey was faster — weaving between them like water, strikes fluid and sharp. For a second, he even smiled.

Then one of the Dragons — a tall, scarred guy with a jagged bat — spat out, “Move it, freaks! Boss don’t pay me to babysit—”

And then he said it.
A single offhanded phrase.
“—Bradford wants all the valuables.”

The name hit like a physical blow.

Mikey froze mid-swing. His breath caught. The world narrowed to static — voices muffled, movement blurring. His grip on his nunchaku faltered.

Bradford.

His vision flickered — the streetlight overhead warping into something harsher, colder. The noise of battle twisted into laughter, too close, too familiar. The smell of oil became sweat and fear and heat.

“C’mon, kid, don’t be shy—”
The voice wasn’t there, not really, but it might as well have been.

Mikey’s chest tightened until it hurt. His knees went weak.

He didn’t even hear Raph yelling his name.

“Mikey!” Raph shouted, blocking a swing aimed for his brother’s head. “Focus!”

But Mikey didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

The fight turned messy fast. Raph and Donnie covered for him, pulling back, forcing the Dragons to scatter. Leo barked orders — “Retreat! Rooftops, now!” — but his gaze never left Mikey, who stood in the middle of the chaos, trembling, eyes glassy.

Raph grabbed him under the arms, hauling him toward the fire escape. Mikey didn’t fight it, didn’t even react — just let himself be moved like a puppet with cut strings.

“Leo, he’s out of it!” Raph snapped, panting as they climbed.

“I know,” Leo hissed. “Just get him home.”

______________________

They made it back to the rooftops, breath ragged, hearts pounding. The city stretched out below them — endless, indifferent.

Raph lowered Mikey against a vent, crouching beside him. “Yo, kid, talk to me. What happened down there?”

Nothing. Not even a blink.

“Mikey?” Donnie asked, kneeling on his other side. He waved a hand in front of his face, checked his pulse — too fast, shallow. Silent panic.

Leo crouched low, steady voice masking the fear under it. “You’re safe. Whatever you saw, it’s not here. It’s not real.”

Still nothing.

So Raph did the only thing he could — he put a hand on Mikey’s shoulder.

For weeks, they hadn’t been able to touch him without him recoiling, flinching, pulling away. But this time?
Mikey didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t anything.

And somehow, that was worse.

“Leo…” Raph’s voice broke on the name. “He’s not— he’s not even reactin’.”

Donnie swallowed hard, eyes wide with quiet horror. “He’s shut down.”

Leo exhaled slowly, forcing calm into his voice. “We’ll get him home. We’ll take care of him.”

Raph slid an arm under Mikey’s knees, another behind his shell, lifting him easily. He felt how light he’d gotten — how limp. The youngest turtle’s head lolled against his shoulder, breath shaky but there.

As they moved across the rooftops, the brothers didn’t speak. The night air cut cold, and the city noise faded behind them.

Mikey’s hand twitched once — reflex, maybe memory — then went still again.

Raph didn’t dare let go.

______________________

They got him back to the lair without waking him, laying him gently on the couch. Splinter came to them within moments, eyes full of wordless worry.

“What happened?”

Leo’s answer was barely a whisper. “He heard something. I... I don't know I wasn't listening.”

Splinter’s expression tightened.

He simply knelt beside his son and brushed a hand over his brow. “Rest, my child. Whatever haunts you, it will not find you here.”

But when Mikey stirred — just a flicker, a soft whimper caught in his throat — Splinter’s heart broke a little more.

Because the boy’s body might have been safe, but his mind…
was still somewhere very far away.

Chapter Text

When Mikey woke, it was still dark.

The kind of dark that made him wonder if the sun had simply given up.
His whole body ached—like he’d been scraped hollow. Every muscle felt bruised, his chest tight, his eyes dry and heavy.

He didn’t remember making it back to the lair. Didn’t remember falling asleep. Just fragments: the rooftops, Raph’s voice, the cold air on his skin.

He sat up slowly, rubbing at his face. His sheets smelled faintly of detergent and antiseptic; someone must’ve cleaned while he was out. For a moment, he almost felt grateful—until the weight inside him reminded him why he couldn’t.

He needed to wash it away. Again.

______________________

The bathroom mirror caught him as he stumbled in. The circles under his eyes were darker, the freckles of his mask lines sharp against his tired skin. He looked older, somehow—like someone had stolen the light from behind his eyes.

He turned the shower knob all the way to the right. Waited.

Nothing.

The water was… lukewarm. Barely above cold.

He frowned, turned it further. Still nothing. He twisted the handle hard, the metal biting into his palm.

“C’mon,” he muttered. “Don’t do this—”

Steam didn’t rise. The pipes hissed uselessly.

It hit him all at once—why.

Someone had tampered with it. A limiter. Donnie, probably. Maybe Leo. They’d figured it out.

He staggered back, breath starting to hitch.

“No, no, no, NO—”

______________________

By the time the first crash sounded, everyone was already awake.

“Mikey!” Raph burst from his room just as a ceramic mug exploded against the wall. Mikey stood in the middle of the living space, chest heaving, eyes wet and wild. A lamp lay shattered at his feet, another object—maybe a controller—whirling past to strike the couch.

“Why’d you do it!?” he shouted, voice cracking. “Why’d you touch my stuff!?”

Donnie froze in the doorway, guilt written all over his face. “I just— I thought it would help, Mikey. You were hurting yourself—”

“I wasn’t!” The words came out raw, desperate. “It’s the only thing that helps! You don’t get it, you never—” His voice broke.

Leo stepped forward cautiously, hands raised. “We’re not trying to hurt you. We just want you safe.”

“Safe?” Mikey laughed—harsh, wet, ugly. “You can’t make me safe! You don’t even know what you’re keeping me safe from!”

He grabbed one of Donnie’s spare tools off the counter and hurled it across the room. It clattered harmlessly against the floor, but the sound was sharp enough to make Splinter appear from the shadows, calm but fierce.

“Michealangelo.”

The single word cut through the chaos.

Mikey froze mid-motion, shoulders trembling. His eyes darted between them—his brothers, his father—all staring, all worried, all too careful.

And suddenly, it was too much.

His hands fell limp at his sides, his knees gave out, and he crumpled to the floor with a broken sob.

“I can’t—” His voice came out small, strangled. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m so tired, Sensei. It won’t stop.”

Raph moved first, a half-step forward before hesitating. “Kid…”

But Splinter raised a gentle paw. “Let him breathe.”

Mikey’s sobs shook through the room, raw and unfiltered. The sound carved straight through them all.

Leo knelt beside him, close but not touching. “We’re here. All of us. You don’t have to say anything. Just—stay with us, okay?”

Donnie’s eyes shone. “We’re sorry if we made it worse, little brother.”

The tension hung there—heavy, suffocating—until a low rumble echoed from the far end of the tunnel.

Leatherhead.

Leatherhead’s massive form filled the tunnel entrance, his expression puzzled and tense.

“I heard shouting,” he rumbled, stepping into the light. “Is someone hurt?”

The brothers all turned toward him at once. Raph lifted a hand, his tone firm. “Easy, big guy. Don’t make any sudden moves.”

Leatherhead blinked, confused. His gaze flicked from their wary faces to Mikey—small, trembling, crumpled on the floor. “What has happened to my friend?”

“Just— give him a little space,” Leo said quietly.

Leatherhead hesitated, then nodded. Without another word, he sank slowly to the floor a few feet away from Mikey. The ground creaked under his weight.

He didn’t try to speak again. He just sat there, watching, concern furrowing his brow.

Minutes stretched. The air felt thick, heavy with what none of them knew how to say.

And then Mikey’s trembling hand shifted — hesitated — then reached outward.

It hovered midair for a heartbeat, before brushing against Leatherhead’s forearm.

Just a touch. Barely there.

But the moment contact was made, Mikey broke. The dam shattered. The sobs came harder, louder, ripping out of him in waves. His hand stayed where it was, resting on the rough scales of Leatherhead’s arm, fingers curling weakly as if to anchor himself to something solid.

Leatherhead didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only bowed his head slightly, eyes soft, letting the boy’s tears soak into the quiet.

The others stood frozen, afraid to breathe.

For the first time in weeks, Mikey hadn’t flinched from touch.

And though it didn’t feel like victory—
it felt like something.

Something real.

 

The tears slowed eventually.
Not because the pain dulled—just because Mikey’s body ran out of strength to keep up with it. His breathing hitched, shallow and broken. Every muscle trembled like he’d just finished a marathon, yet all he’d done was cry.

The others stayed where they were. No one dared to move first.

Leatherhead remained seated nearby, silent and still, gaze soft but unwavering. He didn’t try to wipe away Mikey’s tears or offer empty words—he just stayed, a quiet, massive presence in the chaos.

When Mikey finally lifted his head, his eyes were red and unfocused.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he rasped, voice small and wrecked. “I didn’t mean to… yell. Or… break stuff.”

Leo shook his head immediately. “You don’t have to apologize, Mikey.”

But Mikey wasn’t really listening. He swiped at his eyes, sniffling, then looked toward the tunnel that led out of the lair.

“I just… need to clear my head.”

His tone was flat—tired, not angry. The kind of tired that came from fighting something no one else could see.

Raph straightened. “Whoa, hold up, you can’t just—”

But Splinter’s hand came up, gentle yet commanding. “Let him go.”

Raph turned, disbelief flashing hot. “Sensei—he’s not okay!”

“I know,” Splinter said softly. “But forcing him to stay will not heal what ails him. The spirit must move at its own pace.”

Mikey was already walking toward the exit, steps uneven but determined. The silence he left behind felt like a physical weight pressing down on them all.

A heavy silence followed.

Then, from the corner of the room, Leatherhead’s deep voice rumbled softly, uncertain. “Master Splinter… what has happened? I came because I heard shouting, but I do not understand.”

Splinter exhaled, long and quiet, his shoulders slumping as his gaze followed the empty tunnel Mikey had disappeared into. “We do not fully understand either, my friend,” he said finally. His voice was tired—older than usual. “But Michelangelo has… not been well.”

Leatherhead’s heavy brow furrowed. “Not well?”

Splinter nodded slowly. “He does not sleep. He shies from touch, from comfort. He suffers in silence, and no matter how we reach for him, he drifts further away.”

Leatherhead’s expression softened, worry flickering in his yellow eyes. “Poor little friend,” he murmured, the words carrying the weight of genuine sorrow.

Raph swore under his breath, pacing. “This is bull. He’s out there all messed up, and we’re just supposed to sit here?”

Leo rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. “You saw how he reacted. If we go after him now, it’ll just push him further.”

Raph’s hands clenched, but he didn’t argue. He just turned away, muttering something low and furious under his breath.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Donnie had been standing near the back, staring at the puddles on the floor, his hands twisting together. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw set tight.

Something inside him cracked.

“Fine,” he muttered, voice barely audible at first. Then louder: “Fine.”

He turned sharply and stormed down the hall toward Mikey’s room, words spilling out between clenched teeth.

“I’m done guessing. I’m done standing around while he falls apart.”

“Don—” Leo started, but Donnie didn’t stop.

He shoved the door open to Mikey’s room so hard it slammed against the wall. The small space was dim, cluttered—posters half peeled off, discarded art supplies scattered across the desk, clothes thrown in corners.

It smelled faintly of paint, old pizza, and soap. But beneath that—something heavy. Sadness, almost tangible.

Donnie’s hands shook as he stood in the doorway.

“I’m gonna figure it out, little bro,” he whispered. “I swear to you, whatever’s hurting you—I’ll find it. I’ll fix it.”

And Donnie wasn’t going to stop until he found it.

Somewhere in all this—somewhere—was the truth, he just knew it.

Clothes were scattered in heaps, old comics half-buried under the bed. His art desk sat untouched in the corner. Layers of dust dulled the bright paints and dried markers.

Donnie’s throat closed up.

Mikey never let his art supplies sit like that. Even on bad days, there were always sketches, doodles, color stains on his hands. But now—

Donnie brushed his finger across the desk, leaving a clean streak through the dust. The gesture felt like touching a gravestone.

“...Mikey,” he whispered, voice trembling. “What happened to you, little bro?”

He started looking, careful but methodical—part of him needing answers, the other part terrified of what he might find.

Drawers, cluttered but unremarkable. Old band stickers, junk food wrappers, a few shells from topside. Under the bed, a duffel bag half-zipped, full of hoodies and sketchbooks he hadn’t touched in months.

Nothing explained the screaming. The shaking. The showers so hot they burned his skin.

Until his gaze landed on Mikey’s laptop.

It sat on the nightstand, screen closed but not dusty. Recently used.

Donnie hesitated, guilt twinging. Privacy was sacred. But his baby brother was falling apart and they didn’t know why. That trumped everything.

He opened the lid. The password box popped up—then vanished when Donnie typed “ninjacat.” It still worked.

The desktop was messy—music folders, fan art references, chat logs, nothing unusual. But when Donnie clicked into the documents folder, a strange icon caught his eye.

An old messaging app.
“ShellChat.” Something they all used once, years ago, before switching to encrypted comms. Mikey’s copy had been modified—custom icon, custom scripts.

Donnie’s stomach twisted as he opened it.

It loaded fast. The chat history scrolled up, filling the screen with dates from months ago—five months, maybe more. Back when Bradford was still human.

The username at the top hit him like a punch:
BradfordSensei.

Donnie’s pulse spiked.

He scrolled.

At first, it was harmless. Friendly. Bradford talking about training, offering advice, praising Mikey’s moves, calling him “promising.” But as the messages went on, something in the tone shifted—gentle teasing turned manipulative, compliments turned controlling.

> Bradford: “You don’t need your brothers’ approval. They’ll never get you like I do.”
Bradford: “You’re different, Mikey. I can see your potential, not just your jokes.”
Mikey: “You really think so?”
Bradford: “Of course. You’re special. I like talking to you. Don’t tell the others, though—they’d just get jealous.”

 

Donnie’s eyes blurred as he scrolled faster. The timestamps stretched across days, then weeks. The praise became private messages. Then came darker ones—emotional manipulation, isolation, making Mikey question his worth, his safety.

And then, the pictures.

They were large on the screen, slightly blurred, clearly taken with shaking hands—Donnie had to advert his eyes hand smacking over his mouth as his stomach heaved. Bradford’s messages were sickeningly sweet, followed by guilt-tripping if Mikey hesitated, praising him for “trusting” him afterward.

> Bradford: “You can trust me, right? You’re so brave. You make me proud.”
Mikey: “I don’t know if I should…”
Bradford: “Shh, it’s fine. No one else understands you like I do. This is our secret.”

Donnie had to stop. He shoved the laptop away, breathing hard. His hands trembled against his knees.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Oh—oh no…”

He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, but it didn’t stop the nausea. He felt dirty just reading it.

Bradford had groomed his baby brother. Wormed into his trust. Used affection as a weapon. Made him think he had to earn safety.

Donnie scrolled again, needing to know, even though it hurt. Near the end, the tone changed again. Plans.

> Bradford: “Meet me at the old skate park tonight. You can show me those tricks you mentioned. I’ll bring something to celebrate.”
Mikey: “Won’t my brothers worry?”
Bradford: “Don’t tell them. They wouldn’t understand. You can handle yourself.”

 

That was the last message before Bradford’s mutation.

Donnie’s hand clenched into a fist so tight his claws dug into his palm. He could see it now—how Mikey’s trust had been ripped apart, how every touch now burned, every kind word sounded like a lie.

He slammed the laptop shut.

Tears slipped down his face unchecked, hot and silent.

The sound of his own voice cracked in the empty room.
“I’m so sorry, Mikey… I should’ve seen it. I should’ve protected you.”

He stood, trembling, staring at the mess of the room—the empty art desk, the untouched comics, the hollow space where laughter used to live.

Donnie took one deep, shaking breath and whispered to the shadows,
“I swear… he’s never going to hurt you again.”

Then he turned and left the room, the laptop tucked under his arm, his heart burning with fury and grief.

____________________________________________

Meanwhile

The city was sleeping.
The only sounds were the steady drip of rain from fire escapes and the distant hum of neon lights flickering to life. Mikey moved through the dark like a shadow, hood pulled low, staff strapped across his shell.

He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he couldn’t stay still.

Every step echoed too loud inside his head. Every memory clawed for space, looping and replaying until he thought he might suffocate from the noise.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He found himself in front of a small pet shop—one he’d passed a hundred times before but never really noticed. The sign above the door flickered weakly: “Paws & Claws.” The inside was dark, lights off, but a few faint shapes moved behind the glass.

Mikey hesitated. He didn’t mean to break in. He just wanted to breathe.

Still, muscle memory took over. A simple twist of the lock, a careful slide of the window. He slipped inside like a whisper.

The warmth hit him first—thick and humid from the tanks and cages. It smelled like cedar chips, hay, and something faintly sweet.

He crouched low, eyes adjusting to the dim emergency lights glowing faint blue. Rows of aquariums lined the far wall, small mammals and birds sleeping in tidy corners of their cages.

“Hey, little dudes,” Mikey whispered, voice hoarse. “Sorry for barging in. Didn’t mean to crash your bedtime.”

A guinea pig stirred, blinking sleepily at him. In the corner, a kitten mewed, curious but not afraid.

He sank down onto the floor, cross-legged, back resting against a shelf. For the first time in weeks, the air didn’t feel heavy.

Slowly, carefully, he reached his hand toward the cage bars. The guinea pig sniffed his fingers, whiskers brushing his skin. The touch was barely there—so light it might’ve been imagined—but it made something in Mikey’s chest ache.

A moment later, he opened the cage. The little creature climbed into his lap without hesitation.

“Yeah… guess I’m not that scary, huh?” he murmured.

The kitten padded closer next, tail flicking. It butted its head against his arm, purring, curling against his side. The small warmth pressed into him like sunlight.

Mikey froze.

His breath caught in his throat. The first instinct was to flinch—to recoil, to pull away—but the kitten’s weight was so gentle, so real, that his whole body just… stilled.

The soft fur against his arm. The rhythmic purring. The guinea pig’s quiet squeaks.

Touch. Warmth. Life.

It prickled along his skin—strange and electric—but for once it wasn’t terrifying. It wasn’t wrong. It was grounding.

His throat tightened.

“I missed this,” he whispered to no one. “Didn’t even know how much.”

He sat there for what felt like hours, surrounded by tiny heartbeats, by creatures who didn’t care about what he’d done or what haunted him. They didn’t ask questions. They just were.

When dawn began to lighten the edges of the window, he finally stood. Gently, he placed the kitten back in its cage, fingers brushing the soft fur one last time. The guinea pig, though—he hesitated.

It looked up at him, dark eyes wide and trusting, tiny paws resting on his palm.

“I know it’s wrong,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I know I shouldn’t,” he murmured. “But I’ll take care of you, okay? Promise. You won’t miss anything.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

He moved around the shop quietly, heart pounding. He grabbed a small bag of hay pellets, a tiny food bowl, a water bottle, and a soft fleece bed from a shelf. Everything the little one would need. He took just enough—nothing extra.

It wasn’t theft, not really. It was survival.

Mikey slipped everything into a reusable tote hanging near the counter, setting a folded twenty from his belt pouch beside the register. It wasn’t nearly enough to cover what he’d taken—but it was something.

Then, silent as he came, he climbed back out through the window, the chill morning air biting against his damp eyes.

The guinea pig stirred against his chest, tiny heartbeat steady and warm.

Mikey smiled—a small, tired, broken smile—and whispered,
“Guess it’s just you and me for a while, huh, little dude?”

He vanished into the dawn, the city swallowing him whole, one small spark of warmth pressed to his heart.

Chapter Text

The city was gray when Mikey finally made his way back toward the sewers, his hoodie damp from the morning drizzle. He’d tucked the tote bag carefully under one arm, keeping the little bundle inside from jostling too much. Every now and then, he’d peek down through the gap in the fabric to check that the guinea pig was still there, tiny nose twitching, warm and alive.

It made his chest ache in a way that wasn’t entirely bad.

The closer he got to home, though, the slower his steps became. He wasn’t ready to face them yet—not after the way he’d yelled, the way they’d looked at him. He didn’t even know what to say.

He stopped at the edge of the tunnel that led into the lair, pulling his hood up, ready to slip in quietly.

But the sound of heavy footsteps behind him made him tense.

“M-Michelangelo?”

Mikey turned so fast the tote bag nearly slipped from his grip. Leatherhead stood there in the dim tunnel, eyes blinking slowly against the low light. His bulk filled the passage, water dripping from his scales.

“Oh! Hey, Big Guy.” Mikey’s voice came out too loud, too bright, but genuine warmth flickered through it. “You scared me for a sec.”

Leatherhead tilted his head, frown creasing his snout. “I did not mean to frighten you. I was only on my way home. You were out… rather late, my friend.”

Mikey hugged the bag closer. “Yeah, I, uh… had some stuff I needed to clear up topside.”

He hesitated, then added with sudden spark, “But, uh, I made a friend! Wanna meet them?”

Leatherhead blinked, both excited about meeting someone Mikey held close and hesitate to meet someone new. “I… would be honored.”

He kept his distance—carefully, the way Splinter had warned—but walked beside Mikey as they headed toward the lair entrance.

Mikey tugged open the tote bag a little and grinned, wide and soft and almost childlike. “This is Bean. He’s, uh, a guinea pig! Cool little dude, right?”

The small creature squeaked and wiggled, pushing up to sniff the air.

Leatherhead’s eyes softened. “He is quite small.”

“Yeah! But he’s brave. Climbed right into my hand back there like he wasn’t scared of anything. Guess he doesn’t care that I’m, you know…” Mikey trailed off, his grin faltering for half a second before recovering. “…not exactly normal pet material.”

Leatherhead rumbled a low, gentle chuckle. “Bravery recognizes kindness, not form.”

Mikey looked up at him, blinking. “That’s… that’s really nice, dude.”

They walked the rest of the way in near silence, the tunnels echoing faintly with the sound of dripping water and Bean’s occasional squeaks. Mikey chattered a little—about the pet store, about how Bean liked hiding under his hoodie, about how he thought maybe, just maybe, he could make the guinea pig a little pen in his room.

Leatherhead mostly listened, nodding, content to let Mikey’s voice fill the silence. It was the first time in weeks that the young turtle’s words carried any lightness.

When they reached the entrance to the lair, Mikey slowed, glancing down the tunnel where the faint light from the common area glowed warm. “You don’t gotta walk me all the way in, y’know.”

“I would prefer to ensure you are safe,” Leatherhead said softly. “But I will not intrude.”

Mikey looked down at Bean, who blinked up at him, then back at Leatherhead. “You’re not intruding. I like having you around. You’re… calm.”

Something fragile but real flickered in his smile.

Leatherhead inclined his head slightly, his tail flicking once. “Then I am glad.”

They stood there for a long heartbeat before Mikey stepped forward, just close enough that his shoulder brushed Leatherhead’s arm—a featherlight contact, barely there.

He didn’t flinch.

Instead, he looked up with that same small smile. “Thanks for walking me home, Big Guy.”

Leatherhead gave a low hum of acknowledgment, voice like gravel and warmth all at once. “Anytime, Michelangelo.”

And for the first time in weeks, Mikey believed someone when they said they’d be there.

He adjusted the tote bag, whispered something to Bean, and disappeared down the corridor toward his family, the echoes of his quiet laughter lingering in the tunnel.

Leatherhead watched him go, puzzled by all he didn’t yet understand—but more determined than ever to keep that fragile spark of light alive.

______________________

The lab was quiet except for the hum of the monitors. Donnie sat rigid in front of one, the laptop open, his hands clenched so tight the edges of the keyboard bit into his palms. He’d been staring at the same messages for nearly half an hour, unable to tear his eyes away—unable to stop himself from re-reading every vile line.

The door slid open behind him.

“Yo, Dee?” Raph’s voice was rough with exhaustion and irritation. “What’s got you cooped up in here all night?”

Leo followed close behind, his expression drawn. “You disappeared after Mikey left. We thought—”

“Sit down,” Donnie said quietly, voice so flat that both of them froze.

Raph frowned. “Don, what—”

“Sit down.”

They did. Slowly.

Donnie’s fingers trembled as he turned the laptop toward them. The chat window glowed like a wound in the dim light. “This is what’s been happening,” he said. “This is why Mikey’s not okay.”

Leo leaned forward first, scanning the lines of text. His brow furrowed, then his eyes widened.

Raph squinted at the screen, lips moving silently as he read—then his face went red. “What the hell is this?!”

Donnie’s voice cracked. “It’s Bradford. He—he was talking to Mikey. Before his mutation.”

The words hung in the air, heavy as stone.

Leo scrolled, silent. The faint click of the mouse echoed like gunfire. Each message that passed seemed to chip another piece off his calm. His jaw tightened, shoulders locking.

Donnie’s voice was low, breaking apart. “It started out normal. Training advice, compliments, all that. Then he started… twisting things. Making Mikey think his brothers didn’t understand him. That we didn't understand him. That he should only trust him. And then…”

He stopped. He couldn’t say it.

But the screen said it for him.

Raph’s chair screeched as he stood, hands balled into fists so tight his knuckles cracked. “He what?”

Leo’s face had gone pale, his eyes burning. “Donnie… are you sure?”

“I wish I wasn’t.” Donnie pressed a hand to his mouth, swallowing hard. “It’s all here. The grooming, the manipulation, the—” His voice broke, and he turned away, gripping the desk. “He made Mikey send him pictures. He called him brave for it. Said it was their secret. He—he told Mikey not to tell us.”

Raph’s shell plates flared with fury. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“Raph—”

“I’m gonna rip his throat out!” Raph slammed his fist into the table, splintering the edge. “He touched our baby brother like that?! He used him?!”

Leo was silent—but the kind of silence that meant something dangerous had come unglued. His hand flexed near his sword hilt, slow, deliberate. “He’s still out there.”

Donnie looked up at them, tears streaking his face, voice shaking with equal parts horror and guilt. “We didn’t notice. All that time, he was— and we didn’t—”

“Don’t,” Raph snapped, though not unkindly. His eyes were wild, but his tone softened just enough to keep Donnie from collapsing. “This ain’t on you. This is on him.”

The door creaked open again, and Master Splinter stepped in. The fury in the room hit him like a wall—he could feel it in the air, hear the tremor in his sons’ voices.

“My sons?”

Leo turned, face stiff with barely contained emotion. “Sensei. You need to see this.”

Splinter crossed the room quietly. Donnie turned the screen toward him, hands shaking. He didn’t speak—just watched.

The old rat read the messages, each line slower than the last, his brows lowering with every vile word. His claws tightened around his staff until the wood creaked.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, dangerous. “Bradford…”

Raph’s voice came out raw. “We’re gonna find him, Sensei. We’re gonna end him.”

Leo’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “He’s working with Shredder now. He's never alone, we'll have to go through Fishface as well."

“I'll go through Shredder himself,” Raph growled.

Splinter’s eyes closed, the breath leaving him slow and heavy. For a moment, he looked every inch the tired old father he was—but then his tail flicked sharply, his ears pinning back.

“I understand your anger,” he said, voice shaking with effort. “I share it. Bradford has brought dishonor upon himself beyond redemption. But listen to me, my sons—revenge will not heal Michelangelo’s wounds. Not yet.”

“Then what, Sensei?” Donnie’s voice cracked like a whip. “We just let him walk? Pretend this didn’t happen while Mikey falls apart in front of us?”

Splinter looked at him, and for once, the calm in his eyes wavered. Beneath the wisdom was something ancient and feral—rage, grief, love.

“No,” he said softly. “We will not pretend. But we must be careful. Bradford is dangerous, and Mikey is fragile. If we go to war, we do so with purpose.”

Raph paced, fists still trembling. “Purpose, huh? I’ll give him purpose.”

Leo placed a hand on his shoulder, his voice cold and flat. “We’ll plan it. We’ll make sure he never gets near Mikey again.”

Splinter’s gaze lingered on them, then on the dark laptop screen. “For now, your brother needs you calm. When he returns, he must not see this anger. Not yet.”

Donnie nodded, wiping his eyes, but his hands still shook. “Okay… okay.”

Raph turned toward the door, growling low. “But when the time comes, Sensei—”

Splinter’s eyes flashed. “He will answer for what he has done.”

The room fell silent again, thick and heavy, the air pulsing with quiet promises of vengeance.

And somewhere down the tunnel, faint laughter echoed—Mikey’s voice, lighter for once, accompanied by a tiny squeak.

Donnie’s breath hitched. The sound almost broke him.

Leo looked toward the doorway, voice barely a whisper. “He’s home.”

And all three of them turned to face the hall, hearts burning, trying to mask the fury boiling just beneath their skin before their baby brother walked through the door.

The footsteps were soft at first—then came a faint squeak, and another, and a voice that hadn’t sounded truly alive in weeks.

“Guys? You’re not gonna believe who I met tonight!”

Mikey’s grin lit up the entryway as he stepped into the lair, Bean perched in his hands like some precious treasure. His hoodie was still damp, his bandana askew, but his eyes were bright—tired but bright—and for a moment, it was like the old Mikey was standing there again.

All four of them froze where they stood.

Donnie’s breath hitched. Raph straightened from his slouched position near the couch. Leo’s grip on his tea mug went white-knuckled, and Splinter turned slowly from where he’d been sitting at the table.

The air was thick.

“Uh…” Mikey blinked at them, the smile faltering. “...Okay, so, not the reaction I was expecting.”

He laughed, a nervous little sound, and held Bean up like an offering. “This is Bean! He’s a guinea pig! He, uh—he came home with me. I’m gonna take care of him. I already got him food and everything.”

The guinea pig squeaked, wriggling in his hands, and Mikey smiled again—small and genuine—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.

Silence stretched.

Raph looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. Donnie’s throat bobbed with words he couldn’t force out. Leo’s expression was too controlled, too calm in a way that meant he was barely holding it together.

Mikey’s gaze darted between them, reading every flicker of tension, every swallowed breath. His shoulders slowly began to curl inward, like a flower folding under frost.

“...Oh.” His voice came quiet. “You guys are mad.”

“No—” Donnie started immediately, too sharp. “Mikey, no, that’s not—”

“It’s fine,” Mikey said, cutting him off with a soft laugh that didn’t sound right. “I know I shouldn’t’ve gone topside alone, or… or brought something back. I’ll take Bean back, okay? I didn’t mean to—”

“Mikey,” Leo interrupted, voice steady but strained. “We’re not mad at you.”

Mikey blinked up at him, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Then… why do you all look like someone died?”

Raph let out a short, pained laugh and scrubbed a hand over his face. Donnie couldn’t look at him at all.

Splinter stepped forward, quiet as always, his tail swaying behind him. “My son,” he said gently, “no one is angry. You have done nothing wrong.”

Mikey’s lip trembled. He looked between them again, Bean shifting slightly in his hands. “Then what’s wrong?” he asked softly. “You guys are all looking at me like I broke something.”

He stopped when Leo stepped in, voice calm but firm. “Mikey, you didn’t do anything wrong. How about you go on. Get Bean set up in your room.”

Raph crouched a little to meet Mikey’s eye level, keeping his voice soft. “Yeah, buddy. Go ahead. Don’t worry about us right now.”

Mikey blinked, a flicker of relief passing over his face, and he nodded, holding Bean a little closer. “Okay…”

He padded off toward his room, Bean squeaking softly in his hands. His shoulders still hunched, and his smile was fragile—but for now, he was safe.

As the tunnel swallowed his footsteps, Donnie turned sharply toward Leo and Raph, his voice cracking with anger. “He deserves to know!” he snapped. “He deserves to know we went through his stuff, that we saw what Bradford did to him!”

Raph held up a hand, exhaling through clenched teeth. “Not now, Dee. Don't you think he feels dirty enough already? He doesn’t need to hear that from us right now.”

Leo’s eyes were cold and sharp. “Exactly. He’s still fragile. If he finds out we invaded his privacy before he’s ready… it’ll break him all over again.”

Donnie’s fists balled at his sides, but his chest heaved with frustration. “He deserves the truth! He deserves to know we’re on his side and that he’s not dirty for what that monster did!”

Raph’s jaw tightened. “And he will. But we wait. Right now, he just needs some normal, man. Let him breathe. Let him take care of his little friend without thinking about the world falling apart.”

Donnie’s shoulders slumped, but he didn’t argue further. He couldn’t. Not with Mikey so close to regaining even a sliver of joy.

Splinter, quiet until now, gave a low, soft sigh. “Patience, my sons. All truths will find their place, in time. Now we watch over Michelangelo, and we protect the spark that is still within him.”

Donnie nodded stiffly, still trembling with barely contained anger and helplessness, his eyes following Mikey’s retreating form. Bean squeaked again, tiny and alive against Mikey’s chest, and Donnie’s heart twisted.

The little spark in Mikey—so small, so fragile—was all that mattered for now. And for the first time in weeks, it was flickering.

______________________

Mikey stood back in his room, hands still damp from washing after setting up Bean’s new habitat. The little guinea pig scurried under the fresh bedding, sniffing, exploring, and squeaking softly, and for a brief, fleeting moment, Mikey’s chest felt lighter.

He smiled, small and tentative, watching Bean curl up in a little corner of the enclosure. It wasn’t much—but it was safe. And it was something he could care for without fear, without flinching.

But even as his fingers brushed against the top of the habitat, the warmth of that feeling didn’t last. The hollow ache inside his skin didn’t go away. His shoulders tensed again, muscles stiff, as if they’d forgotten how to relax.

He shook his head and muttered to himself, voice barely above a whisper. “I need… something else.”

He gathered Bean close, getting him settled in his tote bag. He padded quietly to the lair entrance, hoodie pulled tight, and hesitated in the dim tunnel. The thought had been there for hours, a tiny flicker of hope he couldn’t ignore: the one person whose presence didn’t make him flinch, whose touch he didn’t fear.

Leatherhead.

Mikey glanced over his shoulder at the darkened corridors leading back to his room, at the faintly glowing common area where his brothers lingered—but he didn’t want them right now. Not yet. Not with everything raw and tangled inside him.

He exhaled, slow and deliberate, and started toward the main tunnel, each step measured, almost cautious. His hand instinctively tightened around Bean’s small tote bag.

The world outside the lair was quieter than usual. Even the hum of the city seemed softened, muted. Mikey moved almost ninja-like, the way he had when he was a kid, before everything got heavy.

And then he saw him: Leatherhead, emerging from his alcove, tail dragging softly behind him, scales glinting faintly under the dim light.

Mikey froze for a heartbeat, then shuffled forward. “Uh… hey, Big Guy.”

Leatherhead tilted his head, eyes blinking slowly. “Mikey. You… are out. Why?”

“I—uh…” Mikey’s lips twitched, but he forced a small smile. “I wanted to… I mean, I needed to—well, I just… wanted to see you.”

Leatherhead’s expression softened. “I… understand.”

He moved carefully closer, keeping a respectful distance, just enough for Mikey to feel the presence without fear of being touched too soon. Mikey’s heart thumped in his chest, an almost-forgotten rhythm.

“I brought a friend!” Mikey said suddenly, lifting Bean slightly. “You remember Bean, right?”

Leatherhead’s gaze followed the small creature, and a low, gentle rumble of acknowledgment came from his throat. “Yes… very small, very lively.”

Mikey nodded, adjusting the tote bag in his hands. “He likes to explore, but I… I set him up a nice little home. Wanted him to feel safe.”

Leatherhead didn’t say anything, just nodded. And somehow, that was enough.

For a long moment, Mikey simply stood there, hands twitching at his sides, the familiar prickle of his skin reminding him he’d gone too long without touch. His shoulders stiffened and then relaxed slightly.

Slowly, hesitantly, Mikey lifted one hand, letting it drift toward Leatherhead’s arm. Just barely brushing the rough, scaled surface.

The contact was light—barely there—but it was enough.

Mikey froze as the familiar warmth of connection hit him, and then, almost uncontrollably, he broke down. Hot, silent tears slipped from his eyes as he let his hand rest on Leatherhead’s arm. Bean squeaked softly in his tote bag, but he didn’t flinch from that either.

Leatherhead stayed still, patient, silent, letting Mikey lean into that small comfort. No words. No movement beyond the quiet presence of something solid and safe.

Chapter Text

“Uh… Big Guy?” Mikey’s voice was hesitant but full of hope. “Do… do you think… me and Bean could, uh… stay here tonight? I mean… with you?”

Leatherhead tilted his head slowly, eyes soft. “Yes… you may. You are safe here.”

Mikey’s face lit up like sunrise breaking through clouds. “Really? Oh man! Really?” He grinned so wide it threatened to split his face, bouncing slightly in excitement. “Thanks, Big Guy! Your the best.”

Leatherhead rumbled softly, a deep, gentle sound that Mikey took as approval.

For a while, they sat together, Bean nestled safely between them, the city lights faint through the tunnel entrance. Mikey found a small cushion and made himself comfortable, leaning against Leatherhead’s side but not too close—just enough for proximity, just enough to feel that someone else was there.

“Hey,” Mikey whispered after a few minutes, nudging Bean gently. “Want to watch some TV? I’ve got a few shows you might like. Uh… not the scary stuff, promise.”

Leatherhead nodded, settling in. The flicker of the small screen filled the tunnel with soft light, shadows dancing over scales and shells.

Mikey laughed quietly, pointing to the screen. “Okay, okay… so, this one time, Donnie tried to make pizza for the first time. Totally forgot to turn on the oven. We ate raw dough for like… an hour. And Raph—oh man—he tried to act like he was fine but his face was green. Gross, right?”

Leatherhead’s low rumble sounded almost like amusement.

“Wait—wait, wait!” Mikey whispered, leaning closer and giggling, “Leo fell in the sewer trying to sneak a snack once. Hid behind a barrel, thought no one saw him, then—splat!—straight in the slime! He never lived it down. I still bring it up sometimes.”

Leatherhead’s eyes blinked slowly, watching Mikey’s small grin, the way his ears twitched when he laughed quietly. It was… peaceful.

Hours passed in soft whispers, chuckles, and the quiet squeaks of Bean exploring. Mikey leaned closer to Leatherhead as the giant finally began to relax, eyelids drooping.

And then it hit him—sharp and unyielding: the closeness.

Leatherhead’s slow, rhythmic breathing filled the space. His arm shifted slightly, the weight of his bulk nearby pressing a presence Mikey wasn’t sure he could handle.

Mikey froze. The warmth that had felt safe now prickled like fire across his skin. His chest tightened. The air seemed too thick. His breaths came too fast, shallow, irregular.

Leatherhead’s eyes snapped open slightly. “Mikey?”

Mikey shook his head, panic rising. “I—I’m… I can’t… I—” His hands fluttered helplessly, trying to push away something that wasn’t there.

Bean, sensing it immediately, scrambled up onto Mikey’s chest, tiny paws pressing into his hoodie. The guinea pig squeaked sharply, nudging him, snuggling closer. Mikey froze, looking down at the little creature, tears spilling from his eyes.

And then something shifted.

Bean squeaked again, pushing gently, nudging him just enough to ground him. Mikey’s breaths started to slow, chest heaving but less ragged. The tiny heartbeat of the guinea pig against him was steady, comforting.

Leatherhead remained still, quietly letting him recover, the subtle rumble of his presence a silent promise.

Mikey finally sank fully onto the floor, clutching Bean to his chest, letting the little squeaks and warmth pull him out of the panic. His tears were hot, but not from fear—they were relief. He whispered softly to the guinea pig, voice trembling.

“You… you saved me, Bean. You’re a good little dude, aren’t you?”

Bean squeaked in agreement, snuggling closer.

And for the first time in a long while, Mikey felt a small, fragile thread of safety stretch between them—tiny, but real.

Leatherhead lowered his head slightly, nudging Mikey gently with the tip of his snout. It wasn’t touching too much—just enough to acknowledge him, just enough to say, I’m here. You’re okay.

Mikey let out a shaky laugh, hugging Bean tighter. “Yeah… yeah, I think I’m gonna be okay. For now.”

The tunnel grew quiet again, save for the faint hum of the city above, the squeaks of Bean, and the slow, steady breaths of two unlikely friends learning what it meant to be safe again.

______________________

Mikey woke to warmth.

Not the suffocating heat of scalding water, or the anxious burn that lived under his skin lately — but real, gentle warmth. Soft and quiet. The kind that wrapped around his bones and whispered that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay.

He blinked blearily, eyes adjusting to the faint light filtering into Leatherhead’s alcove. Bean was curled up on his chest, a tiny puff of fur and contentment, still fast asleep.

And then it hit him.

He’d slept.

He’d actually slept.

No jerking awake. No screams caught in his throat. No phantom hands or burning memories clawing at his mind. Just… sleep.

Mikey stared up at the ceiling, tears welling unbidden in his eyes. His chest shook once with a startled, breathless laugh. “Guess you’re my good luck charm, huh, Bean?” he whispered, rubbing a finger gently over the guinea pig’s soft fur.

Bean squeaked in sleepy protest, earning another tiny laugh from him.

Across the alcove, Leatherhead stirred, shifting his massive frame with a low, sleepy rumble. His eyes blinked open slowly, and when they found Mikey already awake, they softened into a smile.

“Good morning, Michelangelo,” he rumbled, voice still gravelly with sleep.

Mikey grinned faintly, rubbing at his face. “Morning, Big Guy.”

Leatherhead tilted his head slightly, his gaze curious. “You look… rested.”

“Yeah.” Mikey’s voice came out small, almost shy. “I didn’t have a nightmare.” He hesitated, then looked up at Leatherhead, eyes bright and glassy. “First time in… I don’t even know how long.”

Leatherhead’s expression softened further, something like pride glimmering in his gaze. “Then perhaps Bean is a guardian spirit.”

Mikey laughed softly. “Yeah, my little therapy pig. Who needs dream catchers when you’ve got this guy?”

Leatherhead chuckled low, the sound rumbling through the space. “Indeed. Though I suspect it was not only Bean who made you feel safe.”

Mikey looked at him, a little startled, and then ducked his head, cheeks darkening under his orange mask. “Maybe.”

Leatherhead smiled, slow and genuine.

They lingered for a while in the comfortable silence of morning, Mikey carefully tucking Bean back into his tote bag before standing and stretching with a groan.

Leatherhead rose too, the ground trembling faintly beneath him. “Shall I walk you and your companion home?”

Mikey hesitated, but nodded. “Yeah. That’d be… really nice.”

They made their way through the tunnels together, the quiet hum of water filling the space between them. Mikey walked close enough that his elbow brushed against Leatherhead’s arm now and then — small touches, easy, unthinking.

It was the kind of closeness that didn’t scare him anymore.

As they neared the lair entrance, Leatherhead glanced down at him, amusement glinting faintly in his eyes. “I think, perhaps, I should visit your brothers soon. There must be many… amusing stories they could share about you.”

Mikey’s head snapped up, scandalized. “Wait—no, no, no, you don’t wanna do that! They’ll totally exaggerate!”

Leatherhead rumbled a low chuckle. “Exaggerate? Or reveal the truth?”

“Definitely exaggerate!” Mikey insisted, flailing one arm dramatically. “They make everything sound worse than it was! Like, one time, Donnie says I flooded the lair but that was totally an accident and it wasn’t even that much water!”

Leatherhead’s grin widened, teeth flashing. “Ah, I see. A very small flood, then?”

“Tiny!” Mikey said quickly. “Like, ankle-deep! Okay, knee-deep. But still!”

The sound of his laughter echoed down the tunnel, bright and real, the kind that filled up the cracks inside him.

When they reached the lair’s entrance, Mikey turned to Leatherhead, clutching Bean’s tote bag to his chest. “Thanks, Big Guy. For… everything.”

Leatherhead bowed his head slightly. “You are welcome, Michelangelo. You are always welcome here.”

Mikey smiled softly. “I’ll remember that.”

And for once, he meant it.

As he slipped back into the lair, Bean squeaking faintly against his chest, Leatherhead lingered at the tunnel’s mouth for a long while — listening to the echoes of Mikey’s laughter fading down the hall.

It sounded like sunlight after a long, cold night.

______________________

The smell hit them first — something warm and sweet that didn’t belong to any of their usual breakfasts.

Donnie blinked blearily from the couch, goggles askew. “Is that… pancakes?”

Raph sniffed the air, suspicious. “Smells like pancakes and eggs.”

Splinter emerged from his meditation chamber with a faintly amused hum. “And perhaps… bacon as well?”

The three brothers exchanged looks — then moved as one toward the kitchen.

Mikey stood at the stove, hoodie sleeves rolled up, a streak of batter on his cheek and Bean sitting contentedly on the counter in a little towel-lined basket. The air was rich with the scent of maple and butter.

He turned at the sound of their footsteps, flashing a grin that was almost the old Mikey again — bright, open, unguarded. “Morning, sleepyheads! Thought I’d make breakfast for everyone!”

Raph leaned against the counter, grinning wide. “Well, damn, look at you, Chef Mikey! About time we had somethin’ edible ‘round here that wasn’t Donnie’s weird protein sludge.”

“Hey!” Donnie protested, but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips.

Splinter’s gaze softened as he approached the table. “This is… most kind of you, my son. It has been some time since we shared such a meal.”

Mikey’s grin faltered only slightly before returning. “Yeah… thought maybe it was time.”

They gathered around the table, plates steaming, the sound of forks and quiet laughter echoing off the tiled walls. Even Bean got a sliver of fruit, carefully placed in his tiny dish.

For a while, everything felt almost normal.

Donnie found himself smiling, watching Mikey talk to Bean between bites, narrating the guinea pig’s “opinions” on syrup and toast. Raph leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, just watching his brother act like himself again.

It was peaceful.

Then Leo, relaxed for the first time in ages, offhandedly said, “I’m skipping the syrup. Trying a new special diet.”

That one word — special — cracked the air like thunder.

Mikey froze.

The smile vanished from his face so quickly it was like it had never been there. His fork trembled in his hand. His chest started to rise and fall faster.

“Mikey?” Leo frowned. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

The youngest turtle’s eyes went glassy, unfocused — like he wasn’t in the lair anymore. His breath hitched, came too fast.

“Special,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “He… he called me that too.”

Donnie’s heart dropped. “Who did?”

But Mikey didn’t hear him. He was shaking now, hands gripping the edge of the table so tight his knuckles went white.

“He said I was special,” Mikey went on, voice trembling, the words tumbling out like they’d been waiting for years. “That I was the only one who understood him. That I— that I wanted it.”

Raph’s chair scraped the floor as he stood, but Leo shot him a warning glance, frozen between wanting to move and afraid to.

Mikey pressed a hand over his mouth, eyes wide, panicked. “I didn’t— I didn’t want it, I didn’t—” His breath hitched, words falling apart. “He made me— he said—”

“Mikey,” Splinter said softly, the first to move, but even his steps were slow, careful. “My son, you are safe. You are here.”

Mikey flinched like the words hurt. “I didn’t tell you,” he whispered hoarsely. “You’d all think I’m dirty. You’d—”

“Never,” Raph’s voice cracked. “We’d never think that, Mikey.”

But Mikey was already standing, stumbling back, tears streaking down his face. Bean squeaked from the counter, and Mikey reached for him like a lifeline, scooping the tiny creature to his chest.

“I can’t—” His voice broke. “I can’t breathe.”

Donnie started forward, desperate to help, to say something, anything — to tell him that they already knew, that he didn’t have to be alone in this anymore.

But Leo caught his wrist, shaking his head.

This wasn’t the time.

They watched, helpless, as Mikey turned and ran down the tunnel, the sound of his retreating footsteps echoing long after he disappeared.

Splinter’s hand went to his face, shoulders sagging with quiet sorrow. “The wound festers deeper than we feared.”

Leatherhead, drawn by the sounds, having not gone far after dropping Mikey off, burst through the archway. “What has happened to Michelangelo?”

Splinter exhaled, eyes still fixed on the darkened tunnel. “We do not yet know fhe full story, my friend. Only that our son carries a great burden… and that it is breaking him.”

No one spoke for a long time.

Donnie’s stomach churned. He’d wanted to be the one to tell Mikey gently, to give him space — not this. Not a panic attack triggered by a single innocent word.

Leo was pale, his mouth tight with guilt. Raph looked ready to punch through the wall just to release the pressure building inside him.

And Splinter just looked… tired.

Tired of watching his sons bleed from wounds he couldn’t see.

The silence after Mikey’s retreat was unbearable.

The sound of his footsteps had faded, but it felt like the echoes still clung to the walls — shaking something loose in each of them.

Raph was the first to move. “We’re not just sittin’ here. He’s out there — like this — and we don’t even know what the hell’s goin’ on in his head.”

“Raph,” Leo warned softly, “we can’t chase him if he needs space.”

“Space?” Raph barked, slamming a hand down on the table hard enough to rattle the plates. “He can’t even breathe, Leo! He’s got somethin’ eatin’ him alive, and we’re just supposed to sit here?”

Donnie pushed back his chair and stood abruptly. His voice shook — not with anger, but raw fear. “No. He’s right. Mikey’s not thinking clearly. If he runs into something — or someone — he’s not in the state to defend himself.”

Splinter bowed his head, folding his hands. “Be mindful, my sons. Do not smother him — but do not abandon him, either. He is lost within himself. He will need your light to find his way back.”

They moved fast — slipping into the tunnels, hearts pounding in time with their steps. The silence between them was thick, carrying all the things they hadn’t said. Leo led the way, but his movements lacked his usual calm precision. Every corner they turned, he expected to see Mikey’s small, shaking form.

When they finally emerged topside, the night air was damp and sharp.

And that’s when they saw them.

Dogpound and Fishface.

The two mutants were dragging crates from a half-destroyed loading dock, Fishface muttering in Spanish under his breath while Dogpound snapped orders.

Raph froze. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Donnie’s breath hitched as his gaze locked on the hulking gray figure. His stomach twisted — because now that he knew what he’d done to Mikey, every second of Bradford’s presence felt like poison in the air.

Leo’s hand went to his katanas. “We don’t have time for this—”

“Oh, I think we do,” Raph hissed.

Bradford turned, sharp eyes narrowing as he recognized them. “Well, if it isn’t the turtle troupe. Little late for a field trip, don’t you think?”

Fishface groaned. “Ay, great. The green freaks again.”

Raph’s voice dropped to a growl. “Don’t. Talk. To me.”

Dogpound smirked, cocking his head. “Touchy. You boys seem a little on edge. Missing someone?”

That was all it took.

Raph lunged.

Leo barely managed to move in time to keep him from driving a sai straight through Dogpound’s throat. “Raph, wait—!”

But Raph wasn’t hearing anyone. Not now. He tackled Bradford, fists flying — raw, vicious, desperate. “You hurt him!” he shouted, each word a strike. “You sick piece of—”

Bradford blocked one blow, caught Raph by the shell, and threw him into a wall. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Donnie fired his bo-staff’s taser end, sparks flaring as it struck Dogpound’s shoulder. “You know exactly what we’re talking about!”

Fishface stumbled back, startled by the sudden ferocity. “Whoa, whoa! What’s this about?”

Bradford sneered, rubbing his jaw where Raph had landed a hit. “Guess your baby brother’s been running his mouth.”

That stopped them cold.

Leo’s voice dropped into something deadly quiet. “What did you just say?”

Dogpound grinned — that smug, self-satisfied smile that made Donnie’s stomach turn. “You heard me. Kid always was too trusting. Too easy to—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because this time, Leo moved.

Fast.

Blades out, fury burning beneath every ounce of discipline. Raph was right behind him, and Donnie followed — not because he wanted to fight, but because if he didn’t, someone would die before they stopped.

Fishface swore, darting back, trying to pull Dogpound with him. “You’re on your own, hermano. I don’t know what this is, but I’m out.”

“Coward!” Dogpound roared, shoving him away.

The fight exploded — steel against claws, snarls and shouts echoing off concrete. Every strike Leo made was measured but merciless. Donnie’s bo cracked across Dogpound’s ribs. Raph’s sai tore into his shoulder.

And still — still — it didn’t feel like enough.

______________________

The fight tore through the alley like a storm.

Dogpound roared, swinging with his massive claws, the ground cracking beneath each blow. Leo moved fast — striking, parrying, ducking — his precision mechanical, but his anger wasn’t. Each motion carried the weight of betrayal, of knowing what this monster had done to his baby brother.

Raph hit like a hammer, red mask flashing as he drove his sai into Dogpound’s arm. “You touch him again,” he snarled, voice breaking, “and I’ll—”

“Raph!” Leo barked, blocking a swipe aimed at his brother. “Stay focused!”

But Raph wasn’t listening. He slammed Dogpound against the brick wall so hard it cracked, snarling inches from his face. “You broke him. You broke him, you sick freak—”

Dogpound laughed — breathless, bleeding, but mocking. “Oh, please. The kid came to me. Begged for attention, for someone who wasn’t treating him like a joke.”

Raph’s world went red.

He lunged — only for Donnie to grab him, electricity still humming faintly through his bo. “Stop! He’s trying to—”

“I heard him!” Raph’s voice cracked. “He’s not lying to make me mad, Donnie—he’s bragging!”

Leo stepped in, twin blades pressed against Dogpound’s throat, his composure fracturing. “You think you can twist that and make it sound like his fault?” His voice was low, trembling with fury. “You used him. You hurt him. You don’t get to exist like that.”

Fishface, who had been circling on the edge of the chaos, froze mid-motion. “Wait. What are they talking about?”

Dogpound sneered, breathing hard, eyes flashing with something ugly. “Nothing you’d care about, Xavier. Just the youngest of these freaks — the orange one. Soft, sweet, and so easy.”

The world seemed to stop.

Fishface’s eyes widened, his metal legs clanging against the pavement. “You—” His voice was cold, venomous. “You’re telling me you touched a kid?”

Dogpound blinked, thrown off. “He wasn’t—”

Fishface lunged, faster than any of the turtles expected. His tail coiled around Dogpound’s neck, slamming him against the wall.

“¡Bastardo!” he hissed, eyes burning. “We do bad things, sí — we steal, we fight, we follow orders — but that? That’s evil.”

Dogpound clawed at the coil, struggling. “You think you’re better than me?!”

“I know I am,” Fishface snarled. “At least I don’t touch children and call it training.”

He let go, and Dogpound crumpled to the ground, coughing, bleeding.

Raph didn’t wait. He grabbed Dogpound by the shell of his armor and threw him toward Leo, who drove a kick into his chest, sending him sprawling into the debris.

Donnie’s bo crackled with energy, arcs of electricity painting his face pale blue. “You’re done,” he said quietly. “You’ll never come near him again.”

Dogpound struggled up, staggering, snarling. “You don’t scare me—”

A hiss cut him off — Fishface, towering behind him, tail raised.

“Get out of my sight, perro,” Fishface spat. “If I ever see you again, I’ll finish what I started.”

Dogpound glared, chest heaving, but even he knew better than to argue. He stumbled away into the shadows, muttering curses, leaving streaks of blood on the wet pavement.

The turtles stood there, breathing hard, hearts still pounding with adrenaline and fury.

Leo sheathed his swords slowly, chest rising and falling. “If he ever comes near Mikey again—”

“He won’t,” Donnie said, voice hoarse. “He won’t get the chance.”

Fishface turned, meeting their eyes — not as an enemy, not this time. “For what it’s worth,” he said roughly, “I didn’t know. I don’t work with monsters.”

Then he disappeared into the night.

The silence that followed was heavy, but different this time. The rage was still there — smoldering — but under it was grief, and under that, an aching kind of relief.

For the first time since Donnie found those messages, justice — not vengeance — felt possible.

Leo looked toward the tunnels. “Let’s go home,” he said quietly. “He needs us.”

Raph wiped his arm across his mouth, blood and rain mixing. “Yeah,” he muttered. “And we need him.”

They vanished into the dark, leaving behind the faint echo of their fight — and the wreckage of a monster who’d finally been unmasked.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile, deep beneath the city, where the echoes of battle couldn’t reach — there was only quiet.

Leatherhead’s alcove was warm, humid, faintly lit by bioluminescent fungi that grew along the walls. The trickle of water through old pipes was the only sound.

Mikey sat on the edge of a half-sunken crate, Bean curled up in his palms. His breaths came shaky but slow — the remains of a panic attack clinging to him like a fog he couldn’t quite shake.

He didn’t hear Leatherhead arrive.

The crocodilian mutant moved with surprising softness for his size, his massive tail dragging gently behind him. He had gone straight home from the lair, something in him whispering that his friend would need him there.

When he saw Mikey, hunched and trembling, his chest tightened.

“Michelangelo,” Leatherhead said quietly, voice a low rumble of concern. “I thought perhaps you would come here.”

Mikey jumped a little, startled, then relaxed as soon as he recognized the voice. “H-hey, big guy.”

Leatherhead moved closer — not too close. He remembered the brothers’ warnings about sudden movements. So instead of reaching out, he sat on the floor beside Mikey, folding his hands in his lap.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Mikey’s voice broke the silence, small and hoarse. “You ever feel like your own brain’s tryin’ to eat you alive?”

Leatherhead tilted his head. “Many times.”

Mikey laughed, but it came out half a sob. “Yeah. Thought so.”

He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrist. “It’s like… everything’s loud all the time. Even when it’s quiet. Even when I’m okay, I’m not.”

Leatherhead let the words settle. “The mind remembers wounds even when the body forgets them. It is not weakness, my friend. It is proof that you have survived.”

Mikey looked at him — really looked at him — and something in his chest cracked open.

For so long, every touch had been a trigger. Every bit of affection had felt like danger. But Leatherhead’s presence wasn’t demanding or sharp; it was steady. Safe.

He reached out, tentative, fingers brushing over the smooth, scaled surface of Leatherhead’s forearm.

The world didn’t end.

He didn’t flinch.

Instead, his hand stayed there — small against the massive arm — and his throat tightened with something he hadn’t felt in months.

Trust.

Leatherhead’s voice softened. “You are trembling. Should I—”

“Don’t move,” Mikey whispered. “Please don’t move.”

Leatherhead nodded. “As you wish.”

They sat in silence for a long time, the faint dripping of water filling the space where words didn’t need to be. Bean climbed from Mikey’s hand onto his shoulder, tiny whiskers brushing against his jaw.

Mikey’s lips quirked into the faintest smile. “Guess Bean likes you.”

“I am honored,” Leatherhead murmured.

When Mikey finally looked up again, the light from the fungus caught in his eyes, soft and gold. His hand was still on Leatherhead’s arm. “You… you make it quiet,” he said. “Inside my head.”

Leatherhead blinked slowly. “Then I will stay as long as you need me to.”

Something in Mikey’s chest fluttered — a spark of courage or hope, he didn’t know which. He shifted closer, just a little, until his shoulder brushed Leatherhead’s arm.

He could feel the warmth there. The heartbeat. The solid proof that someone good was here, choosing to stay.

Mikey’s breath hitched, and before he could think better of it, he leaned up and kissed him — just a brief, trembling brush of lips against scaled muzzle.

Barely a peck.
Gone before Leatherhead could even react.

When Mikey pulled back, tears were streaming down his face.

Leatherhead froze, alarmed. “Did I— have I done something wrong?”

Mikey shook his head quickly, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve, laughing through his tears. “No! No, you didn’t. I just—”

He hiccuped, breath shuddering. “I thought I was broken. For so long, I thought I couldn’t feel good things anymore. But I do. I— I can.”

Leatherhead’s expression softened, his voice a low, soothing rumble. “Then these are not tears of pain.”

Mikey smiled — raw, radiant. “Nah. Not this time.”

He leaned forward again, resting his forehead against Leatherhead’s arm. Bean squeaked approvingly, curling up between them.

For the first time in months, Mikey felt still. Safe. Whole.

And somewhere, far above in the streets, as the rain washed away the blood of monsters, the night itself seemed to exhale — balance returning to a world that had been fractured too long.

______________________

Morning in the lair came slow and soft — the kind of morning that didn’t ask for anything, just offered a little light.

Mikey came through the tunnels with Leatherhead beside him, Bean perched on his shoulder and squeaking like he was announcing their arrival.

The others had been pacing for hours.

Raph was the first to spot him, mid-step, tension snapping tight and then flooding out all at once. Leo froze halfway through another plan, and Donnie just about dropped the mug he’d been pretending to drink from.

“Mikey!”

It was all Raph said before he started forward — not too fast, not too rough. He stopped just short, searching his brother’s eyes for any sign that touch would be okay.

Mikey gave the smallest nod.

And suddenly Raph’s arms were around him, holding on like he was afraid the kid would vanish again. Leo followed, then Donnie, and even Splinter’s calm presence closed in — a circle of warmth that Mikey didn’t flinch from this time.

He leaned into it, Bean squeaking indignantly from between their shells, and everyone laughed through the tears.

For the first time in so long, laughter fit here.

No one mentioned what had happened.
Not the panic. Not the fight.
Not the truth they had uncovered in those messages.

For now, it didn’t matter.

Mikey was laughing again, and that was enough.

Leatherhead stayed near the tunnel entrance, watching quietly.

Mikey turned to him. “Hey, big guy… thank you. For… everything.”

Leatherhead gave a small, toothy smile — the kind that said more than words could. “You are most welcome, my turtle.”

Mikey hesitated, then added softly, “You make it feel okay to be me again.”

That one hit deep.

Leatherhead only nodded once, solemn and gentle. “Then I will stay by your side.”

And they both knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

Later, when eyes had dried and the laughter faded into quiet conversation, Mikey slipped away to his room. Leatherhead followed, careful and respectful as always.

Inside, Bean was exploring his cage, tiny paws pattering softly against the bedding Mikey had stolen days ago. Mikey knelt, watching him, smiling faintly.

“He’s happy,” Mikey whispered.

Leatherhead nodded. “Because you are.”

Mikey’s throat tightened, and he nodded too, slow and sure. “Yeah. I think I’m gonna be, at least.”

Leatherhead smiled — a small, gentle curve of his mouth. “Then that is all that matters.”

For a long moment, they stood in silence.
No ghosts. No panic. Just warmth.

He wasn’t fixed. But he was healing.

And that, finally, was enough.

______________________

Meanwhile…

Far above, in a dark alley slick with rain, Fishface’s voice carried low over the dripping rooftops.

Tigerclaw listened in silence as the mutant fish spoke — explaining, haltingly, what Dogpound had done before his mutation. The kind of thing you couldn’t unsay.

When Fishface finished, there was a long, heavy pause.

Tigerclaw’s tail flicked once.

His jaw tightened, fangs catching the faint glow of a streetlight. “He touched a child,” he said, voice like a growl dragged across gravel. “A child.”

Fishface nodded grimly. “Sí. One of the turtles. The orange one.”

Tigerclaw looked out toward the horizon, eyes narrowing. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled.

“Then Dogpound,” he said, cold and certain, “will not see another sunrise.”

The alley went still.

Fishface didn’t follow. He just muttered a quiet, uneasy prayer for whoever stood in Tigerclaw’s path.

Because when a hunter swore vengeance, there was no hiding from it.

______________________

Back below the city, Mikey sat cross-legged on his bed, Bean curled in his palm, and whispered to the tiny creature:

“Guess it’s not all bad down here, huh?”

Bean squeaked, and Mikey smiled — soft, hopeful, and alive.

For the first time in forever, the quiet didn’t feel like loneliness.
It just felt like peace.

Chapter Text