The One They Lost

by GayDekuChan

Summary:

Michelangelo vanished after Splinter died.
No goodbye. No body. Just silence.

Months later, a vigilante begins haunting the streets — fast, brutal, silent.
A shadow wrapped in black, leaving behind only whispers… and knives.

His brothers think they’ve lost him forever.

But the city knows better.

The Shadow is watching.

Notes:

Hi hi!! This is my first TMNT fic and I’m so excited to share it 💙
It’s angsty, a little soft, very sibling-feels, and super close to my heart.
Hope you enjoy — I’d love to hear what you think!

Chapter 1: The Space He Left

The lair was quieter than usual.

 

Not silent — never silent — but wrong.

 

There were sounds. Leo’s footsteps echoed soft and steady down the hallway. Raph’s restless pacing made the floor of the training room vibrate ever so slightly. Donnie’s low murmurs and the occasional clink of metal drifted from the lab, scattered pieces of noise that would’ve, once, blended into the comforting hum of home.

 

But now?

 

Now the familiar was warped. The usual banter, the teasing, the snorts of laughter, the bickering that once filled the air like background music — it had all been hollowed out.

 

The silence had teeth.

 

And Mikey sat in the middle of it, cross-legged on the old training mat near the entrance, back pressed against the cold stone wall. The mat was worn, frayed at the edges from years of use — their childhood etched into its threads. He didn’t know why he’d chosen to sit here.

 

Maybe because it used to feel safe.

 

His orange bandana felt heavier than it had any right to. It clung to his skin like guilt, soaked with weeks of unspoken things. He hadn’t taken it off in days — hadn’t changed it, even though it felt tighter now, almost suffocating. As if it knew he wasn’t the same person anymore.

 

His fingers drifted toward the nunchucks beside him. The ones he had repainted — matte black now, no longer bright or cheerful. He didn’t even remember deciding to do it. Just... woke up with black paint under his nails and a sick ache in his chest.

 

He hadn’t touched them since.

 

 “These nunchucks, my son, will be your weapon from now on.”

 

 

 

The memory pierced him unexpectedly. His throat clenched. He jerked his hand away like they’d burned him.

 

He didn’t want to look at them.

 

He didn’t want to feel anything at all.

 

 

---

 

The morning had started like any other.

 

Except it wasn’t.

 

Because Splinter wasn’t there.

 

No quiet greetings. No warm tea. No small words of wisdom as they gathered for breakfast. The space he used to occupy — spiritually, physically — felt like a black hole now, tugging at everything and everyone.

 

Raph had been pacing since sunrise, his mood a live wire. Short-tempered. Defensive. Ready to fight anything and anyone — except the grief chewing through him.

 

Leo had been calm in that fake way that meant he was barely holding on. His words were quiet. Too quiet. He tried to keep the peace, as always.

 

Donnie hadn’t looked up from the blueprint splayed across his worktable. It had tears smudged into the corner.

 

Mikey sat near the edge of the room, head down, fingers curled into the fabric of his knee pad. He hadn’t said a word all morning. Leo couldn't bear seeing him like this.

 

Leo finally broke.

 

“Mikey.”

 

No response.

 

“Mikey, talk to us.”

 

Mikey’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t look up.

 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he muttered.

 

Leo crossed the room, voice low, trying not to snap. “That’s not true. You think I can’t see it? You’re not okay.”

 

“I’m fine,” Mikey snapped a little too fast, too sharp. He immediately flinched at his own tone.

 

Leo took a breath. Careful. Controlled.

 

“You don’t have to be fine.”

 

There was silence. Mikey shifted slightly, jaw tight, eyes burning.

 

“I miss him too,” Leo said quietly. “You know that, right?”

 

Mikey swallowed hard. His voice barely made it out.

 

“Yeah. I know.”

 

But it didn’t help. It didn’t make the knives in his chest feel any duller. Didn’t make the silence any less heavy. Didn’t fix the fact that everything felt broken, and he didn’t know how to stop pretending it didn’t.

 

He turned away, blinking fast, trying to hold back the tears rising fast and hot in his throat.

 

Leo saw the way Mikey’s lip trembled… And said nothing else.

 

There wasn’t anything left to say.

 

Of course Leo missed him. Of course they all did.

 

But knowing that didn’t make it easier.

 

It made it worse.

 

Because if they were all breaking — who was supposed to hold them together?

 

 

---

 

Later, when the others left the training room, Mikey remained.

 

The silence settled back in like a fog, cold and suffocating.

 

He sat with his back to the wall again, eyes open but unfocused, breathing in shallow bursts. His chest felt too tight. His skin felt wrong. His own name felt like something he wasn’t allowed to wear anymore.

 

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to push everything down. Thoughts. Pain. Panic.

 

He wanted to scream.

 

To run.

 

To disappear.

 

But he didn’t.

 

He didn’t know how.

 

 

---

 

The memory hit him again — hard and sharp.

 

Splinter, collapsing in slow motion.

 

Blood.

 

Leo’s broken voice shouting his name.

 

Donnie’s shaking hands.

 

Raph frozen in horror, fists clenched so tight they bled.

 

Splinter's hand reaching out… Then falling.

 

And Mikey — watching it all, too slow, too useless, unable to do anything except scream when it was already too late.

 

He’d pretended afterward.

 

Pretended to be okay. For Leo. For Raph. For Donnie.

 

But every laugh was hollow. Every smile fake. Every moment since that day felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, wind pulling at his back.

 

He couldn't get revenge.

 

Shredder was gone.

 

And it still hurt. Maybe even more, because there was no one left to blame.

 

 

And now, every time he looked at his brothers, something inside him cracked a little more.

 

He couldn’t lose them too.

 

If something happened — if the last people he had were taken away — he wouldn’t survive it. Not again. Not ever.

 

The fear twisted into something cold and fierce.

 

And in that fear, a thought took root. Quiet. Desperate.

 

Maybe he didn’t have to be Mikey anymore.

 

Maybe if he wasn’t the joke. The screw-up. The soft one.

 

Maybe if he changed — he could save them.

 

He could keep them safe.

 

Even if it meant leaving them behind.

 

 

His hand reached for the black nunchucks again.

 

They felt different this time.

 

Heavy.

 

Not just with steel and wood.

 

Heavy with everything.

 

Duty. Shame. Hope.

 

He stood slowly, breathing deep.

 

For the first time in weeks, he felt something other than grief.

 

He felt a purpose.

 

 

---

 

That night, after the lair had gone still, Mikey moved in silence.

 

He passed the rooms of his brothers, lingering outside Leo’s door for a moment. The faint sound of pacing inside. Leo wasn’t sleeping either.

 

He didn’t say goodbye.

 

He didn’t think he could.

 

He slipped into the shadows, through the hidden tunnel that led to the surface.

 

The city stretched wide before him — a sprawl of concrete and steel bathed in shadow. Distant sirens echoed like heartbeats. The wind was cold against his skin.

 

He pulled his black hood low over his face.

 

Tied a dark cloth over his eyes, covering the orange that no longer felt like his.

 

The cloth scratched his skin — unfamiliar. But necessary.

Just one touch of how it feels wearing this identity for the first time.

 

He wasn’t Mikey anymore.

 

He was someone else.

 

He had to be.

 

 

—

 

 

Days passed.

 

The lair felt even emptier now.

 

Leo stayed up long into the night, staring at the mat where Mikey used to sit. Listening for footsteps that never came.

 

Raph’s fists left cracks in the wall. His temper barely held together by threads. But beneath it all, he was quiet. Scared. Shaking when no one was looking.

 

Donnie built tracker after tracker, hands trembling, voice hoarse from calling Mikey’s name into the night.

 

They left messages. Checked rooftops. Hoped.

 

But Mikey was gone.

 

 

---

 

And somewhere in the shadows of the city, a figure moved.

 

Draped in black.

 

Silent.

 

Precise.

 

A flicker of chains in the dark.

 

A flash of twin nunchucks catching the moonlight.

 

A whisper of movement.

 

A shadow watching from the rooftops.

 

A guardian in the dark.

 

 

Chapter 2: Still Here

Summary:

Alone in an unfamiliar dojo, Mikey sits with his weapons and his fear, too hollow to fight and too haunted to return. When his brothers search the alleys nearby, their voices almost reach him — but fear keeps him frozen. He wants to be seen. But not like this.

Notes:

Chapter twooo!! 🧡
We’re slowing things down for a moment — just Mikey, his thoughts, and the weight of not being ready.
Let me know what you think, your comments mean the world 💬💕

This chapter is a bit short, the next one will be too but I PROMISE others aren't!

The moon hung low and silver over the city, spilling pale light into the lair’s cavernous halls.

Inside, Mikey sat cross-legged in the shadows of an empty dojo.
He didn’t know who the place belonged to — no one ever came or went, so he figured it was abandoned.
His black hood was pulled low over his face. His bandana clung tightly across his eyes, leaving only the sharp, sky-blue beneath — eyes that darted restlessly from wall to wall.

Around him lay his weapons: black nunchucks gleaming faintly in the dim light, a set of throwing knives carefully lined up beside them, and the cold weight of a tanto at his hip.

He didn’t dare touch them yet.

Not tonight.

 

---

His breath came in ragged bursts.
The silence felt thick — pressing down on him like the stone walls of the lair had followed him here.

He thought about Leo’s voice that morning, tangled in desperation and worry.

“You have to talk to us.”

 

Mikey had wanted to scream back, to cry out: I’m not okay.

But the words never came.

Instead, he’d left.

 

---

He traced a finger along the edge of his nunchucks — the same pair he’d painted black, now almost unrecognizable from the familiar orange he'd worn for years.

He thought about the old days.
The laughter.
Playful sparring matches.
The warmth of their careless smiles.

But those days felt like a lifetime ago.

 

---

Outside, faint footsteps echoed through the alley.

Mikey froze.

Heart hammering, he pulled the hood further down.

Leo’s voice drifted in — low, steady, searching through the quiet alley.

“Guys… have any of you heard from Mikey?”
Gosh, why did his tone made him sound so vulnerable?

 

There was a pause.

Raph’s voice came next, rougher than usual — defensive, like a snapped wire.

“No, not since last morning.”
Angry as usual, but also a hint of fear.

 

His boots scraped the concrete. He was pacing. Restless.

Donnie’s voice followed, softer, hesitant.

“Maybe he just needs time.”
He didn’t seem to believe it himself.

 

Another silence. Thicker now.

Leo let out a long breath. It trembled slightly at the end.

“I don’t know. This silence... it’s not like him.”
His voice got more quiet with each second.

 

His voice cracked just enough to make Mikey flinch.

 

---

Mikey pressed his back against the wall, eyes closing.

He wanted to reach out.
To tell them he was still here.

But he was afraid.

Afraid of being seen as weak.
Afraid of getting more attached.
Afraid of disappointing them.
Afraid of what would happen if they caught him like this.
Afraid he’d reach out… and they’d step back.

 

---

He exhaled slowly and reached for the throwing knives, sliding one into his palm.

Maybe tonight... he’d finally be ready.

 

---

Outside, the city pulsed with life — unaware that in its shadows, a new guardian was quietly preparing to take his first steps.

Chapter 3: Breathe In, Strike Out

Summary:

Mikey steps into the role of the Shadow for the first time. What begins with fear becomes instinct — and in the space between violence and silence, he carves out a name. The city won’t know his face. But they’ll feel him watching.

Notes:

Chapter 3 is here!!
Mikey’s first real night out as the Shadow… and it goes better than he expected, even if it still hurts.
Hope you like it!! 🖤🧡
I posted the first 3 chapters together, I'll try to update once or twice a week. The fic is all written out so it won't take long

Take care honey beans~

The city breathed beneath him — a labyrinth of shadows and light, noise and silence.

Mikey crouched on the edge of a rooftop, black fabric clinging to every curve of his body. His sky-blue eyes scanned the alley below, heart hammering between thrill and terror.

This was it. His first real mission alone.

Now, he just had to wait for some punk to cause trouble…

There.

Beneath a flickering streetlamp, three figures moved — their harsh whispers and the glint of knives catching the dim light. Their cruel sneers spoke volumes.

They had no idea the Shadow was watching.

Mikey’s fingers curled tightly around the handle of his kusarigama as he drew a steadying breath.

You can do this.
You have to.

The confidence was fragile, but fierce enough to push back the fear.

He dropped silently from the rooftop, landing with barely a sound behind the nearest man.

Before the thug could turn, Mikey’s chain whipped out, knocking the knife from his hand with a sharp clang.

Chaos erupted.

The other two spun, eyes wide with shock, but Mikey was faster — a flash of black, a swift kick, the kusarigama’s chain snapping around another wrist.

The alley echoed with grunts and the scrape of boots on concrete.

But Mikey stayed calm — focused.

 

Breathe in…

breathe out…

then attack.

 

One of the three figures crept up behind him, but Mikey twisted sharply, dodging the blow and shoving the attacker hard into one of his stunned companions. Both thugs collapsed with a heavy thud.

The last one was younger — smaller, trembling in the shadows with fear etched deep into his eyes.

Mikey stepped forward slowly, voice low and steady.

“It’s time you take your friends and leave. Don’t do this again. I won’t be so kind next time.”

The boy nodded quickly, urgency flooding his movements as he helped the others to their feet. He glanced back once, then fled into the darkness.

When Mikey was sure they were gone, he crumpled to the ground, chest heaving with heavy breaths.

Fear hadn’t vanished — it still twisted in his gut — but beneath it, something stronger stirred.

Pride.

Hope.

A silent promise whispered to the city he had sworn to protect.

He slipped back into the shadows before anyone could thank him — the vigilante was already gone.

 

---

“That was awesome!” the teenage boy shouted as he sprinted away, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

It was the first real joy he’d felt since their father passed.

For the first time, he felt useful.

He was beginning to think this life wasn’t so bad.

But even as the thrill faded, a hollow ache settled in.

He missed his brothers.

The joy died away as quickly as it had come.

Chapter 4: Where He Once Laughed

Summary:

The brothers try to hold it together in Mikey’s absence — searching, arguing, and trying to keep hope alive. Meanwhile, Mikey continues his nightly patrols, a silent guardian wrapped in guilt and resolve. Each side aches for the other, but no one knows how to bridge the distance between them.

Notes:

The boys are fraying at the edges, and so is Mikey. This chapter bridges the pain of separation from both sides — how it feels to be left behind, and how it feels to leave. Thank you for reading and sitting in the silence with them.
Take care!!❤️

The days stretched long and gray inside the lair.

 

Leo sat perched beside the monitors, eyes scanning for signals that never came. His fingers hovered over the keyboard like he could summon Mikey’s name from static — just type something right and he’d appear.

 

The lair door opened and shut with a heavy thunk behind him.

 

He didn’t turn around. He already knew who it was.

 

“Anything?” he asked, voice too tight, already bracing for the answer.

 

Raph’s reply came with a frustrated huff. “Nothing. Not a trace.”

 

He paced behind Leo, boots thudding softly across the floor — sharp, angry steps, like a storm trapped indoors.

 

Donnie entered moments later, eyes red-rimmed from another sleepless night, fingertips smudged with oil and solder. He set another failed tracker on the desk, then spoke without looking up.

 

“If Mikey wanted to be found, he’d leave a signal.”

 

His voice cracked at the edges.

 

“But he’s careful. Too careful.”

 

Leo let out a dry, bitter laugh — a sound almost alien in the quiet. “Our baby brother was always the smart one, huh?”

 

For a moment, no one spoke.

 

 

---

 

They moved through the lair like ghosts, haunted by the absence that lingered in every corner.

 

Everywhere they looked, there were echoes of him.

 

A folded orange bandana left untouched on a shelf. The faint smear of old orange paint on the wall no one had ever bothered to scrub away. The training mats — quiet now — still held the ghost of his laughter.

 

Even when Mikey was quiet, his presence had been bright. Warm.

 

Now the silence had teeth.

 

 

---

 

“Maybe he’s not ready to come back,” Donnie said one evening, his voice soft and cautious. “Maybe we… need to give him time.”

 

Leo didn’t answer at first. He stared blankly at the far wall, eyes burning with exhaustion. When he finally spoke, his voice was ragged, like it hurt to say the words.

 

“We don’t have time,” he whispered. “Not when he’s out there. Alone.”

 

Raph’s head snapped toward him.

 

His voice dropped to a dangerously low calm.

 

“What’re you saying?” he asked slowly.

 

Leo looked up, but Raph didn’t give him a chance to speak.

 

“You think we should just let him go?” Raph’s fists clenched, knuckles white. “Let him do whatever the hell he wants out there? Never see him again? Is that what you’re saying, Leo?”

 

His voice was still level — calm — but the tension was rising fast. The kind of calm that comes right before everything explodes.

 

Leo knew that tone. Knew Raph was teetering.

 

He took a breath, choosing his words carefully. “No. I’m not saying that. I would never give up on him.”

 

Raph didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

 

Leo continued, slower now. “We’ll keep looking. I swear. But… we also can’t ignore the rest of the city. We’re still needed. If we stop now—”

 

He hesitated — just a fraction of a second too long.

 

Raph caught it.

 

That pause wasn’t about patrols.

 

It was fear.

 

Not just fear for Mikey — but fear that they might already be too late.

 

Raph opened his mouth to argue, but Donnie stepped in, voice steady, grounded — like the version of himself before everything cracked.

 

“Raph. People are still getting hurt — or worse. Mutants are disappearing. What if Mikey’s next? What if we miss our only chance because we weren’t out there?”

 

That landed hard. Too hard.

 

Raph looked away.

 

He wanted to fight. To scream. To demand they keep searching because the alternative — the thought that maybe Mikey had already…

 

He shut it down.

 

Letting go — even a little — felt like betrayal.

 

If they stopped searching, didn’t that mean they’d accepted he was gone?

 

He couldn’t do that.

 

He wouldn’t.

 

Leo reached out, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “We won’t stop. Every patrol, every rooftop, we’ll be looking for him. But we need to protect what we can. And we need to give him… a little space.”

 

Raph’s jaw tightened.

 

Donnie added, barely above a whisper, “Raph, please…”

 

It was the softness in Donnie’s voice that did it — the break in his usually calm demeanor.

 

Raph sighed shakily, eyes falling closed.

 

A beat passed. Then he whispered:

 

“Lead the way, Leo. You’re the boss.”

 

 

—

 

Meanwhile, in the city’s shadows, Mikey moved like the wind — fast, quiet, unseen.

 

Each night, he pushed harder.

 

He tested the limits of his strength, the sharpness of his reflexes, the endurance of a heart that never stopped aching.

 

The clang of metal. The whip of chain. The silent step across broken rooftops.

 

They came without thinking now.

Second nature.

 

The black hood. The bandana pulled tight over his eyes. The cold weight of blades at his back.

 

They weren’t just tools anymore.

 

They were armor.

 

He didn’t wear them to hide —

He wore them to survive.

 

But even in all that silence, even under layers of steel and cloth...

 

Mikey’s heart still ached.

 

He missed Leo’s steady voice — calm even when everything fell apart — barking orders that made the world feel like it had direction.

 

He missed Donnie’s sharp mind, always there with a plan, always knowing what to do when Mikey hesitated.

 

He missed Raph’s growl. That voice that sounded like anger but felt like protection.

 

He missed home.

 

He missed them.

 

The ache wasn’t sharp anymore.

It was dull. Constant. Like something carved into his bones.

 

But he couldn’t go back.

 

Not yet.

 

Not until he was stronger.

Not until he could face them without breaking.

Not until he could protect them —

not the other way around.

 

Because if they had to save him again...

 

If he failed them again...

 

He didn’t think he’d survive it.

 

 

---

 

The city stretched out beneath him — glittering windows, flickering neon, shadows moving just beyond the light.

 

It never slept.

 

Never noticed.

 

Never cared.

 

It chewed people up and swallowed them whole. Mutants. Innocents. Heroes.

 

No one thanked him for what he did.

No one even knew.

 

But Mikey kept going.

 

He had to.

 

For the people.

 

For the ones who couldn't fight back.

 

For the brothers who had always fought for him.

 

For the hope — no matter how small — that maybe they hadn’t stopped looking.

 

Maybe they still believed in him.

 

 

---

 

Below, a figure stepped into a dark alley, moving with the wrong kind of purpose.

 

Mikey crouched low on the rooftop, breath steady, muscles tense.

 

He tugged his hood lower over his face. His fingers brushed the handle of a blade.

 

He didn’t move. Not yet.

 

Just watched.

 

Listened.

 

Waited.

 

 

---

 

The city didn’t know who watched over it now — not really.

 

They whispered about a shadow.

 

A flicker of black between rooftops.

A ghost in the alleyways.

A guardian who appeared and vanished like smoke.

 

They didn’t know the truth.

 

Didn’t know the pain behind the mask.

The love.

The grief.

 

They didn’t know...

 

The vigilante they feared...

 

The protector they hoped for...

 

The legend they spoke about in half-belief...

 

Was nothing more than a heartbroken boy in a stolen hood —

 

Their baby brother.

 

Chapter 5: What’s Left Behind

Summary:

The night is long, the streets are cruel, and not every shadow brings safety.
But someone’s still out there watching.
And somewhere else, his absence is echoing louder than ever.

Notes:

⚠️ Slight trigger warning for attempted assault — nothing graphic occurs, but please proceed with care if you're sensitive to the topic.

This chapter splits between two worlds: Mikey’s rise as the Shadow, and the brothers learning how to survive his absence. The city doesn’t sleep — and neither do they, not really.

Themes include grief, protective instincts, found-family love, and the quiet, aching kind of pride that grows in the dark.

Take care of yourself today, and thank you so much for reading 💛

The city was never truly quiet.

 

Even in the dead of night, it breathed — distant sirens wailing like ghosts, the shuffle of footsteps on broken pavement, the low rumble of a train somewhere underground. Sound spilled between alleyways like secrets, whispered through rusted pipes and cracked brick walls.

 

But still, it was perfect for hiding.

 

And Mikey moved through it all like a shadow.

 

His black hood cast his face in darkness. A bandana — deep charcoal and drawn tight across his eyes — concealed the orange he no longer felt he deserved to wear. Only the bright gleam of his sky-blue eyes stood out, sharp and alert, cutting through the gloom like twin stars.

 

Each breath was shallow. Controlled.

 

Each step — precise, silent, calculated.

 

He was getting the hang of it.

 

His hands didn’t tremble anymore. Not like they did that first night, when he’d stepped into the dark with nothing but anger and grief and a name he hadn’t earned.

 

Now, they were steady as stone.

 

He ran his fingers along the cool metal of his weapons.

 

Nunchucks — painted matte black, disguised, redesigned. They could split into kusarigamas: long chain, crescent blades. A weapon fluid and fast, perfect for someone who had learned to vanish before pain could reach him.

 

Throwing knives rested beneath his cloak, tucked along his ribs.

 

Small blades were strapped to his wrists, light but deadly.

 

He wasn’t Mikey anymore.

 

He was the Shadow.

 

Unseen. Unheard.

 

The guardian who struck before danger even saw him coming.

 

But when the streets emptied and the fight was over — when the city’s neon lights blurred behind his hood — the weight returned.

 

The silence crept back in.

 

The loneliness.

 

The ache.

 

He remembered his brothers — their voices, their laughter, even their bickering.

 

And he missed them with a fierceness that burned.

 

But he couldn’t go back.

 

Not yet.

 

…Maybe not ever.

 

 

---

 

Tonight, he crouched on the edge of a low rooftop, watching a dim side street below.

 

A group of men had cornered a girl — young, barely a teen — into a narrow alley. Their shadows stretched long across the brick walls. Their hands twitched toward their belts.

 

Their smirks made Mikey’s stomach twist.

 

Disgusting.

 

His fingers curled tightly around the kusarigama chain.

 

He’d make it quick. Clean. In and out. He didn’t want to breathe the same air they did.

 

He might puke if he did.

 

The chain clicked in his hands.

 

He exhaled — sharp and focused.

 

Then dropped.

 

 

---

 

It happened fast.

 

A blur of movement.

 

A snap of chain.

 

The nearest thug barely had time to blink before the weapon cracked across his chest, sending him crashing into the alley wall with a grunt.

 

“Why, you little—” the second barked out, but he turned too late — a flash of black met his jaw in a clean, brutal kick. He dropped like a sack of bricks.

 

The third tried to run.

 

Bad idea.

 

The chain whipped through the air again, catching his ankle mid-step. He hit the concrete hard, groaning, the wind knocked from his lungs.

 

The girl staggered back, eyes wide.

 

Mikey didn’t speak. Just turned his head slightly toward her — a signal to run.

 

She hesitated, mouth open like she wanted to say something. But then—

 

“…Hey!! Mister!!”

 

Mikey paused.

 

She stood there, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing with adrenaline. “I owe you one, okay?! Take care!!”

 

Then she turned and bolted down the alley, ponytail bouncing behind her.

 

Mikey watched her go.

 

And something warm tugged in his chest.

 

Not quite joy.

 

But close.

 

Pride, maybe?

 

Yeah. Let’s call it that.

 

 

---

 

Later, when the street had gone still again, Mikey leaned against the cold metal of a rooftop vent.

 

His breath fogged softly in the air.

 

That warmth — the way she’d smiled, the way her voice had carried through the dark — it lingered.

 

It felt… good.

 

Right.

 

Like maybe this was what he was supposed to be doing after all.

 

A protector.

 

A shadow between worlds.

 

A ghost his brothers might never recognize.

 

Maybe that was okay.

 

Maybe this was enough.

 

The ache never truly left — the longing, the memory of Leo’s steady voice, Donnie’s sharp wit, Raph’s growling protectiveness. He missed them. God, he missed them.

 

But the city needed someone.

 

And if that someone had to be him — this strange, broken, remade version of himself — then so be it.

 

He pulled his hood lower, glancing back one last time at the alley he’d left behind.

 

Then he vanished into the night.

 

 

---

 

The lair felt emptier than ever.

 

Not just because Mikey was gone — but because the space he’d left behind had started to swallow the light.

 

The corners felt darker now. Colder. The silence rang louder than any shouting match ever — as if Mikey’s absence echoed louder than his voice ever did.

 

Leo sat at the edge of the training mats, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the far wall like it might give him answers.

 

But the wall stayed quiet.

 

So did the room.

 

So did Mikey.

 

He wanted his otouto back.

 

He wanted to hear that dumb joke again, wanted to roll his eyes and pretend to be annoyed. He wanted to hear those too-loud footsteps sprinting down the hallway. The kind of sound that made everything feel alive.

 

Now the silence was a weight he couldn’t carry.

 

 

---

 

The days without Mikey stretched on like shadows creeping across the floor —

long, cold, and merciless.

 

Raph’s anger simmered under his skin — constant, restless, like something he couldn’t punch out of his system. Like static behind his ribs.

 

He paced the tunnels of the lair like a trapped animal, jaw clenched, fists tighter.

 

Some days, he didn’t even try to hide it anymore.

 

 

---

 

“Maybe he’s out there somewhere,” Donnie said softly, not looking up from his latest tracker.

His voice was quiet — almost careful. Like it might break if he spoke too loudly.

 

“But if he’s not coming back... we have to keep going.”

 

Leo didn’t respond.

 

Not at first.

 

He just clenched his jaw, throat burning with unsaid things.

 

Then, almost a whisper:

 

“We can’t wait forever.”

 

Even though they all wanted to.

 

Even though waiting felt like the only thing they could do.

 

It had been months.

 

And Mikey still hadn’t come home.

 

 

---

 

That night, they made the call.

 

They’d leave the lair.

 

Return to the surface.

 

Because the city still needed them.

Because people were still in danger.

Because they couldn’t afford to stop just because their hearts were shattered.

 

They couldn’t stand the lair anymore — the way it echoed with a laugh that wasn’t there.

 

And maybe — just maybe — Mikey was still up there somewhere.

 

Watching.

 

Waiting.

 

Hiding.

 

A part of each of them hoped they'd catch a glimpse of orange on a rooftop. A flash of a shell in the shadows. Something.

 

Even if they wouldn’t admit it out loud.

 

The silence had started to rot.

 

 

---

 

The night air hit them like a slap as they climbed out of the tunnels.

 

Cold. Electric. Loud.

 

New York never slept.

 

And the streets buzzed with life and danger —

the same streets Mikey had disappeared into.

 

The same streets they now had to protect without him.

 

 

---

 

Leo paused at the edge of the alley, looking back into the dark tunnel behind them. The lair lay hidden beneath the concrete — quiet, still, and empty.

 

A familiar ache bloomed in his chest.

 

They knew Mikey wasn’t down there.

 

Not anymore.

 

So maybe...

 

Just maybe...

 

The city held the answers they couldn’t find below.

Chapter 6: The Black Bandana

Summary:

As strange rumors echo through the city, April brings the first real clue: a black-bandana vigilante with familiar weapons and movement. Suspicion stirs among the brothers, but hope is dangerous. Meanwhile, on a quiet rooftop, Mikey shares a moment of unlikely peace with a stray cat — unaware that his legend is growing… and so is the chance of being found.

Notes:

⚠️ Content Warning: This chapter contains mentions of an attempted assault (non-graphic) and may be upsetting for sensitive readers. Please proceed with care.

This chapter splits between two worlds: Mikey’s quiet rise as a myth in the shadows, and the brothers beginning to suspect he might still be out there. It’s about whispers in alleys, grief turned to vigilance, and the kind of hope that hurts to hold.

Stay safe, and thank you for reading 💙

The nights were colder now.

Maybe it was the wind.

Or maybe it was just the way the city felt — heavier, meaner, like it was holding its breath.

 

Patrols were quieter.

Fewer criminals, sure. But more rumors. Strange ones.

Every alley seemed to hum with something unspoken.

That sense that they weren’t the only ones out here anymore.

 

 

---

 

It was April who brought the first story home.

 

She’d been walking back from the grocery store — late, taking a shortcut through a rough alley.

 

“Three guys cornered this kid,” she said, standing stiffly in the glow of their flickering monitors. Her face was pale.

“Real bad types. I was just reaching for my phone to call you guys—”

 

She shook her head. “Then someone dropped out of the shadows. Fast. Like... faster than I could follow with my eyes. Black hood. Chain weapon — kusarigama, I think. He wiped the floor with them. Clean. Efficient.”

 

Raph leaned forward. “You sure it was a kusarigama?”

 

April hesitated. “Didn’t get a perfect look, but yeah. And when it was over… he didn’t say anything. Just looked at the kid, gave this little nod, and disappeared. Like he melted into the wall.”

 

Donnie blinked. “Did you see a face?”

 

“No. His hood covered his face completely.”

She paused, voice dropping.

 

“But when I looked back… I found this.”

 

From her coat pocket, she pulled a neatly folded strip of dark fabric.

A black bandana.

 

She laid it on the table between them like it was something sacred.

 

 

---

 

The city was alive with whispers.

 

Every night, Donnie’s scanners picked up more chatter:

Mysterious figures stopping crimes before they started.

Shadowy guardians striking without warning.

And always, blending into the shadow before anyone got a good look.

 

The black bandana sat on the table beside them now — silent, folded, waiting.

 

The brothers gathered in their hideout, dim light casting long shadows over tired faces.

 

 

---

 

April’s voice echoed in Leo’s memory.

 

“He looked familiar,” she’d said quietly.

“Could be nothing. Could be anyone. But the way he kicked off the wall — I swear, Leo. It reminded me of Mikey.”

 

Silence followed. Sharp and sudden.

 

Donnie’s voice was barely a whisper.

“…Are you sure?”

 

He knew better than to let hope in. But the ache in his voice betrayed him.

 

April rubbed the back of her neck.

 

“No. Not even a little. I’m not saying it was him. Just... the timing fits. The rumors started right after he disappeared.”

She glanced at them all, voice softer.

“I don’t mean to give false hope. I just think it’s worth considering.”

 

 

---

 

Leo rubbed his temple, eyes narrowed.

 

“Someone’s out there. Someone with precision. Kusarigama. Throwing knives. Movement fast and unlike any martial style, like they’re making it up as they fight.”

 

Raph’s jaw clenched.

 

“That does sound like Mikey’s style. What are the odds?”

 

Donnie didn’t look up from the screen, fingers flying across keys.

 

“The attacks started a few months ago. Right after he went missing.”

 

A heavy silence fell over them.

 

Leo looked at each of them, voice low and steady — but there was something in his eyes.

 

“What if it’s him?”

He swallowed. “What if he’s protecting the city… but hiding from us?”

 

Raph’s shoulders tensed. His voice came out hoarse.

 

“I don’t know if I want to hope. Could be a trap. A copycat. Or worse — someone using Mikey’s style to mess with us.”

 

Donnie nodded slowly. “We need to be careful. But if it is him…”

 

He looked down at the bandana.

 

“…We have to find him. Before it’s too late.”

 

Leo exhaled, long and quiet.

 

“Let’s not get our hopes up too fast,” he said.

 

Even as something in his chest began to flutter.

 

The thought hung between them like a fragile thread —

Hope tangled with fear.

Determination wrapped in doubt.

 

 

---

 

Outside, the city pulsed quietly under the stars.

 

Somewhere, on a rooftop not far from them, a figure sat with a slice of cold pizza, hood drawn low, bandana tight around his eyes.

 

He didn’t know his brothers were starting to suspect.

Didn’t know the ache in their hearts had shifted, ever so slightly, toward something else.

 

He just chewed slowly, alone in the dark, the city’s quiet hum wrapping around him.

 

Then a faint rustle caught his attention.

 

He tensed, turning toward the sound — then relaxed as a scruffy stray cat stepped out from the shadows, its eyes glowing in the moonlight.

 

Mikey smiled, a small, genuine curve beneath his hood.

 

He tore off a tiny piece of pepperoni and set it down near the edge of the rooftop.

 

The cat cautiously approached, sniffed, and began nibbling.

 

Mikey reached out, fingers brushing its fur gently.

 

“You hungry, huh, little one?” he murmured.

 

The kitten purred softly, settling beside him like an unspoken companion. Mikey continued to brush its fur, the texture calming him somewhat.

 

For a few minutes, the two sat there — the city sprawling endlessly beyond, the night calm and watchful.

 

No fights. No danger.

 

Just a teenage boy and a stray kitten.

 

Maybe how his life would've been if they were normal.

 

A quiet moment of peace in the chaos.

 

Mikey took another bite of pizza, feeling, just for a second, less alone.

 

Chapter 7: Ghost in the Smoke

Summary:

They were ambushed. Outnumbered. Overpowered. But in the chaos — just when they were about to fall — a shadow cut through the night with a blade they knew far too well.

Notes:

So… this is the chapter. The one where everything starts to crack open. 😭
Our boys finally see the Shadow up close — and it hurts.
Because even though he saves them... he doesn’t stay.
And maybe that’s what cuts the deepest.

I’d love to hear your thoughts!
Please take care of yourselves, honey beans — and don’t forget to drink lots of water! 💛

The mission started like any other.

 

A standard sweep of the industrial district — half-abandoned warehouses, shipping crates stacked like silent sentinels, the scent of rust, oil, and the sharp tang of spilled fuel lingering in the air.

 

There were whispers about a gang moving modified weapons through the docks.

 

Leo didn’t trust whispers.

But he did trust patterns.

 

And this one felt off.

 

They moved quietly under cover of night.

 

Leo led with silent discipline, katana already in hand.

Raph flanked him, each step coiled, ready to strike.

Donnie walked a little behind, scanning for hidden signals, pressure plates — anything.

 

It was supposed to be routine.

 

In and out.

 

It never was.

 

Foolish of them to expect the city to give them an easy night.

 

 

---

 

The ambush came like thunder.

 

One heartbeat — silence.

The next — chaos.

 

A pipe came crashing down from above.

Footsteps. Voices shouting.

Eight men, maybe more, swarming them from every angle.

 

Raph barely had time to growl before a blunt object cracked across his shoulder, knocking him sideways into a crate. He snarled, lunged back, caught one square in the jaw — but a flash of silver sliced across his side.

 

“Raph!” Leo shouted, already mid-swing. His katana connected — sparks flying as it deflected a shock baton — but another figure swept his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, air knocked from his lungs.

 

Donnie tried to hold the line, staff whirling into a naginata. He dropped two fast — but a third came from behind. He staggered, scanners ripped from his back, sparks showering the pavement.

 

Too many.

Too fast.

 

 

---

 

Above them — on the rooftop ledge — the Shadow crouched, watching.

 

He hadn’t meant to follow them.

 

He just… needed to make sure they were okay.

 

But when he saw Leo’s sword skitter across the ground, saw Raph pressed to the wall, saw Donnie drop to one knee —

his breath stopped.

 

He saw Splinter’s face.

Reaching for him.

Gone before he could move.

 

Not again.

 

He wouldn’t watch them die.

Not this time.

 

 

---

 

The Shadow moved.

 

A blur of black cloth and flashing metal.

 

The kusarigama’s blade sliced across a thug’s wrist mid-swing. The man screamed and crumpled.

Another barely turned before a throwing knife landed between his feet.

The next went down with a clean, brutal kick to the ribs.

 

Leo rolled to his feet, blood running from his temple. His eyes widened as the figure spun, flipped — chain singing through the air. A baton clattered uselessly to the ground.

 

“What the hell—?” Raph rasped, clutching his side.

 

The figure dropped into the center of the fight like a ghost.

 

No words.

 

Just motion.

 

Chain, blade, nunchucks.

Precision. Brutality. Beauty.

 

He moved like he knew every step before it happened. Not a moment wasted.

 

Three down.

Then four.

Then five.

 

One tried to run.

 

The chain lashed out — wrapped around his ankle — and yanked him into a stack of crates with a crash that shook the alley.

 

Silence fell again.

 

Only the groans of the defeated filled the space.

 

 

---

 

The Shadow turned toward them.

 

Leo froze.

 

The black hood.

The bandana covering his eyes.

 

But beneath it — just for a breath — sky-blue eyes met his.

 

Leo’s heart twisted.

 

Familiar.

Too familiar.

 

“…Mikey?” he whispered, only for the two of them to hear.

 

But the figure was already gone.

 

A flick of the wrist.

A leap to the fire escape.

 

Gone like mist on wind.

 

 

---

 

They stood in the wreckage, panting.

 

Bleeding.

 

Rattled.

 

But none of that was even felt.

 

They’d finally found their baby brother.

 

Leo stared at the empty rooftop.

 

Donnie crouched, trembling, and picked up a blade left behind.

 

“That…” whispered the genius turtle, voice cracking, “that was him.”

 

Raph didn’t argue.

 

He leaned against the wall, breath ragged, blood slick down his plastron.

 

“…He saved us,” he muttered.

 

Then, bitterly — “Why didn’t he stay?”

His voice cracked at the end — traitor.

 

No one had an answer.

 

But Leo’s throat burned.

 

Because he knew.

 

He was hiding.

 

And he was hiding from them.

 

 

---

 

Back at the hideout, it was quiet.

 

Wounds were cleaned.

Ice packs wrapped.

Bandages changed.

 

No one talked much.

 

But the black bandana April had left behind still sat on the table.

 

Now, it wasn’t just a rumor.

 

Now they’d seen him.

 

 

---

 

Leo sat on the platform edge, hands clenched over his knees.

 

“We need to find him,” he said quietly.

 

“For real this time.”

 

Raph didn’t object.

 

They should’ve never stopped looking.

 

Donnie, silently, already had the last rooftop pulled up on his screen.

 

None of them knew what they’d find.

 

But they had hope again — even though it hurt.

 

And hope — painful, sharp, fragile — meant Mikey was still out there.

 

Still fighting.

 

Still theirs.

Chapter 8: The Mirror That Doesn’t Lie

Summary:

Mikey returns to the dojo shaken, bloodied, and unraveling. Haunted by what he saw — and what Leo might have seen — he spirals through guilt, doubt, and memories that cut deeper than his blades.
He can’t bear to face himself… or the brothers he left behind.
But that doesn’t stop him from watching.
And waiting.

Notes:

This one was… hard.
Mikey’s not okay. And this chapter really leans into that quiet unraveling — the kind that doesn’t scream, but just sinks.

We’re deep in the angst arc now, y’all.

Let me know how it hit you — I’m always down to cry with company 😭💛

Drink water, hug your favs, and take care of yourselves, honey beans!!!🧡🖤

P.s: I'm struggling with italics, so if you think somewhere should be in italics or somewhere should'nt, sharing your thoughts would be most appreciated!!

The dojo door shut behind him with a hollow thud — loud in the stillness, like it was announcing something.

Something final.

Something broken.

 

His body trembled.

 

Not from exhaustion.

 

From the crash of adrenaline that had kept him upright for too long — fading now, bleeding out of his limbs and leaving him raw beneath the black armor clinging to his skin like a second, colder self.

 

He peeled off his gloves slowly, fingers shaking as he stared at the faint streaks of blood across them.

 

Blood that wasn’t his.

Blood that shouldn’t be there.

Blood he put there.

 

A cold sickness twisted in his gut.

 

Splinter’s hand — drenched in red, reaching for him —

and Mikey… too slow. Too scared.

So useless, useless, useless—

 

What happened to him?

 

His weapons clattered to the floor with a metallic thud.

The kusarigama’s blade caught the light — gleamed — then vanished into shadow.

 

He flinched.

 

He couldn’t look at them.

Not now.

Not when he could still feel them in his hands — slicing, cutting, hurting.

 

 

---

 

In the corner of the room, an old, cracked mirror leaned in silence.

Its surface was warped from years of dust and neglect, its silver peeling at the edges.

 

He stared at it.

 

Didn’t want to.

 

But had to.

 

Like some part of him needed to see it to believe it.

 

His reflection stared back — pale beneath the shadows, distorted by grime.

 

Sky-blue eyes, wide and rimmed with red.

 

Still soft.

 

Still his.

 

Why?

 

Why did those stay the same?

 

 

The rest of him had changed.

 

The soft curve of his face had thinned. Shadows clung beneath his eyes. His jaw was locked, lips pale and pressed flat.

His whole body looked like it was bracing for impact.

 

And worse — he looked young.

Still too young for all this.

 

He flinched.

 

Turned away.

 

The reflection felt like a stranger.

Or maybe… it felt like the only thing left of Mikey.

 

 

---

 

He reached into the hidden seam of his coat — fingertips brushing familiar paper.

 

The photo.

 

Frayed. Nearly torn in half from too many nights of folding and unfolding. But the creases always found their place.

 

Four brothers.

 

Smiling. Loud. Whole.

Before everything went dowwnhill.

 

No black mask.

No shadows.

No weight on their shoulders.

 

He pressed the photo to his chest, breathing shallow, like maybe it could warm the hollow under his ribs.

 

It didn’t.

 

But he held it tighter anyway — like maybe it would hurt less if he pressed hard enough.

 

Because some part of him already knew —

It would burn.

It already had.

 

 

---

 

That rooftop moment wouldn’t stop replaying.

 

Leo’s eyes.

Locking with his.

 

Just one second — one flicker — of recognition.

 

He saw me, Mikey whispered, barely breathing.

I know he did.

 

But after that…

 

Silence.

 

And the silence made room for doubt.

 

What if he recognized me?

What if… he didn’t?

 

What if he saw me — and didn’t see “Mikey” at all?

 

 

---

 

He sank to the floor, arms wrapped tight around his knees like he could vanish into himself.

 

The questions always came next.

Louder when the room was still.

 

Did I save them for them?

Or was it just… for me?

 

Why didn’t I stay?

 

Why do I always run?

 

Do they hate me now?

 

Would they even want me back?

 

Each one slammed harder than the last.

 

Each one felt like it came from Splinter’s voice.

 

None of them had answers.

 

 

---

 

He curled deeper into the corner, tucking his face against his knees.

 

“I’m still here, guys…” he whispered.

 

The sound came out scratchy. Small. Almost like someone else said it.

 

No answer.

 

Just the city outside: sirens, engines, a distant car horn.

 

Life going on.

 

Like nothing was missing.

 

Like he hadn’t left a crater behind.

 

 

---

 

Later, the city stretched before him — wide and cold, glittering like it wanted to mock him.

 

He moved across rooftops like a shadow, not hunting. Not fighting.

Just existing.

 

Breathing.

 

Sort of.

 

He paused — scarf pulled over his face, shoulders hunched, heart beating too loud in the quiet.

 

Below him, the streets hissed with rain.

 

And farther out — there it was.

 

The lair.

 

Home.

 

Still hidden. Still standing.

 

Still glowing with the faintest hum of life.

 

Still… not his.

 

Not anymore.

 

His breath hitched.

 

“Oh, what I’d give to go back…”

 

But he didn’t move.

 

Didn’t try.

 

He pulled his knees up and sat, motionless, as the rain kissed the top of his hood and streamed down his mask.

 

Cold. Quiet. Familiar.

 

He didn’t flinch.

 

Didn’t speak.

 

Didn’t move.

 

Just watched.

 

A ghost haunting a place that didn’t even know it was being haunted.

 

 

---

 

By the time he slipped back into the dojo, his limbs ached — deep and slow, like the cold had soaked into the bone.

 

He coughed once — dry, quiet — into his sleeve.

 

Didn’t stop to check if it hurt.

 

His chest felt tight.

 

His head heavier.

 

A cold.

 

Not dangerous. Not normally.

 

But now?

 

Now it felt like one more weakness he didn’t have time for.

 

He didn’t fight it.

 

He dropped to the floor the second the door shut, curled up without peeling the armor off. Didn’t bother to grab a blanket.

 

The mask stayed on.

 

Because if he took it off, Mikey would be there.

 

And he wasn’t ready to face him.

 

Not tonight.

 

 

---

 

His voice cracked in the dark.

 

“You’re okay. You’re okay. They’re okay.”

 

The words felt thinner every time.

 

He didn’t believe them.

 

But they were all he had.

 

He whispered them one more time, barely audible.

 

And then the dark took him.

 

 

Chapter 9: The Cold Crawls In

Summary:

Mikey wakes feeling worse than before. The cold has dug in deep, slow and quiet, wearing him down. Memories come sharp and bittersweet, reminding him of warmth — and how far away it feels now. He goes out anyway. He always does. But something’s different tonight. Something’s watching.

Notes:

Mikey’s starting to hit the wall here. I wanted this chapter to feel like a slow spiral — quiet, cold, and heavy. Thank you so much for reading as we slide deeper into the storm 🧡

He woke on the dojo floor, curled awkwardly in the same position he’d collapsed into the night before. His limbs protested the movement — a dull, heavy stiffness like he’d slept pressed into stone instead of on it.

 

For a moment, he didn’t recognize where he was. His heart kicked hard in his chest, a sudden spike of alarm — before the ache reminded him. Right. Dojo floor. Again.

 

His breath caught in his throat as he pushed himself upright, a dry rasp scratching like sandpaper in his chest. His nose was stuffed, clogged tight, a frustrating pressure behind his eyes making everything foggy and slow. A dull throb pulsed behind his temples — not sharp, but persistent, as if his body was trying to warn him gently before it shouted.

 

Mikey blinked several times. His vision cleared, but the heaviness didn’t.

 

He sniffled quietly, rubbing at his nose with the back of his wrist. The dojo’s air was cold, still damp from the rain that had seeped in through cracks in the roof overnight. The stone floor stole warmth from his skin through the thin layers of fabric he still hadn’t shed.

 

His black cloak was wrapped tightly around him, the hem still damp from last night’s rain. It clung to his calves like ice, cold from the inside out.

 

You should change. Get warm.

 

But the thought drifted past him like smoke — acknowledged, then ignored.

 

“Just tired,” he muttered hoarsely to himself. “Just run down.”

 

He coughed once — soft, dry, and raw — and winced as the rasp scraped his throat.

 

Still — he didn’t move.

 

He thought about dragging himself to the bedroll. About peeling off the wet gear and letting his body rest, just for a little while.

But rest felt dangerous.

Like if he stopped moving… he might not start again.

 

Breakfast sat uneaten in the corner, a stale protein bar abandoned. The thought of food churned his stomach. Water was easier — he took a few shaky sips from the dented canteen near his bedroll, then set it down with trembling fingers.

 

He sank back down, right where he’d woken — on the cold floor in the center of the empty dojo.

 

His arms folded tight around his knees beneath the cloak, chin resting against them.

 

He didn’t close his eyes. Didn’t drift back to sleep.

 

Just sat, unmoving, staring at the cracks in the far wall like they held answers. Like if he stared hard enough, he’d see something to make this all make sense.

 

But there was nothing.

No answers.

Just silence.

 

And a soft, involuntary shiver that made his cloak rustle around him.

 

 

---

 

At some point, the shivering stopped — not because he was warm, but because his body had surrendered to the chill.

 

The cold had settled deep in his bones now — not violent, not dramatic — just steady. Persistent.

 

He leaned back against the dojo wall, cloak wrapped tight, arms crossed beneath it like he was trying to hold himself in.

 

His head throbbed. Dull and deep.

 

Every breath through his nose felt blocked, like hitting a wall.

 

His throat burned with each swallow, dryness clinging to his tongue like cotton.

 

He hadn’t moved much since morning. Hours, maybe more.

 

There was no clock here. No sun to track. Only gray, unmoving shadows in a place forgotten.

 

 

---

 

A sudden, harsh cough broke the silence — deep, raw, punching out and curling his body forward.

 

The sound echoed sharply, then dissolved back into stillness.

 

He stayed hunched, breathing shallow, arm pressed over his mouth.

 

And then he laughed.

 

Short. Bitter.

 

Not amused. Not really.

 

It scraped out like sandpaper.

 

So much for being untouchable.

 

He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closing briefly.

 

The silence crept in again, heavier this time.

 

 

---

 

Being a vigilante doesn’t make you immune to getting sick.

 

The thought flickered like a half-dead spark.

 

Doesn’t make you stronger. Just lonelier — when you’re too weak to stand.

 

His hand pressed to his chest as another cough wracked him, weaker now — and he hated how it made him feel: small. Helpless. Human. (Ironic, how a mutant could feel such human pain.)

 

 

---

 

If I can’t even take care of myself, he thought, how can I protect anyone else?

 

The weight pressed on his ribs harder than the cold ever could.

 

And for the first time since slipping into the Shadow’s skin...

 

He wondered if maybe he’d made a mistake.

 

 

---

 

The cold pressed in around him like a shroud, but suddenly his mind drifted from the damp silence of the dojo.

 

A soft, flickering light.

 

Voices.

 

Gentle. Worried.

 

 

---

 

He was small again — wrapped in the familiar scent of home and care.

 

Donnie’s sharp, anxious voice rushing over him, full of love.

 

“Seriously, Mikey, you have to rest. You’re burning up.”

 

Raph’s gruff tone softened as he tugged a blanket around Mikey’s shoulders, warm and rough against his skin.

 

“Quit being stubborn. You’re not invincible, dumbass.”

 

Leo stood close, a cup of tea in his hands, face calm but etched with concern.

 

“Splinter always said tea helps soothe the throat. Here, try this.”

 

 

---

 

He remembered Splinter once sitting by his side during a fever — the warmth of his voice, the steady press of his hand.

“You push too hard, Michelangelo. Even strong ones need rest.”

 

 

---

 

The memories were vivid, sharp — stabbing through the numbness wrapping Mikey’s heart.

 

His chest tightened, and he curled tighter against the chill — the ache deep and different, not just from illness.

 

He pressed his arms closer around himself, trying to hold the warmth of that moment inside, even while the cold gnawed at his bones.

 

 

---

 

For a moment, the shadow faded.

 

And all that was left was a little brother, cared for and not alone.

 

 

---

 

The night air hit him like a blade — sharp, unforgiving, colder than it had any right to be.

 

Mikey pulled his cloak tighter, but it barely helped.

 

Each breath was a ragged rasp, burning his throat and filling his lungs with icy fire.

 

 

---

 

He moved slower now, every step heavier, every leap less sure.

 

Rooftops blurred past in the dark, but his legs felt like lead.

 

A slip—just a twitch of his foot—and he stumbled, nearly pitching over the edge.

 

His heart hammered in his chest, panic spiking alongside a rush of adrenaline.

 

But he caught himself, breath ragged, hands gripping the cold stone.

 

 

---

 

Gotta keep going. Gotta check the mutant spots.

 

Gotta make sure no one else vanishes.

 

He whispered the words like a mantra, forcing his limbs to obey even as they screamed in protest.

 

 

---

 

The patrol dragged on, but the fight inside him weakened.

 

Finally, he cut it short — too tired to push further.

 

He found himself on a rooftop near the lair, the city’s distant glow barely visible through the haze of his blurry eyes.

 

 

---

 

He wrapped his scarf tighter around his face, coughing harshly into it — each hack wracking his aching muscles.

 

For a long moment, he stood still, silent, fighting the cold that wasn’t just in the air.

 

Something itched at the back of his neck — the feeling of eyes. Watching.

But there was nothing. Just the dark. Just the cold.

 

 

---

 

His breath came in ragged clouds, fading slowly as he stared toward the only place that still felt like home.

 

 

---

 

The rain fell soft and steady, a cold whisper against his cloak as Mikey slipped back through the city shadows.

 

By the time he reached the dojo, the thin fabric was soaked through, clinging to his skin like a second layer of chill.

 

He was drenched.

 

Freezing.

 

 

---

 

The familiar creak of the door was swallowed by the quiet night as he stepped inside.

 

His legs barely held him upright.

 

Without a word, without strength to even think it through, he collapsed onto the cold floor.

 

 

---

 

This time, exhaustion crushed him so thoroughly he didn’t even have the energy to peel off his gear.

 

His mask stayed on, shadowing his pale, drawn face.

 

Breath shallow.

 

Heart pounding unevenly beneath the fabric that hid everything.

 

 

---

 

A trembling hand emerged from beneath the cloak.

 

Fingers curled tightly around something small and fragile.

 

The faded, frayed photo of four brothers — unbroken, smiling — a relic from a past that felt more like a dream than something he’d lived.

 

 

Chapter 10: Just Keep Going

Summary:

Mikey pushes through recovery, too sick to patrol — but unable to let another mutant disappear. The night offers no violence, only silence… and the creeping sense he’s being watched. He doesn’t realize how close danger truly is — until it’s too late.

Notes:

I’m sorry for the delay — things got a little overwhelming, but I didn’t forget this story. Mikey’s hurting more than ever here, but still pushing forward, still trying to help.

He doesn’t realize how close to the edge he is…
But someone else does.

Thank you for your patience. I’m so excited (and nervous) to share what’s next! 🖤🧡

The light in the dojo had shifted — soft and dusky, filtering faintly through the cracks in the walls like it didn’t want to intrude.

 

Mikey stirred beneath his cloak, waking slowly.

 

His body was still heavy, the fatigue clinging to him like wet fabric. His head pulsed behind his eyes — not the sharp pain of earlier, but a steady weight, like he was moving through fog.

 

But he was breathing easier.

 

He sat up carefully, wincing as his muscles protested. Pale fingers trembled slightly as he pulled the cloak closer, not for warmth — but for comfort.

 

He felt steadier. Barely.

 

But steady enough.

 

Across the room, a battered wooden crate sat beside a low lantern, and atop it — papers, scribbled notes, and scraps of an old city map curled at the corners from moisture.

 

He dragged himself over, kneeling beside it.

 

A red pen — faded and almost dry — had circled several locations over the past few weeks. Sewer tunnels. Abandoned stations. Broken rooftops.

 

Spots where someone — or something — had vanished.

 

One or two might’ve been coincidence.

 

But five?

 

No way.

 

He traced a finger over one of the circles. The ink smeared a little under the pressure.

 

Another mutant. Gone.

 

And no one even knew their names.

 

He exhaled slowly, the sound low and hoarse in the silence.

 

His joints ached, his ribs sore from coughing, but he pressed his forehead to the edge of the crate and whispered, just to himself:

 

“I can’t miss another night.”

 

His voice was ragged, quieter than the breeze slipping under the door.

 

“Too many are depending on the Shadow.”

 

He looked at the paper again, eyes blurry, blinking hard to focus.

 

His hand hovered over the next unvisited location — a small canal line near the edge of the city grid.

 

They're afraid out there, he thought, teeth gritting as he stood slowly.

 

Like I was.

 

I won’t let them disappear and be forgotten.

 

 

---

 

The city below breathed slow tonight.

 

No alarms. No screams. No sudden flashes of violence.

 

Just the low hum of neon signs and the occasional squeal of a car turning too fast on wet pavement.

 

It should’ve been comforting.

 

But it wasn’t.

 

Mikey moved carefully, each step measured — not from fear, but from the drag in his limbs.

 

His breath came short and tight through his mask, warm against the chilled fabric.

 

The cold night air scraped at his throat, and a deep, rattling cough tore out of him before he could muffle it fully.

 

He bent forward a little, hand against a rusted pipe to steady himself, breath wheezing in and out.

 

Still not better.

 

But not bad enough to stop. Not yet.

 

He pressed forward, slower than usual, boots slipping across mist-slick rooftops. His balance faltered once, just a little — and his heart kicked at the stumble.

 

He caught himself.

 

Keep going. Just keep going.

 

First stop: the storm drain tucked behind an old parking garage. Used to be shelter for a mutant couple and their kid.

 

Now?

 

Empty.

 

Damp. Cold.

 

His breath caught again, and he coughed into his sleeve — hard enough to sting his ribs. His whole body curled into it.

 

Then silence.

 

Just the wind again.

 

He climbed to the rooftops once more, lungs burning slightly with the effort, and crouched low beside a rusting air vent.

 

The city stretched out before him — flickering lights and distant warmth he didn’t dare reach for.

 

He stayed there a long time, watching people who didn’t know he existed.

 

Shivering faintly beneath his cloak.

 

His gaze drifted toward the direction of the lair — far off, behind walls and tunnels and choices that couldn’t be undone.

 

The only place he’d ever been truly warm.

 

Wish I could tell you I’m okay, he thought, swallowing around the ache in his throat.

 

Even if it’s not true.

 

He pulled the scarf higher over his mouth as another cough crept up — softer this time, but still sharp in the cold.

 

And somewhere behind him, quiet as a breath, someone noticed the moment he hesitated.

 

Noticed the stumble.

 

Noticed the tremor.

 

The Shadow was bleeding.

 

 

---

 

He spotted a movement below — a figure darting between puddles in the alley, limbs frantic, posture tense.

 

A thief, maybe. Or just someone scared.

 

He didn’t draw a weapon. Didn’t need to. This didn’t feel like a fight.

 

Just a watch. A shadow.

 

He moved across the rooftop, slow but focused, tailing from above like breath on the back of a neck.

 

The figure turned sharply, sprinting down a narrower path.

 

Mikey followed, leaping to the next building with practiced ease—

 

—but landed hard.

 

Too hard.

 

His knees jarred on impact, and his lungs squeezed tight like something inside had snapped shut.

 

He stumbled, caught himself on a crumbling pipe, and hissed softly through clenched teeth.

 

The cold had sunk deeper than he realized.

 

Then the coughing came.

 

Dry at first. Then wet.

 

Relentless.

 

He staggered into a crouch, both arms braced against the rooftop edge as his chest convulsed.

 

He pressed his scarf up to muffle the sound, throat burning.

 

It didn’t stop fast enough.

 

By the time it eased — slow, choking gasps replacing the fit — the alley below was empty.

 

He hadn’t even seen which way the figure went.

 

For a long second, he stayed hunched, eyes stinging.

 

Rain began to fall — quiet at first, like mist whispering against the rooftop.

 

He felt the first cold droplets kiss his skin where the scarf had slipped low.

 

He looked up.

 

Let it hit him.

 

Thin rain. Soft. Steady.

 

It soaked into his hood. Beaded on his lashes.

 

And for a moment, it felt like the city itself was exhaling.

 

“They weren’t hurting anyone,” he rasped out to the sky.

 

“They’re just scared.”

 

So was he.

 

Not a failure. Not tonight. Just… saving strength.

 

He took one last look over the edge, blinking against the rain.

 

Then turned to go.

 

A breath.

 

A shift.

 

Something behind him—

 

A soft scrape. Too soft for wind.

 

He stopped mid-step.

 

Still. Listening.

 

His pulse picked up.

 

Slowly, carefully, he turned his head.

 

Nothing.

 

The rooftop behind him was empty.

 

But the silence had changed.

 

Not hollow — expectant.

 

Like something had just ducked out of sight.

 

Mikey stared into the darkness longer than he meant to.

 

Rain pattered soft against the rooftop, his cloak, the steel at his back.

 

He was soaked through.

 

And suddenly, very aware of how visible his shape must look from a distance.

 

He didn’t linger.

 

Didn’t run either.

 

Just… moved. Quiet. Fast. Controlled.

 

But inside?

 

That flicker of dread didn’t leave.

 

 

---

 

Mikey’s steps echoed softly against the cracked pavement as he made his way back through the winding alleys.

 

His body was heavy, limbs sluggish from the cold that seeped into his bones.

 

He stumbled once, catching himself on the rough brick wall, vision swaying just enough to unnerve him.

 

The air around him shifted — subtle, but unmistakable.

 

Wrong.

 

He paused, breathing ragged and shallow, eyes scanning the shadows pressed tight against the dim streetlights.

 

The city’s quiet felt fragile here — like the calm before a storm.

 

Somewhere just beyond the edge of sight, a presence waited.

 

A shape slipped between darkened corners, a breath caught in the silence.

 

Maybe a voice — low, almost playful — whispered in the dark.

 

“Gotcha.”

 

Or maybe it was just a breathy chuckle, barely more than wind.

 

Mikey froze.

 

Every nerve screamed alert.

 

He knew.

 

He was not alone.

 

But he was too tired.

 

Too sick.

 

Too weak to fight what was coming.

 

He forced himself forward, faster now, muscles trembling with the effort.

 

The narrow alley swallowed his footsteps.

 

His hands twitched toward his nunchucks, but didn’t draw.

 

A cough hit him again — deep and wracking — and the sound echoed too loud, too exposed.

 

He hunched over slightly, pulse stuttering.

 

A shape shifted across the far rooftop — just a blur.

 

Too big to be coincidence. Too quiet to be anything good.

 

He didn’t wait.

 

Didn’t fight.

 

Just ran.

 

But his speed wasn’t what it used to be.

 

His breath came in short gasps, and the pounding in his head was back.

 

The alley turned. He followed. But the shadows moved with him.

 

Close. Too close.

 

Then a whisper, almost right beside him —

 

“You’re slower than they said.”

 

He spun around.

 

No one there.

 

But the voice lingered in the air like smoke.

 

He stumbled back, feet sliding on wet concrete, cloak catching against a fire escape.

 

A flash of movement behind him — too fast, too close.

 

He turned — but nothing. Nothing except the sense of being watched.

 

He bolted.

 

Didn’t think. Just ran.

 

The city was spinning around him now. Lights too bright. Sounds too sharp.

 

He barely made it out of the alley, across a narrow overpass, and down the tunnel that led toward the edge of the city grid.

 

His legs gave out near the end.

 

He collapsed into a narrow space between two dumpsters, chest heaving.

 

The world swam.

 

Darkness crept in from the edges.

 

Something was coming.

 

He could feel it.

 

And then… nothing.

 

 

Chapter 11: Fractured Light

Summary:

Mikey’s body is breaking down — bloodied, fevered, and alone in the cold city night. Every step forward feels heavier than the last, but giving up means vanishing like the mutants he’s sworn to protect. Haunted by memories of care and warmth, he fights through pain and fear — even as something watches him from the dark.

Notes:

Hey everyone!
This is a double update, so hopefully it’s worth the time! The shadows are getting darker, but the journey’s not over yet. More coming soon. <3

The shadows swallowed him whole.

 

Tucked beneath the collapsed shell of a fire escape, Mikey curled into the tightest space he could squeeze into, hidden beneath layers of rust and urban rot.

 

His chest heaved in shallow, unsteady bursts. Every breath scraped against the inside of his ribs, like broken glass dragged over raw flesh.

 

Blood slicked his side — thick, warm, pulsing slow from a wound he hadn’t dared look at yet. His hand pressed into it, more by instinct, than strategy. The pain was there, sharp and biting, but distant — muffled by adrenaline’s fading surge.

 

Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

 

That drumbeat had gotten him this far.

 

But now, in the lull, everything started to crash.

 

Muscles screamed. Joints locked. His fever — simmering quietly for days — spiked like a blade driven into the base of his skull.

 

He coughed once, sharp and wet, and it echoed too loud in the dark. He froze.

 

Listened.

 

Waited.

 

No footsteps. No breath but his own.

 

Still. Not safe.

 

His mind spiraled fast — back to the fight. To being watched. Stalked. Cornered.

 

He hadn’t seen the blow coming. Not really. He never let anyone get that close. But something had slipped.

 

Too slow. Too tired. Too damn sick.

 

A fresh wave of pain rolled through his side. He clenched his jaw so hard it popped. His fingers, sticky with his own blood, trembled in his lap.

 

The alley stank of oil and wet cement. His hood was half-torn, hanging limp over one shoulder. The scarf he wore was soaked — with sweat, with rain, with… god, maybe even blood from someone else.

 

He stayed hunched there, curled in on himself. Not sleeping. Never resting.

 

His vision pulsed at the edges — lightless flares of red and black.

 

I can’t stop. If I stop, I fall. If I fall, I’m done.

 

Calling for help? Out of the question.

 

He didn’t even know if his brothers would listen — or worse, if they would. If they came and saw what he’d become.

 

What if they looked at him and didn’t recognize him at all?

 

A fresh tremor rolled through him, unbidden. Not from fear this time, but cold.

 

The alley’s wind cut through his soaked gear, the blood cooling fast now against his skin.

 

He hated how heavy everything felt.

 

The mask. The name.

 

The Shadow.

 

It had once felt like purpose. Now it wrapped tighter with every night — not a cloak, but a curse.

 

He pressed his head against the wall behind him, eyelids fluttering once, twice.

 

He wouldn’t pass out. He couldn’t.

 

But god — it was getting harder not to.

 

 

---

 

The city spun slowly beneath his feet.

 

Mikey limped along the narrow edge of a rooftop, each step a gamble. His balance, once fluid and instinctive, had become a fragile illusion — one misstep away from collapse.

 

The wind bit through his tattered cloak, whipping the hood from his head. He didn’t bother pulling it back up. The scarf across his mouth clung damp and warm to his face, soaking up blood from a cut above his lip he hadn’t even noticed until it stung.

 

Below, the streets blurred and swam.

 

He paused, one hand gripping the rusted pipe of a ventilation stack. It burned cold beneath his palm.

 

His breath rattled — short, uneven, sharp. A wet cough tore loose before he could catch it, shaking his chest and nearly pitching him forward.

 

He staggered to his knees.

 

The sky tilted.

 

He braced on the edge of the roof, arms shaking violently beneath him. The copper taste of blood coated his tongue.

 

Keep moving. Don’t fall.

 

The words looped in his mind like a rhythm. A survival chant.

 

“Keep moving,” he rasped aloud, the sound barely audible against the wind. “Don’t fall.”

 

The alley he’d been aiming for — just one block over. A stash point. Maybe food. Maybe painkillers. A cracked bottle of iodine, if he was lucky.

 

He could make it.

 

He had to make it.

 

One foot dragged forward. Then another. His knees barely cooperated. His vision split down the middle — dark swirls closing in around the corners of his eyes.

 

He wiped sweat from his brow – and blood came with it. He didn’t know from where anymore. There were too many wounds to keep track of.

 

His shell ached, muscles spasming along seams where bruises had bloomed beneath the skin.

 

Another rooftop. He climbed like a ghost of himself, dragging one leg behind, panting, trembling with every pull upward.

 

He almost didn’t make it.

 

His fingers slipped.

 

One foot missed the ledge.

 

He slammed into the rooftop hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs.

 

But he didn’t cry out.

 

Didn’t stop.

 

Didn’t stay down.

 

Keep moving. Don’t fall.

 

His shadow stretched long and thin in the flickering light of a broken sign as he passed.

 

The boy underneath all the fabric — all the fear — looked nothing like the turtle who once laughed through rooftop flips and tossed quips in mid-battle.

 

Now?

 

He barely looked alive.

 

And still, he moved.

 

 

---

 

He made it to the edge of the rooftop before his legs gave out.

 

Not a fall — not quite — more like his body folding in on itself, collapsing under the weight of pain and exhaustion. He sank down hard onto the gravel-strewn ledge, knees drawn up close, cloak tangled around him like wilted wings.

 

His breath came ragged, hitching between shallow gasps and quiet, bitter coughs. His lungs burned. His side throbbed. His fingers were sticky with blood, and he didn’t even try to wipe them clean this time.

 

Below him, the city thrummed — quiet for once, uncaring. Streetlights blinked in fractured halos, far away and unreachable.

 

Above, the stars were smothered behind a smear of clouds. No light. No warmth.

 

Just the wind, cold and sharp.

 

And silence.

 

Then, like a cruel trick of the brain, something shifted in the corner of his vision.

 

The rooftop blurred, softened, and became… home. Just for a heartbeat. Just for a breath.

 

He was there again. In the lair.

 

A blanket being tucked around his shoulders — rough hands, careful fingers. Raph’s voice, low and gruff, telling him to shut up and rest.

 

Donnie fussing over a thermometer, muttering science through a tired smile.

 

Leo handing him a chipped mug of tea, the steam curling up into Mikey’s face like a hug.

 

And then — Splinter.

 

The softest voice. A hand to his forehead. A whisper like peace.

 

“Rest, Michelangelo. You must heal.”

 

 

Mikey blinked.

 

And the warmth vanished.

 

The rooftop was back. Empty. Silent. Cold.

 

His chest ached — too deeply to be blamed on bruises.

 

The wind cut through his layers again. His fingers twitched against the rooftop gravel.

 

“Maybe…” he whispered, hoarse. “Maybe I’m already too far gone.”

 

The words fell flat. No answer came.

 

Not from the rooftops.

 

Not from the shadows.

 

Not from the stars.

 

And he stayed there for a long time — hunched, silent, bleeding — until the cold forced him to move again.

 

 

---

 

The city wind picked up again, catching the edge of his cloak and tugging it like fingers trying to peel him apart. Mikey didn’t move. He just sat, hunched over, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other clenched in the dirty folds of his scarf.

 

His mask — damp, hot, sticking uncomfortably to his face — clung to the fever-slick skin beneath it. Every breath fogged the inside of the fabric, stale and sharp with the copper bite of blood and the faint rot of rain-soaked rooftops.

 

It was too tight. Too hot.

It itched where a healing cut had opened again along his cheekbone.

 

He pulled the mask down.

 

Not all the way — just enough to expose the face beneath.

Just enough to be Mikey again, for a moment.

 

The air hit his skin like ice. It felt… wrong.

 

But the reflection staring back at him in the shimmer of a rain puddle near the ledge was worse.

 

Pale.

Drawn.

Eyes sunken, ringed with purple not from pigment, but from sickness and exhaustion.

 

His lips were cracked, split in the corner. There was a smear of dried blood near one nostril, and a bruised line ran down the edge of his jaw. His whole face looked hollow — like something had been scooped out from underneath.

 

This wasn’t Michelangelo.

Not the bright one.

Not the spark.

 

This was the Shadow, without the armor.

 

And he hated it.

 

A soft sound slipped from his throat — not a sob, not quite — more like the sound of someone breaking inward quietly.

 

He stayed like that for a moment too long, bare-faced in the dark, as if daring the night to look at him and recognize him.

 

No one did.

 

With shaking fingers, he pulled the mask back up.

 

Fastened it tightly. Hid the sickly pallor. The weakness. The truth.

 

“I have to keep pretending,” he whispered. The words barely made it past the cloth. “I have to.”

 

The wind didn’t answer.

 

But the weight of the mask felt heavier than ever.

 

 

---

 

The city blurred past him as he stumbled forward, following instincts more than any clear path.

 

Rooftop to fire escape. Cracked ledge to rain-slick alley. Every motion scraped bone against bruises, made gashes stretch wider beneath his cloak. His breath rattled in his chest like a warning — shallow and burning, as if his lungs were trying to tear themselves out.

 

He was beyond exhaustion.

Beyond pain.

Running on memory and stubbornness alone.

 

Then, finally — tucked between a half-collapsed fence and a boarded-over service door — he found it.

 

A half-sheltered alcove. Concrete on three sides, the last covered with a crumbling bit of tarp strung between rusted nails. It wasn’t much. It smelled like mold and cat piss. But it was hidden. Dry.

 

Safe enough.

 

He sank to the ground with a strangled sound — something between a groan and a gasp. The impact jolted his side, and fresh blood soaked through the makeshift wrapping tied tight beneath his cloak. He pressed trembling fingers to it again, his whole arm going numb from the effort.

 

The world around him narrowed to this small, suffocating space.

 

One breath at a time.

In. Out.

Slower. Quieter.

 

His hand, sluggish and clumsy, reached into the inner lining of his coat. A tear had formed at the edge of the pocket, but the photo was still there.

 

That old, frayed snapshot.

 

The four of them, grinning. Arms around each other. His eyes bright and whole and real.

 

He held it gently, even though his fingers were stained red and shaking.

 

Tried to focus on it.

Tried to use it like a tether — something to hold himself here. Now. Real.

 

But the image swam. The faces blurred.

 

He couldn’t tell if it was the low light, or the tears in his eyes.

Or the fever rising again, hot behind his eyes and sharp in his throat.

 

A violent shiver tore through him. His body curled tighter — not just from cold, but from something deeper. Older.

 

Fear.

Pain.

Grief that never stopped blooming beneath the surface.

 

His thumb dragged along the bottom edge of the photo. His lips moved, but his voice was barely there.

 

“I’ll make it back… somehow.”

 

He wasn’t sure if he believed it.

 

But he said it anyway.

 

 

---

 

The world had gone quiet again.

Not peacefully so — not like rest.

This was a silence that pressed down like a weight.

 

Mikey stayed curled in his makeshift corner, breath finally beginning to even out, pain still flaring with each pulse but just distant enough now to be bearable. The cold was worse. It had sunk into his bones, soaking him through, leaving his muscles stiff and sore and trembling.

 

His eyes fluttered shut — just for a second.

 

Just long enough to let his fingers go slack around the photo.

 

Then—

 

A shift.

 

Barely anything.

 

A soft sound. A whisper of movement in the alley beyond.

Like a shoe scuffing wet pavement.

 

His eyes snapped open. His breath caught.

 

He strained to hear past the thudding in his skull.

Held completely still.

 

Another beat.

Then: a faint, deliberate step.

 

One.

Then nothing.

 

He sat up a little, every nerve on fire. The photo clutched tightly again in one hand — the other slowly reaching toward a blade tucked into his belt, though even that motion pulled at the wounds across his side.

 

His eyes scanned the opening of the alley.

 

Nothing.

 

Just shadows.

Just the wind.

 

Or maybe… a figure?

 

No — just a trick of the light.

 

Maybe.

 

But then the unexistant hairs on the back of his neck rose — a sensation he couldn’t explain. A pressure.

Like he wasn’t alone anymore.

Like something had followed him here.

 

Watched him stumble.

Bleed.

Hide.

 

And waited.

 

Mikey's grip tightened around the hilt of his blade. His chest heaved once, breath sharp and fast, eyes darting across the alley.

He didn’t call out.

Didn’t move.

 

Just listened.

 

And in the distance — barely audible — a breath.

 

Not his.

Not the wind.

 

Just one low, breathy exhale…

and silence.

 

 

Chapter 12: “Nii-chan…”

Summary:

Blood loss. Infection. Shock.

He gets off the street.

But he’s not sure he’ll make it through the night.

Notes:

⚠️ Warning: Graphic depictions of injury, blood, self-patching, and trauma-related body horror. This is a gore-heavy chapter.

This chapter picks up directly after Chapter 10. It's a slower, internal chapter focused on Mikey's physical collapse, and it’s meant to be brutal. Please take care when reading. 💔

Just 1 or 2 (depending on how much the length comes out to be) chapters and then we'll go to the brothers pov!!

DRINK WATER

The world tilted violently beneath him.

 

Pain ripped through his body like jagged shards of glass — slicing flesh, cracking bone, searing through every nerve ending.

 

Mikey’s breath came in ragged, shallow gasps — each one a battle fought deep inside the hollow of his chest.

 

Don’t let go. Don’t fall. Please…

 

He was falling.

 

Falling hard.

 

 

---

 

The cold, unforgiving ground rushed up to meet him.

 

His body slammed against cracked concrete with a wet crunch — something deep inside gave.

 

The air exploded from his lungs in a strangled rasp, half-sob, half-scream.

 

Blood burst from his side, thick and fast, soaking the torn layers of his gear until it clung to him like syrup.

 

He forced his eyes open, blinking through the sting and haze.

 

Pain screamed in waves from his ribs — a vicious, twisting knife stabbing deeper with every shallow breath.

 

His limbs trembled uncontrollably, slick with sweat, grime, and blood.

 

Fingertips scraped against rough pavement, claws grasping for something — anything — to hold on to.

 

Please don’t let this be the end.

 

Darkness curled at the edges of his vision, threatening to steal color and sound.

 

But he fought it.

 

Fought to stay present.

 

To stay aware.

 

 

---

 

A sharp taste of iron flooded his mouth, thick and metallic — stinging cracked, dry lips.

 

A slow, rattling cough escaped him — thick globs of blood sprayed from his lips, spattering the ground.

 

Each cough pulled from deep in his chest, like his lungs were tearing themselves apart.

 

 

Why won’t it stop? Why can’t I breathe?

 

Time blurred.

 

Seconds stretched into agonizing minutes.

 

Pain crashed over him in relentless waves.

 

Still, he clung to consciousness.

 

Somewhere deep inside, a faint flicker of will burned through the haze.

 

Don’t give up. Don’t let go.

 

 

---

 

Cold rain began again — sharp and relentless — drumming on the cracked pavement, mixing with his blood.

 

It washed away grime but not the weight crushing his chest.

 

He shivered violently, teeth chattering despite the heat of pain.

 

He forced his eyelids open wider — refusing to slip away into the dark.

 

The night was a blur of shadowed shapes and distant sounds: sirens wailing, footsteps fading, the city’s whispered chaos that no longer felt like his.

 

A trembling hand reached out blindly, searching for something to cling to. 

 

Anything.

 

And still — he stayed awake.

 

Barely.

 

 

---

 

Every breath stabbed through his ribs — sharp, brutal reminders that his body was breaking.

 

Blood coated his trembling hands, warm and sticky — dripping from fresh cuts, mixing with grime caked onto torn sleeves.

 

The cold night air bit mercilessly at exposed skin — chilling ragged wounds, searing raw flesh.

 

He staggered forward, each step a violent war against burning agony twisting through his side.

 

Vision blurred, darkening at the edges, but he forced himself upright.

 

I can’t stop. I won’t.

 

Behind him, the city hummed indifferently.

 

Fear and exhaustion clawed at his mind.

 

They’re coming.

 

They’re close.

 

 

---

 

Ahead loomed the crumbling skeleton of a forgotten building — bricks cracked and worn, windows shattered.

 

His fingers twitched, craving the rough texture beneath peeling paint.

 

He saw it... but he was too weak to move forward.

 

He sank down against the cold, graffiti-scarred wall, knees pulled tight to his chest.

 

The world spun faintly as ragged breath shook his body.

 

Blood dripped slow and steady, pooling beneath him.

 

Pain and desperation wrapped around him like iron chains — suffocating, unrelenting.

 

His body shivered, but not from cold alone.

 

His mind spiraled — ragged, wild thoughts:

 

Can I patch this up?

 

Can I hold on long enough?

 

Will I even be me when this is done?

 

Somewhere deep inside, a stubborn flicker of will refused to die.

 

He swallowed hard against the metallic taste flooding his mouth.

 

He forced himself up again — one slow, painful step after another.

 

Closer.

 

 

---

 

Mikey’s legs gave out as soon as he crossed the threshold of a broken door.

 

He collapsed hard against the cold, unforgiving wall.

 

Concrete bit into bruised skin, sending fresh jolts through ribs ragged beneath torn fabric.

 

Blood slicked the cracked surface beneath trembling fingers.

 

His breath came shallow and ragged — sharp inhales broken by rattling coughs scraping his throat raw.

 

Every movement was agony.

 

But still, he fought to stay upright.

 

Fumbling, he tore at the fabric around his side.

 

A jagged tear yawned open across his side — skin shredded, edges raw and swollen, flesh pulsing with every heartbeat. Blood didn’t seep — it gushed, slow and thick, dragging warmth from his body in rivulets.

 

 

He ripped a piece of his cloak — stiff and rough against raw skin.

 

Hands slick with blood and grime trembled as he pressed the cloth to his side, biting back a cry as the sting flared through soaked fabric.

 

A sour metallic taste flooded his mouth again.

 

He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of dark crimson.

 

From a battered bag scavenged days ago, he pulled out a half-empty bottle of disinfectant.

 

The acrid bitterness hit his nostrils like a slap.

 

With shaking fingers, he poured the liquid onto the ragged cloth.

 

The moment it hit, the disinfectant sizzled in the open wound — foam hissing pink as it ate into the muscle. It bubbled up, thick and viscous, like the wound was cooking from the inside. He nearly passed out from the smell alone — the mix of rot, chemical sting, and his own burning tissue..

 

He gritted his teeth — no sound escaped.

 

Pain is old. Desperation is new.

 

Don’t fall apart now. Not yet.

 

His eyes flicked around the grimy room — cracked tiles coated in dust, faded graffiti peeling from stained walls.

 

The air was stale — heavy with rot and decay.

 

No sanctuary here.

 

No safe haven.

 

Just a forgotten corner of a city that had long ago turned its back.

 

 

---

 

Automatically, he tore strips of cloth to bind his wound tighter.

 

Pressed until the sting blurred to dull ache.

 

Blood seeped through makeshift bandages

It wasn’t clotting. It was too deep. Too wet. The cloth turned crimson almost instantly, then black as it soaked through to the bone.

 

A harsh cough rattled up from deep inside, each spasm leaving him weaker.

 

Gasping for burning, scraping air.

 

His body trembled violently.

 

The cold had seeped deeper than he’d thought.

 

Fever clawed mercilessly at his muscles.

 

His mind teetered on the edge.

 

Exhaustion threatening to pull him under.

 

To surrender to the darkness pressing close.

 

But still — he fought.

 

He sank slowly to the grimy floor, back to cold stone.

 

Knees drawn up.

 

Head bowed.

 

Blood dripped from his temple, streaking down sweat-matted cheek.

 

Silence crushed around him.

 

No warmth.

 

No comfort.

 

Only blood dripping.

 

and the slow crawl of something wet down his spine — blood or sweat – he couldn’t tell anymore. 

 

Harsh rasp of ragged breath.

 

And the distant hum of a city that never truly slept.

 

 

—

 

His stomach lurched — violently. He doubled over, a wet, choking gag tearing through him as he vomited bile and blood onto the floor. The acid burned his throat, his nose, his eyes. It dribbled down his chin and into the cracks of the floor.

 

 

Pain flared like wildfire.

 

Sharp and relentless.

 

Each heartbeat pounding searing heat through battered ribs.

 

Blood throbbed beneath skin — warm, insistent.

 

A cruel reminder of how badly broken he was.

 

Fatigue clawed at him, heavy and suffocating.

 

Dragging limbs into leaden weights that threatened collapse.

 

Dizziness swirled.

 

Nausea twisted his gut in merciless knots.

 

Breath hitched — shallow and ragged.

 

Rattled like broken chains.

 

The room spun slowly.

 

Stale air thickened.

 

Suffocating.

 

Still, he forced his eyes open.

 

Don’t lose it now. Stay awake.

 

Desperate not to lose himself to the creeping dark.

 

 

---

 

Memories crashed in — sudden, vivid, raw.

 

Faces blurred and bright.

 

Echoes of laughter.

 

Worries whispered.

 

Fierce love.

 

Quiet strength.

 

His brothers’ eyes.

 

Searching.

 

Hopeful.

 

Leo’s calm.

 

Raph’s protectiveness.

 

Donnie’s steady presence.

 

Promises made in whispered moments —

 

Don’t give up.

 

Keep fighting.

 

Come home.

 

Doubt tangled with hope.

 

Had I failed them?

 

Is this what I’ve become?

 

A shadow hiding in the dark. Bleeding. Broken. Too weak to hold the line?

 

Fingers clenched rough cloak fabric.

 

Knuckles white against fading light.

 

Pressed makeshift bandage tighter.

 

Fought sting.

 

Fought despair pressing heavy on his chest.

 

A cough tore from deep within.

 

Wet.

 

Ragged.

 

A bitter laugh — short, hollow.

 

If I can’t even take care of myself… How can I protect anyone else?

 

Silence pressed down — thick, cold.

 

The blood began pooling — not in streaks, but in thick puddles, sticky and slow. His fingers were stained black-red where they rested. When he shifted, it made a soft squelch.

 

It sure broke the silence, didn't it.

 

 

---

 

The fire inside flickered — dimming with every ragged breath.

 

Cold seeped deeper than flesh.

 

Threaded through bone and marrow.

 

Wrapped tight like unforgiving chains.

 

Limbs grew heavy. Leaden.

 

Vision blurred.

 

Colors bled into shadow.

 

Breaths slowed.

 

Shallow and uneven.

 

Whispered echoes lost in a cavern.

 

A fragile whisper slipped from cracked lips.

 

Trembling. Barely audible.

 

His teeth had started to chatter uncontrollably — not from cold anymore, but from shock. He couldn’t feel his legs. That scared him more than the blood.

 

Nii-chan…

 

The word wavered — a fragile thread cast into the dark.

 

Not knowing which brother he called.

 

Not knowing if anyone heard.

 

Just a desperate plea.

 

A faint hope for connection.

 

For comfort.

 

For home.

 

 

—

 

His side throbbed once — a burst, like something inside finally tore loose. The warmth that followed wasn’t comforting. It was final.

His body tilted. And then, his senses started to fade.

 

 

Darkness closed like a shroud.

 

He saw nothing after that.

 

 

 

Chapter 13: Through The Fog

Summary:

Mikey’s still sick and worn down, but he’s trying to keep moving. He doesn’t expect comfort—just quiet. He returns to the dojo, ghostlike, clinging to what little strength he has left. It’s not healing. It’s not peace. But it’s solitude. And for now, that’s enough.

Notes:

I'm SO SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!!
life was somewhat, um, hard?? You know?? The usual and stuff...
But I'm back and I promise I don't have any intention of abondoning this fic!! Sorry if it feels kinda rushed T^T

This is the last chapter we'd have on Mikey’s pov for a while, we'll finally go to the brothers!!

Take care and be sure to drink your daily dose of water!! 🧡🧡

Something was humming. Not like a song. Not even real. Just… a low buzz behind his eyes. Like static. Like the sound the world makes when it forgets to breathe. A sound that didn’t exist until everything else went quiet.

 

Mikey came to with a sharp inhale that scraped down his throat like glass.

 

He didn’t move at first. Not that he could – but still.

 

The floor beneath him was hard and sticky, cold seeping straight through his plastron. His limbs were splayed in awkward angles, one arm curled protectively over his stomach — or maybe just stuck there from dried blood and muscle stiffness.

 

He blinked once. Twice.

 

The ceiling above him was a crumbling mess of pipes and rust-stained stone.

 

No light. Just grayness.

 

His mouth was dry. His tongue tasted like copper and old cloth.

 

His fingers twitched and stuck to something — bandages, soaked and curling at the edges. He looked down and saw the wrap on his side had loosened, barely clinging anymore. Dried red crusted over his knuckles, flaked on the floor around him.

 

“Still here?” he whispered to no one. His voice cracked. Gravel-slick. Flat.

 

A beat passed.

 

He coughed, weak and wheezing, then muttered dryly into the ceiling:

 

“Guess dying’s not in the cards yet,” he muttered. “Figures.”

 

His limbs ached. Head swam.

 

The fever was back, coiled behind his eyes, burning low and slow like a warning signal.

 

But beneath all of that…

 

There was just emptiness.

 

No panic. No adrenaline.

 

Not even pain sharp enough to jolt him alert.

 

Just cold.

 

And the quiet, echoing thought:

 

Why?

 

He rolled slowly onto his side, each movement dragging fresh aches up his spine. The world tilted. He didn't care.

 

He was so tired of caring.

 

The photo was still clutched in his hand — wrinkled, edges soft with handling, the corner torn like a wound.

(He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep with it pressed to his chest.)

 

He didn’t look at it.

 

Not yet.

 

Just closed his eyes again for a moment and breathed in stale air, damp stone, and the faint iron scent of blood that had become far too familiar.

 

“Okay…” he rasped, voice nearly lost. “Still here. So what now?”

 

No answer.

 

Just the city breathing outside.

 

 

He tries to sit up.

 

Mistake.

 

Every joint protests, fire streaking down his side, through his legs, his neck, his chest. Muscles lock like rusted gears, like they’ve forgotten how to move. His arms shake just trying to push himself upright.

 

Then the nausea hits.

 

He doesn't make it to the bucket this time. Not that it matters. There’s barely anything left to bring up. Just bile and spit and dry heaves that wrack his body harder than any fight ever has.

 

He slumps sideways. Blinks slow. The ceiling blurs in and out.

 

 

—

 

 

 

Time blurred.

 

He’s not sure how long he’s gone. A few seconds? A few minutes? Doesn’t matter. The pain is still here.

 

Sticky.

 

Hot.

 

His fingers come away red again.

 

He fumbles for the bandages, weak hands shaking too much to grip properly. They’re already soaked through, clinging to his skin in crusted patches, falling apart at the edges. The ones he can reach, anyway.

 

He tries to pull one free. It tears. He tries again. His breath stutters in his chest.

 

There’s no clean wrap left. Just scraps. He must’ve used it all last night. Or maybe the night before. Everything bled together — literally, figuratively, painfully.

 

He presses a scrap of fabric over the wound anyway, but it slides off. Slippery. Useless.

 

His hand drops to the floor.

 

“What’s the point,” he mutters, voice hoarse, barely more than air, “if it just keeps bleeding?”

 

No answer, of course.

 

Just the creak of the building settling. The soft buzz of the city outside. And the sound of his own heart, sluggish and tired in his ears.

 

 

 

He thinks about his brothers.

 

Their faces flicker in his mind, sharp and soft and distant all at once.

 

He tries to imagine what they’d say if they saw him now.

 

Leo would be calm. Steady. Like always. Donnie would analyze, explain, tell him what to do. Raph would— yell, probably. Break something. Patch him up while pretending not to care.

 

 

 

And Mikey? Mikey wouldn’t be here at all.

 

 

His voice cracks around a whisper:

 

“They wouldn’t want me back like this.”

 

He sucked in a shaky breath.

 

“No one would.”

 

The words hang in the air, unanswered.

 

No one to argue. No one to care.

 

He sinks back against the wall.

 

Thinks about just staying here.

 

Letting the city move on.

 

Letting himself fade out of it.

 

Forgotten.

 

He sees something in the clutter. A scrap of fabric, torn and dirty — but it used to be his. Part of his old gear. Orange, once. Bright, once.

 

Or maybe it's nothing real. Maybe it’s just a sound — the ghost of Splinter’s voice, soft and stern.

Or the memory of Leo’s hands, steady and silent, fixing him up without judgment.

 

It cuts through the fog. Barely. But it cuts.

 

His breath hitches. The tears come quiet — too tired to sob. Too hollow to stop.

 

"I want to go home."

 

His voice is raw. Unheard. Still, it leaves his mouth.

 

"Even if it's just... to say goodbye."

 

 

 

He forces himself to stand.

 

The floor sways. Or maybe that’s just him.

 

His first attempt ends in a sharp gasp and a dull thud as his knees buckle and he crumples back to the mat. His chest burns. The ribs scream. His muscles twitch with exhaustion. He waits a beat. Two. Tries again.

 

The second time is worse.

 

A flash of pain blooms white-hot in his side, and the edges of his vision blur. His body rebels—limbs trembling, stomach churning—but he clenches his jaw and pushes up anyway. This time, he makes it halfway before collapsing again, shoulder hitting the ground hard enough to spark a groan from deep in his throat.

 

He lies there for a moment. Staring at the dim beams overhead. Breathing through grit teeth.

 

Then, a third time.

 

He moves slower now. Controlled. Every shift of weight carefully negotiated, like he’s walking a wire between worlds. It takes longer—so much longer—but eventually, he makes it to his feet.

 

He stays upright.

 

It feels like a victory. Hollow, aching… but still a victory.

 

One arm curls around his bruised ribs, protective and tight. The other gropes along the wall for balance, fingertips brushing the cool wooden paneling as he takes a shaky step forward. Then another.

 

He doesn’t know where he’s going. The dojo is barely five strides across, but it feels endless—like an ocean of shadows and silence.

 

Still, he walks.

 

 

 

His legs threaten to buckle with every step, but he doesn’t stop. His breath catches. A cough tears through him, bending him sideways, but he straightens again.

 

He makes it to the far side, where moonlight filters faintly through the slats of an old window.

 

He leans against the wall beside it, forehead pressing to the cool wood, eyes closed for a long moment. Then he opens them, just enough to look out.

 

At nothing, really. A sliver of alley. Part of a fire escape. The vague orange glow of the city beyond.

 

Not enough to orient him. Not enough to reach anyone.

 

But still, it’s something.

 

“If I can’t die,” he whispers, voice barely audible over the ringing in his ears, “maybe I can at least be found.”

 

But the world outside offers no answer.

 

And deep down, he knows the truth.

 

He wants to be found.

 

Not yet, though.

 

Not like this.

 

 

Chapter 14: Splintered Threads

Summary:

Donnie’s wounded, Leo’s unraveling, and Raph is haunted. The Shadow keeps slipping through their fingers—until he doesn’t.
A tracker blinks to life.
And all three brothers finally admit it:
It might really be Mikey.

Notes:

YEAH DUDE!!! WE'RE BACK TO THE BROTHERS!!

So so, everything is getting better. Brace yourself for angst AND fluff!

 

The lair was quieter than usual — not peaceful, not calm — just… quiet.

 

A brittle, strained kind of quiet, like the surface tension of water just before it breaks. The kind of silence that clung to your skin, crawled into your lungs, made it hard to breathe without feeling like you were trespassing on something sacred and breaking it with every exhale.

 

Leo sat hunched over the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, head buried in his hands. Trying to center himself. Trying to breathe. Trying not to think too hard.

But his mind wouldn’t stop.

It kept looping the image — that shape in the dark. The Shadow. That flicker of movement that shouldn’t have been possible. So fast, so precise, so silent.

 

And so… familiar.

 

Like muscle memory.

Like home.

But wrong.

 

Every time Leo closed his eyes, he saw it again: the silhouette darting through smoke and steam, feet not quite touching the ground, that kusarigama slicing through the air like it belonged in the shadows.

 

It didn’t make sense.

But it did.

 

That was the worst part.

 

Across the room, Raph stood by the tunnel entrance, arms crossed tight across his chest, shoulders bunched like drawn wire. His eyes hadn’t stopped scanning the tunnels for the past hour. His weight shifted from one foot to the other, muscles twitching like he wanted to run — or fight — but didn’t know what target to pick.

 

Donnie sat stiffly in front of the console, fingers flying across his keyboard. The screen flickered with camera footage, street maps, flashing data points, and looping feeds. He was layering filters over traffic cams, cross-referencing timestamps and audio frequencies with every known vigilante sighting in the past 72 hours. Looking for a crack in the static.

 

Trying to make the impossible line up.

 

None of them spoke.

But the question hung thick in the air between them.

 

Was it him?

 

 

Raph’s voice finally cut through the quiet — hoarse and sudden.

“I can’t stop thinking about it.”

 

Leo lifted his head slowly, eyes locking onto his brother.

“What do you mean?” he asked, but part of him already knew.

 

Raph’s jaw tightened. He looked like he was chewing on nails, trying to get the words out without choking on them.

 

“A few days ago…” he started, voice low. “I was near the docks. Real early. Before sunrise. Couldn’t sleep.”

 

Leo sat up straighter.

“You saw him?”

 

Raph didn’t answer at first. He just nodded — slow and grim.

 

And that silence said everything.

 

---

 

It had been near pitch-black that morning — the kind of early that blurred into night. Mist rolled low over the rooftops, and every streetlight buzzed like it was on its last breath.

Raph had been there alone, crouched on a ledge, watching the water lap at rusted shipping containers. Just trying to clear his head.

 

Then movement.

Sudden. Fast.

 

He didn’t hear it first — he felt it. Like a shift in air pressure, a ripple of something slicing through stillness.

The Shadow was in the middle of a fight.

 

A blur of motion. Dark hood. Silent steps. That same black kusarigama cutting arcs through the fog, chain slicing and looping like it had a mind of its own.

 

Raph didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

He watched, paralyzed — not with fear, but with recognition.

 

He knew that weapon.

He knew that stance.

 

But before he could process it, the chain snapped out — slicing past him fast enough to split the air beside his face. It didn’t hit, not quite — just skimmed close enough to sting.

Close enough to leave a mark.

 

A shallow scratch across his cheek.

 

And that?

That’s what made it real.

 

He reached for his sai on instinct, already calling out—

 

But the Shadow was gone.

One second there.

The next? Smoke.

Purple smoke.

 

---

 

“Near the docks,” Raph muttered, his voice dragging him back to the present like it hurt. “He was there — hood, bandana, kusarigama. The whole thing.”

He rubbed his cheek absently — two fingers grazing the thin red line still not fully healed.

 

Leo leaned forward. His heart had started pounding somewhere around the word kusarigama and hadn’t stopped since.

“And the way he moved?” Leo pressed. “It was like Mikey?”

 

Raph swallowed hard.

“Yeah. But more than that.”

 

He paused, trying to put it into words.

 

“It was like him… but sharper. Stripped down. Like someone pulled the joy out of him and left only the reflexes. He wasn’t holding back.”

 

Leo’s stomach twisted.

“And his eyes?”

 

Raph’s jaw clenched. Then:

“Blue. Sky blue.” His voice cracked. “Just like…”

 

Leo didn’t need him to finish.

“Just like Mikey’s,” he whispered.

 

“I didn’t tell you because… I don’t know. I didn’t want to... give false hope,” Raph said through clenched teeth.

 

But it didn’t matter.

 

---

 

They didn’t talk about it again.

Not out loud.

 

But the memory of it stuck like a splinter under the skin.

They were both on edge.

 

So when Donnie slipped out of the lair a few days later — under the guise of needing rare parts for a radar upgrade — he didn’t tell Leo.

 

Didn’t want him to worry.

Worry more, at least.

 

Just a quick errand, he told himself. Thirty minutes tops. In and out.

 

He never made it past twenty.

 

---

 

The alley behind the hardware shop was narrow and stank of rust and mildew. Donnie moved quickly, bag over his shoulder, flicking through his comms to check a signal interference issue that’d been messing with their uplink.

Static again.

Of course.

 

 

He grumbled, making a mental note to fix the antenna first thing when he got back.

 

That’s why he didn’t hear the footsteps.

Didn’t notice the figure tailing him through the dark.

Didn’t realize the blade was swinging until it was too late.

 

 

Pain bloomed sharp and sudden across his side — a searing slash that drove the air from his lungs and dropped him to his knees. The bag hit the ground hard, tech spilling across the wet concrete.

“Stupid turtle,” someone hissed behind him.

 

Another strike. Another blow.

 

He collapsed, vision spinning, hand scrabbling for his bo.

Then—

 

A shift.

A blur of black in the corner of his eye.

The whoosh of a blade.

And a scream that didn’t come from him.

 

Donnie blinked.

Blood dripped down his face, stinging his eye.

And standing over him — silent, breathing heavy, hood pulled low —

 

Was him.

The Shadow.

 

The bandana obscured most of his face, but his eyes were visible.

 

Blue.

So blue.

 

He crouched down like he might help — fingers twitching at his side like they wanted to reach out.

 

Donnie barely moved. Couldn’t.

 

He groaned softly, just enough to shift upright.

And that was it.

 

The Shadow pulled back.

Watched him for one long second…

Then turned to leave.

 

Donnie thought fast. As soon as the Shadow turned around — he threw one of the trackers he always kept on himself onto him.

 

---

 

When Leo saw Donnie limp through the tunnel an hour later — blood-soaked — he didn’t ask questions.

His look spoke for him.

 

But when Donnie finally spoke, it was hoarse. Quiet.

“I saw him again.”

 

Leo stilled.

“And?” he asked, softly.

 

Donnie’s fingers were trembling.

“I think he saved me.”

 

Leo looked at him.

 

“He took the guy down. But… he didn’t just stop there. He paused. Like he was gonna help. Like it mattered to him.”

He exhaled shakily. “And I saw them. The eyes. Blue. Just like Raph said.”

 

A long silence stretched between them.

 

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s him.” he said with a steady and confident tone.

 

But his shaking hands betrayed him.

 

Leo didn’t say a word.

His knuckles were already white from how tightly he was gripping the back of the chair.

 

“And, Leo?” Leo looked up. “I put a tracker on him.”

 

---

 

Later, when the lights had dimmed and the city was a map of dots and pulses on the lair’s main screen, Donnie watched one faint signal blink on and off.

It was glitchy — the tracker must’ve sustained damage in the fight — but it did the job.

 

“He was close tonight,” Leo said behind him. “Closer than ever.”

 

Donnie didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The silence between them was thick with a truth neither of them wanted to say.

 

 

Raph said, tone serious, “We can’t just bust in and get him, even if we know where he is. We need a plan — a plan to make him trust us again.”

Then he turned to Leo.

 

“So, what’s the plan leader?”

 

Chapter 15: A Step Too Late

Summary:

Raph runs haunted by memories and guilt; Donnie’s tracker flickers uncertainly but finally locks onto Mikey’s shadowed figure. The brothers gather beneath the flickering streetlamp, hope and tension thick in the air — until Mikey’s cough shatters the silence, revealing him at last.

Notes:

Would you believe if I said I'm fucking PROUD OF MYSELF FOR WRITING THIS CHAPTER?

I hope you like it and don't forget to drink water!!

Comments give me life and inspiration so please give it to me if you like!!

Raph runs.

 

Always running.

 

Always chasing.

 

Always one second too late.

 

His feet crash against the rain-slick asphalt, pounding a staccato rhythm that echoes off the walls around him. Water sprays with every step, shallow puddles splintering underfoot, fracturing the glow of shattered streetlamps above into a kaleidoscope of broken light.

 

The alley yawns ahead—long, narrow, and winding like a scar he never quite forgot.

 

He knows these walls.

 

Knows the crooked pipe Mikey used to climb like a monkey, just to prove he could.

Knows the spray-painted graffiti Mikey dared Donnie to tag, some inside joke that still stains the bricks with laughter long gone.

Knows the dented old dumpster Mikey cannonballed into yelling, “GERONIMOOOOO!” so loud he startled three cats and cracked the lid and his own elbow.

 

It used to echo with life. With them.

 

Now it just reeks.

 

Rot.

 

Metal.

 

Mildew clinging to brick.

The copper tang of old blood soaked deep into concrete.

And regret. So much regret it nearly chokes him.

 

His lungs stab sharp with every breath. His chest burns. His legs ache with the weight of too many nights like this. But he doesn’t slow down. Can’t.

 

The city pulses somewhere distant — sirens, honks, the occasional wail — but it all fades beneath the dense fog curling low around his ankles, coiling up his legs like it wants to pull him down and bury him in the past.

 

The night presses in tighter. The dark thicker. The silence almost sacred.

 

Then—

 

A noise.

Barely there. A sound that slices through the fog like memory.

 

A voice.

Soft. Familiar. Like a whisper he’s forgotten how to breathe through.

 

“Mikey?” he calls out, hoarse. The name tears out of him. Hope and dread knotted together in his throat.

 

Silence.

 

Then—

 

“Raph!”

 

It’s louder. Sharper. Like someone reaching out. Like someone falling.

 

He spins so fast his feet nearly slip. His pulse spikes. His heart lodges in his throat.

 

He throws his arms out instinctively — like he can catch it, the voice, the moment, the chance. As if he could lock it in his fists and never let it go again.

 

His eyes scan the blur. Shadows stretching and shifting. Every flicker a phantom. Every glint of orange a cruel trick.

 

There—

 

Movement.

 

Something blurs.

 

A shape—

 

Falling.

 

 

“Mikey!”

 

A sound like thunder splits the air.

 

Not thunder.

 

Something worse.

 

A crack.

 

Final. Irrevocable.

 

Then—

 

Stillness.

 

 

Not just quiet. Dead silence.

 

Like the world exhaled and never breathed back in.

 

Raph stumbles forward. Eyes wide. Heart cratering.

 

The scream comes raw and wild, from somewhere deep — deeper than lungs or voice. From the center of him.

 

“MIKEY—!”

 

But the world doesn’t answer.

 

It never does.

 

No voice.

 

No body.

 

No baby brother.

 

Just fog.

 

And streetlight.

 

And him.

 

Alone.

 

Again.

 

 

---

 

He wakes up with a violent gasp.

His hand smacks against his chest, palm flat like he could stop the hammering inside. Like maybe if he presses hard enough, it’ll go away.

His body is slick with sweat, shirt clinging, blanket twisted around his legs like a net. He fights free of it in one jerking motion, panting, heaving, blinking too fast.

 

He’s not in the alley.

 

He knows he’s not.

But his heart hasn’t caught up.

His body hasn’t caught up.

His soul is still there — standing in that puddle of silence, screaming.

 

The soft green glow of the lair flickers in his peripheral. Pipes hiss. Something drips. The vents whisper overhead.

 

But all he hears is Mikey.

 

That scream.

 

That crack.

 

The sai on his nightstand catches the dim light, polished but dulled by dust. Familiar. Solid.

 

He reaches—

Then freezes.

 

His hand curls back.

Withdraws.

 

Even that feels sharp tonight. Too sharp. Too cruel.

Too much like him.

 

“It wasn’t real,” he mutters. Voice barely more than breath. “It wasn’t real.”

 

But it could’ve been.

That’s what gnaws him open.

That’s what won’t let him go.

 

The silence doesn't soothe. It just presses. Heavy. Oppressive. Wrapping around him like the fog from his dream, thick enough to drown in.

 

He can’t stay here.

 

Can’t sit in it.

 

He throws the blanket aside, swinging his legs over the edge.

Muscle memory drags him into the hall — past gear crates, old mats, half-lit corridors. He doesn’t care where he’s going. Doesn’t need a target.

 

He just needs to move.

To hit something.

To bleed if he has to.

Because stillness?

Stillness hurts.

Stillness is the sound of leaving Mikey behind.

 

He remembers the last time they talked.

The last time he pushed too hard.

Pulled away too fast.

Said too little.

Too late.

And maybe—

Maybe that’s when the cracks started.

Maybe that was the moment Mikey stopped reaching out.

Maybe Raph was the one who let go first.

 

 

---

 

Donnie hasn’t slept.

Not because he’s building something.

Not because he’s busy.

Not all of the time.

But mostly because he can’t stop thinking.

 

The lab glows an eerie blue. Rows of monitors spill data in pulses. Numbers tick like heartbeats.

But Donnie just stares.

One hand on his temple.

The other trembling slightly over the keyboard.

 

The radar is spitting nonsense again.

Brooklyn. Gone. Then Queens. Then—Tokyo?

 

He glares. Smashes his fist against the desk in fury.

No change.

 

It’s not the hardware.

It’s not the algorithm.

It’s not him.

It’s Mikey.

His baby brother.

 

The one who used to tape googly eyes on the toaster.

Who now can scramble signals designed by the smartest person in the sewers.

 

And Donnie knows he’s doing it on purpose.

He’s jamming it. He’s running.

And he’s better than he should be.

Way better.

Maybe that’s the scariest part.

 

Donnie mutters under his breath. “Why didn’t he just take the tracker off?”

 

But he knows.

Mikey left it on.

Because deep down, he wants them to find him.

He just doesn’t want to make it easy.

 

Maybe to prove they care enough to chase him through hell.

 

Donnie’s fingers fly again. Desperate. Adjusting settings. Trying every filter, every frequency override, even the junk code he swore he’d never use again.

 

Nothing.

Then—

 

BEEP.

 

He freezes.

A dot.

 

Not perfect.

But clearer.

Closer.

 

Still flickering, but holding steady in one small radius.

 

His throat catches. His eyes burn.

He barely remembers standing.

 

“LEO—!”

He bolts into the hall.

“I GOT HIM!”

 

Leo’s swords were already in hand before Donnie finished the sentence.

 

 

---

 

The alley is nearly silent.

 

Crumbling buildings lean like they're listening.

A single streetlamp flickers — buzz, blink, buzz — casting fractured light over cracked pavement.

 

Behind a dumpster, three shadows crouch.

 

“He’s close,” Donnie whispers. His scanner vibrates faintly in his hands. “Within a hundred feet. Probably less.”

Raph tenses. “Then where is he?”

 

Leo doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t blink.

He just watches.

Eyes scanning every rooftop. Every ledge. Every silhouette.

 

He’s here.

He has to be.

 

And above them —

He is.

 

Mikey crouches low, shrouded in black. His breath fogs faint in the cold air.

 

He sees them.

He knew they’d come.

Knew it was only a matter of time.

 

The tracker… he’d disrupted it. Magnet interference. Should’ve held longer.

But somehow, they pushed through.

 

They’re not giving up.

And that…

 

That hurts more than he expected.

 

He watches Raph pacing.

Donnie muttering.

Leo — quiet, still, waiting.

 

They look wrecked.

And he wants—

 

He wants to step out.

To fall into them.

To be caught.

 

But he stays.

He grips the edge of the ledge tighter.

Then—

 

His chest seizes. The cold's gotten deeper than he thought. He clamps a hand over his mouth—

Too late.

The cough rips out anyway.

 

Wet.

Loud.

 

Too loud.

 

Below, Leo’s head whips upward.

“There.”

 

And Mikey did not move.

Did not run.

Could not even breathe.

 

"Shit."

 

 

Chapter 16: Threadbare

Summary:

They saw him.
He ran.
He’s real — and he’s breaking.

Notes:

Sometimes scenes just hit you, and this was one of those. I always forget how emotionally exhausting chase sequences can be until I’m halfway through editing with ten tabs open, wondering why I’m crying. Hope this one wrecked you a little in the best way. Take care of your hearts and your hydration, and let me know what moment hit hardest 💙

“There!”

 

Leo’s voice cracked, raw and unfiltered. He didn’t care.

 

It was him.

It was Mikey.

 

He barely had time to blink. The figure was already gone. A blur of black fabric trailing behind him like smoke. Like regret. Like a nightmare that had finally turned solid.

 

A figure launched off the beam above — silent, hood drawn low, the moonlight catching just enough fabric to confirm what Leo already knew in his chest.

Kusarigama glinting. Cloak fluttering.

 

But he wasn’t invisible anymore.

Not to them.

Not now.

 

 

“GO!”

 

Leo surged forward like a storm breaking its dam. His pulse thundered louder than his footsteps.

 

This wasn’t a fight.

Not this time.

 

He didn’t draw his swords — what good were blades against a ghost?

 

Donnie vaulted onto the rooftop, bo staff clutched tight in one hand, the other frantically digging at his belt for the tracker scanner, fingers slippery with sweat.

 

Raph barreled ahead on instinct — a red blur of panic and muscle.

Every breath came out in a snarl.

Every footfall echoed the same word:

 

Don’t lose him.

Don’t lose him.

Don’t lose him again.

 

And Mikey —

God, he ran.

 

Fast. Too fast. Like he was being chased by a predator — and like something inside him already wanted to go right into it's jaw.

 

His breath was sandpaper, torn from a throat already raw.

A sharp, stabbing ache bloomed beneath his ribs with every step — something deeper than cramp, more urgent than fatigue.

 

He’d been coughing all night.

Maybe longer.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept properly.

Everything hurt.

The edges of the world blurred. Neon signs smeared like watercolor in his vision. The pavement buckled beneath his feet in a slow, nauseating tilt.

His legs screamed, muscles tight and burning as he tore through the alley beside the subway yard.

 

His cloak snapped at his heels.

The kusarigama pounded against his spine — like a memory trying to tear itself loose.

The knives in his belt jabbed with every jolt — too many weapons, too many ghosts on his back.

 

He’d run before.

He knew how to vanish.

But not like this.

 

Not with his lungs threatening to collapse.

Not with that weight in his chest that felt like it had claws.

Not with every breath unraveling like frayed rope.

Not with their voices behind him.

 

Not with his name breaking the silence like it still belonged to someone.

 

 

“MIKEY—!”

 

It was Leo.

 

Mikey’s foot caught — just a little.

He stumbled.

Just a second.

Just enough.

 

It wasn’t the name.

It was the way Leo said it.

 

Like a plea.

Like a prayer.

Like he was already bracing to lose him again.

 

Mikey didn’t even mean to look back.

But he felt it.

 

The way Leo’s voice cracked.

The way it begged.

 

It was the same voice that had yelled when someone slipped.

Off a ledge.

Out of reach.

Into the dark.

 

That voice haunted Mikey.

He pushed harder.

 

 

 

He vaulted the chain-link fence, bare fingers scraping cold metal, then kicked off a rusted dumpster, dragging himself up to the alley’s second level.

 

Too slow.

 

Raph was already climbing.

 

Fast.

Too fast.

 

A hand shot out — fingers snagged the edge of Mikey’s cloak, the fabric jerking him mid-sprint.

 

No—

 

Mikey twisted, body snapping sideways.

The ground tilted.

The world spun.

 

His foot hit gravel.

He slipped.

 

The sky shimmered like a fever dream.

 

RIP—

The cloak tore loose.

 

Mikey hit the ground hard, shoulder-first, the impact rattling straight through his bones. The air left his lungs in a wheeze that scraped up his throat, violent and dry. He barely had time to roll. His hands scrambled for friction against the cracked pavement, trying to find a grip, a rhythm, anything.

But his limbs were trembling.

 

He was up again, somehow — off balance, hunched, shivering — teeth grit against the cold and the pain and the sound of his own lungs rasping. He staggered forward a step.

Then stopped.

 

Something held him.

Not a hand.

Not a trap.

 

Just—

A weight.

A presence.

 

Behind him, Raph stood frozen — feet planted wide, the torn cloak crushed in one fist, like he didn’t even know he was holding it.

 

And his green eyes—

Locked.

Right on him.

The contact hit like a punch.

 

Mikey turned, shoulders tense, breath catching in his throat. His face was half-shadowed, black wrappings smeared with dirt and moonlight — but the eyes…

 

God.

The eyes.

They are exactly the same.

 

Big and blue and storm-bright — the kind of blue you remembered even when you closed your eyes, the kind of blue that used to crinkle at the corners when he smiled too big. The kind that used to follow Raph around like the sun followed the earth.

 

Raph stared like he was seeing a ghost.

Like he didn’t quite believe it. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

 

His mouth opened.

No sound came out.

 

And Mikey —

Mikey just stared back.

Frozen in the spotlight of someone who knew him better than anyone ever had.

 

For one terrible, stretched-out second, everything stopped. The world fell quiet. Even Mikey’s coughing subsided like it was holding its breath.

 

It wasn’t a reunion.

It wasn’t relief.

It was grief with its eyes wide open.

 

Two brothers — one chasing, one running — caught in the wreckage of what used to be.

 

And Raph…

He didn’t move.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t shout.

 

His chest was rising hard, shoulders tense with everything he wasn’t saying. His eyes were glassy, bloodshot, wide.

He looked like he wanted to speak — needed to — but couldn’t find the words, couldn’t force them past his clenched jaw and broken ribs of emotion.

He looked like someone trying to hold onto smoke.

 

And Mikey…

 

Mikey flinched first.

Like it hurt to look too long.

 

Like the sight of Raph — the weight of those eyes — might break whatever fragile scaffolding he was still standing on.

 

He coughed into his hand — deeper this time. Wet. Tearing.

 

Then turned and ran.

He didn’t say anything either.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t dare.

 

 

Mikey coughed — low and rattling, like gravel shoved through a pipe.

He covered his mouth with one gloved hand and kept moving, legs trembling under him now.

He wasn’t going to make it far. He knew that.

But he had to try.

 

 

“WAIT—WAIT!” Donnie’s voice cracked as he came around the corner, scanner bouncing against his side.

 

The cough.

He heard it.

 

Not a grunt. Not a stumble. Not fear.

A cough.

 

Too raw. Too deep.

 

That wasn’t from sprinting.

That was sickness.

 

His baby brother is sick.

 

“MIKEY!!”

 

Mikey turned his head.

Just for a breath.

 

Sky-blue eyes flashed through the dark — wide and too bright.

 

Real.

Familiar.

Terrified.

 

Leo skidded in behind Donnie, hand already outstretched—

 

And then—

 

Smoke.

A burst of purple mist — thick, artificial, ninja-grade.

 

Donnie’s breath caught. That was his smoke. His design. Turned against him.

 

The kind Mikey should’ve never had access to.

 

And then—

He was gone.

 

Like he’d never been there at all.

 

 

Donnie’s stomach dropped like a trapdoor.

The scanner in his hand beeped uselessly.

He knew exactly how long the smoke would obscure it.

 

He’d built the damn tech.

 

And now it had just swallowed his little brother whole.

“I built that for us,” Donnie whispered. “Not for this.”

 

He remembered when Mikey tested it first. How he laughed when it fizzled.

 

 

Leo hit the alley mouth like a train, his momentum dying all at once.

 

He bent double, palms braced on his knees, breath catching in his throat.

 

He wasn’t out of shape.

He was just—

Shattered.

 

He’d seen him.

Really seen him.

 

The line of his jaw.

The fear in his eyes.

Mikey hadn’t looked angry.

He hadn’t even looked surprised.

He’d looked scared.

 

Not of them.

Of something else.

Something bigger.

 

 

Donnie stumbled to the edge of the smoke, crouched like he could grab it — like he could pull the moment back through sheer force.

 

The storm had stopped. Raph stood in the middle of the alley like someone hollowed him out, like someone hit pause on a rage that never let up. His arms slack at his sides, fist still clenched around the scrap of fabric.

 

He didn’t throw it.

Didn’t scream again.

 

He just stood there.

Staring at the spot where Mikey disappeared.

 

And whispered, “Dammit…”

Like a prayer too late.

 

 

Silence pressed in.

Thick. Smog-choked.

 

Leo sank against the wall and slid to the ground, head tipped back.

A dull thud echoed off brick as his skull met stone.

 

The stars were gone.

Even the moon felt distant.

 

He wanted to say something.

Anything.

 

A word that would’ve made Mikey stop.

Turn around.

Trust them.

 

But he didn’t have one.

Not anymore.

 

He could still hear Mikey’s cough. Still see the way he turned his head, like it hurt to be seen.

 

 

—

 

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

They’d seen him.

He was there.

 

Not a blur.

Not a shadow.

Not some imagined flicker in a dark alley they’d chased like fools.

 

He was real.

He was sick.

He was running.

And he was terrified.

 

The orange had been traded for black.

But there was no mistaking him now.

No doubt in their hearts.

No doubt in their guts.

 

And now?

Now there was only one thing left.

They were going to get him back.

 

No matter the cost.

 

 

 

Chapter 17: We Did

Summary:

After a near miss in the dark, Mikey flees — body wrecked with sickness, heart torn from seeing his brothers again. As the others realize just how close they came to losing him, they stop doubting. Stop questioning. Start searching. But Mikey is fading fast — and even as he protects the city from the shadows, the clock is ticking. And this time, it’s not just his fear that’s killing him.

Notes:

Phew!! I think this is the longest chapter I've wrote. My hands are literally crying.

This took a toll on my mental health but who cares

Enjoy and don't forget the water!!

(Also, if there's a specific scene you'd like to see just tell me! I'll try my best to include it in later chapters :> )

 

“WHY WOULD HE RUN?!”

Raph’s voice cracked the alley like thunder.

He didn’t wait for an answer. His fists collided with the wall, shaking brick loose from the mortar. Dust rained down like ash. A second later, his sai embedded itself into the concrete beside him, buried so deep it trembled.

 

“Why would he—why wouldn’t he stay?!”

His voice frayed on the last word, almost breaking.

Like Raph himself.

 

Leo didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He was still staring down the alley where Mikey had vanished — eyes fixed, jaw locked tight like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

 

His hands hung at his sides.

Trembling.

 

He hadn’t even drawn his swords.

 

He could’ve.

He didn’t.

 

Because it was Mikey.

Because he’d seen the look in his eyes.

And because a part of him — the worst part — had frozen.

 

He’d let him go.

Again.

 

Donnie dropped to his knees where Raph dropped the hoodie — black cloth scattered on the asphalt like shed skin. He reached out with careful fingers, as if it might burn him, brushing the edge like it was something sacred.

 

“It’s his,” he said quietly.

He didn’t have to explain.

They all knew.

 

Donnie’s voice came again, lower, shaken.

 

“It still smells like smoke. Like… metal. Oil. But underneath that…”

He inhaled, and the sound cracked in the middle.

“It smells like Mikey.”

His throat tightened. “It’s still warm.”

 

Raph turned.

His eyes were bloodshot, veins at his temple pulsing like a war drum.

 

“He looked at us,” he growled. “He looked at me. Looked right through my eyes. Why wouldn’t he say anything?!”

 

Leo spoke then.

Quiet.

Deadly sharp.

 

“Because he’s scared.”

 

That word hit like a punch.

Scared.

 

Mikey?

 

The same Mikey who grinned through explosions, who cracked jokes mid-battle, who used to leap into danger like it was a game?

 

Raph stared at Leo like he’d grown two heads.

But Leo didn’t take it back.

He couldn’t.

 

“He doesn’t trust us enough to stay,” he said, even softer.

There was no accusation in it.

Just devastation.

 

Raph flinched like the words had struck him physically.

His breath caught in his throat.

He didn’t lash out.

Didn’t yell.

Didn’t throw anything this time.

 

Donnie didn’t move, either.

He just sat there on the cracked pavement, holding the scrap of fabric like it might vanish if he blinked.

 

They were frozen.

 

Three brothers.

One alley.

And the outline of someone they couldn’t reach.

 

A sudden metallic crash echoed through the dark as Raph kicked the nearest trash can with enough force to send it ricocheting off the wall.

“I swear to God,” he spat, “if someone hurt him—!”

 

“They did.”

Donnie’s voice sliced through the chaos.

Sharp.

Tired.

 

“We did.”

 

That shut Raph up.

 

Silence folded over them again — heavy and suffocating.

Even the smoke had faded by now.

All that was left was the cold and the sound of Donnie’s ragged breath.

 

“If he’s been out here this whole time,” Donnie said, barely above a whisper. “Patrolling. Hiding. Surviving…”

His fingers clenched tighter.

“He wasn’t running from something. He was running from us.”

 

He didn’t say the rest out loud.

But it echoed anyway.

 

And he was sick.

 

Donnie had heard that cough.

Too wet. Too raw.

Too deep to ignore.

 

That wasn’t adrenaline.

That wasn’t just exhaustion.

 

Something was wrong.

 

Leo sank down to one knee beside Donnie, eyes still locked on the place where Mikey had stood.

Where his eyes had met theirs.

Where everything had cracked.

 

“He looked like he was in pain,” Leo said softly. “And not just because of us.”

 

Raph’s jaw clenched.

His fists opened, then closed again.

 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Mikey was supposed to be safe.

He was supposed to be with them.

 

Laughing too loud.

Asking dumb questions.

Taking up space.

Taking up room in their lives.

 

Not hiding in shadows.

Not running like a fugitive.

Not coughing like his lungs were already halfway gone.

 

Raph turned his back to them, staring at the wall like it might give him answers.

 

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

 

He could still see Mikey’s face — wide-eyed, pale, thinner than he remembered.

 

And that damned hoodie.

 

Black.

Too big on him.

Hiding too much.

 

The momdent their eyes met — Raph saw something that wrecked him.

 

Mikey had looked at him like he wanted to stay.

But couldn’t.

Like a rope had been cut inside him.

Like something stronger than fear was dragging him away.

 

And the part that gutted Raph the most?

He didn’t fight it.

 

 

They didn’t speak for a long time after that.

There was nothing left to say.

Only the echo of footsteps, long since faded.

 

And the scent of smoke clinging to cloth that used to belong to someone who never should’ve had to run.

 

 

---

 

He didn’t know where he was.

 

Somewhere deep in the old sewer lines — tunnels too far from home, the walls too narrow, too cold. His boots skidded through wet grime, feet slipping, lungs seizing with every gasp.

 

His hood was gone.

His chest was on fire.

 

His body felt like it had been carved out and replaced with sandpaper and glass.

 

But none of it mattered.

They’d seen him.

 

Leo.

Donnie.

Raph.

 

They saw him.

And he ran.

 

Mikey stumbled into a side tunnel and collapsed against the wall, knees buckling hard. His back hit stone with a wet thud, and the impact sent a shock of pain through his already screaming shoulder.

 

He sucked in cold, filthy air, desperate to just breath — and immediately doubled over in a fit of coughing.

 

Harsh.

Violent.

Too deep.

 

His whole body curled with it.

Like his lungs were trying to claw their way out.

 

When the fit passed, he was wheezing. Shaking.

His chest throbbed with every inhale. His ribs screamed. His throat tasted like copper.

 

“Stupid—stupid—STUPID—”

The words broke out before he could stop them — raw and ragged, more sob than sound.

 

They echoed back at him from the pipe walls.

Accusing.

Mocking.

Familiar.

 

His hands fisted on his knees. Pushing hard like it would ground him."

But it didn’t.

 

Leo had said his name.

 

His name.

Not Shadow.

Not a target.

Not a stranger in the dark.

 

“MIKEY!”

 

Like he meant it.

Like he knew him.

Like he missed him.

 

And Mikey just ran anyway.

 

He slid down the wall, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapping around himself so tight they ached.

 

The tunnel was freezing. His skin was slick with sweat. But he couldn’t stop shaking.

Not from the cold.

From the ache that cracked through his chest like broken glass every time he saw their faces again in his head.

 

Donnie — blinking like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

 

Leo — reaching out like it might somehow pull the distance closed.

 

Raph —

God, Raph.

Standing frozen with a piece of his hoodie in one hand, looking like someone had just gutted him from the inside out.

 

Mikey shut his eyes and pressed his face into his arm.

But it didn’t block anything out.

He could still see them.

 

“They’re better off,” he whispered. “They’re better off. I’m— I’m doing good. I’m helping. I’m making things safer. I’m—”

 

He couldn’t finish.

Because it was a lie.

He knew it.

And it was crumbling under the weight of everything they’d just looked at him with.

 

He pressed his head back against the cold wall and just sat there, trying to breathe through the tight, rattling pull in his lungs.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

 

Again.

 

“I’m so sorry…”

 

To who — he didn’t know.

 

To them.

To Splinter.

To himself.

 

To the version of him that used to laugh without guilt.

Who didn’t wake up sick and alone every day.

Who didn’t run from his own brothers like they were strangers with knives.

 

He didn’t sleep.

Couldn’t.

 

His whole body ached — not from the run, but from everything else he’d been carrying too long.

He was dizzy.

He was freezing.

His skin felt hot.

His fingers trembled. Sweat cooled too fast on his skin.

His head throbbed in sync with his heartbeat.

 

Definitely a fever.

 

He kept coughing.

Sometimes he tried to hold it back. Bite it down.

But it always came back harder.

Like it had a mind of its own now.

 

He sat in the dark for hours, curled up in a shadowy corner of concrete and rust, arms wrapped around his middle like they could keep him from falling apart.

 

 

At some point he began to lose his sense of time.

He began thinking.

 

He used to jump rooftops with Raph at his side. Race Leo to the tower spires. Watch Donnie beam when a new scanner worked. He used to—

 

But that's it.

 

Used to.

 

 

For half a second, he thought he heard Splinter say his name.

But when he blinked, it was just the wind.

 

 

His breathing never evened out.

His chest never stopped hurting.

The cold sank deeper.

 

And when the silence finally settled in enough to feel real, he whispered one last thing to the dark.

 

“…I miss you guys.”

 

It didn’t echo back.

Not this time.

 

 

The cold floor presses against him like a second skin, creeping up into his bones. He doesn’t move. Not even to shift.

His fingers twitch, the only sign that he’s still tethered to the moment — or maybe just to himself.

 

He should get up. The thought circles back like a fly he can’t swat away. He should change, clean up, at least take off the stupid mask.

 

But his limbs feel heavy. Like he’s been shackled in place by every night he’s dragged himself home like this. Every night he’s told himself just one more.

 

And under it all… something stirs.

 

A flicker.

A thought.

 

What would they say if they saw him like this?

Would they be angry? Would they even recognize him?

 

Would they care?

 

The answer doesn’t come. He’s not sure he wants it to.

 

So instead, he closes his eyes.

And lets the silence of the sewers wrap around him like a blanket made of nothing.

 

It's quiet here. Quiet enough to pretend that the weight pressing on his chest is just the cold. That the ache behind his eyes is just exhaustion. That the mask still clinging to his face is protection, not penance.

 

One breath.

Another one.

He stops counting after three.

 

The walls doesn’t speak. Doesn’t judge. Doesn’t ask him to be anything more than what he is.

 

A shadow.

Curled in on himself.

Disappearing into the quiet.

 

And this time, he doesn’t fight it.

 

 

 

---

 

 

They didn’t sleep much after that night.

 

Leo barely blinked.

Donnie didn’t leave his lab.

Raph punched a hole clean through the dojo wall and patched it with duct tape and gauze, like it was a wound he couldn’t let scar over.

 

And then?

They got to work.

 

No more arguing.

No more “what ifs.”

No more questioning.

 

They stopped asking if it was him.

They started asking where.

 

 

Donnie rewired half the city.

 

Street cams. Traffic grids. Power junctions he shouldn’t have had access to — he cracked them open anyway, fingers moving faster than thought. His hands never stopped — tapping, soldering, scraping together half-melted circuits from their junk bin — but his eyes were empty.

Haunted.

 

Donnie was a shadow of the genius who used to crack lame jokes while hacking Pentagon-grade firewalls. Now, he barely spoke. Now he worked. He didn’t have time for jokes.

 

If anyone caught him rerouting security feeds from a government building, he’d be deep-fried turtle meat.

 

Too bad. He didn’t give a shit.

 

He cross-referenced sightings — rooftop disturbances, fire escape shifts, bootprints in places only they would know to look.

 

He logged them all.

Mapped them.

Drew lines.

 

And then he saw it.

A pattern.

 

His breath caught — not in hope.

In dread.

 

Because Mikey wasn’t just out there drifting.

He was patrolling.

 

Guarding neighborhoods.

Taking routes close to their old ones.

He was protecting people — slowly, quietly, messily.

 

But weaker than before.

Slower.

Thinner.

 

And the image hit Donnie hard —

Mikey hunched over on some dark rooftop, wheezing into his sleeve, pretending it was just the cold.

 

He remembered those coughs.

They weren’t nothing.

They were getting worse.

 

 

Leo mapped every zone by hand.

 

Black marker over paper, ink staining his skin, bleeding through the pages.

 

Each dot was a possibility.

Each X was a sighting.

Each smudge was a scar.

 

He didn’t speak when he worked.

Didn’t sleep even when he had the chance.

 

He traced paths like they held answers — like he could chart a constellation that would point directly to Mikey’s heart.

 

"If I get the angles right, he’ll come home."

"If I make the map perfect, he’ll trust me again."

 

He didn’t tell anyone, but he redrew the same section of the city three times.

The ink ran where his hands shook.

 

 

Raph?

Raph went underground.

In every sense of the word.

 

He hit up bars. Illegal fight dens. Back-alley tech shops and mutant smuggling routes — places they were never supposed to know about, let alone step foot in.

Places Mikey used to laugh at — “No way you’d survive in there, Raph.”

 

Raph stepped in like he belonged.

 

He tossed down bribes. Traded favors. Slammed fists into tables until the whole room listened.

 

Word spread fast.

A black-hooded ghost was haunting rooftops.

Fast. Quiet. Precise.

Too small for a full-grown vigilante. Too sharp for a rookie.

 

And not far behind,

A monster with green, bloodshot eyes, a short temper, and too much to lose.

 

“Find him,” Raph told a six-armed thief in Canal, sliding over a satchel packed with salvaged Stark tech, Krang scrap, and rare energy cells.

“Don’t talk. Don’t trap. Don’t scare him off. You see him — you inform me. You help him if you can.”

 

The thief blinked. “What is he, some rogue assassin you lost?”

 

Raph’s jaw cracked. His fists shook.

Raph’s hand hovered over the satchel for a second. His throat bobbed. Then— “That’s my little brother. You helping or what?”

 

 

---

 

Slowly…

 

Whispers started drifting in.

Not through Donnie’s cams.

Not from Leo’s maps.

 

But from mouths.

From alleys.

From tired eyes and half-shaken stories.

 

 

“I saw him in Little Queens. Stopped a mugging clean. Didn’t hurt the guy — just flicked the knife outta his hand and vanished.”

 

“Helped a courier in Midtown — singlehanded. But… yeah. He looked tired. Coughing. Real tight in the chest.”

 

“Moves like a ghost, but I swear he paused halfway up the wall like he needed to breathe. Like he wasn’t sure he could keep going.”

 

 

---

 

 

It wasn’t random.

 

Mikey felt it — subtle at first.

A shift in the air.

A tension curling through alleyways and rooftops.

Like a ripple echoing ahead of a coming wave.

 

The net was closing in.

 

Not a real net. Not yet.

But something heavier than patrol patterns or lucky timing.

Something sharper.

Smarter.

 

The city itself felt like it was breathing around him —

exhaling slow, pulling him inward with each measured inhale.

 

And for the first time in months—

He didn’t run all the way.

 

He still knew the tricks.

Still melted into shadows when things got too close.

Still slipped through blind spots and twisted the trail behind him until it doubled back on itself.

 

But sometimes?

 

Sometimes he let them hear his footsteps.

Let the thud of landing on a fire escape ring out just loud enough.

Let the wind tug at his cloak on a rooftop he knew was in their line of sight.

 

And maybe — just maybe — he did those on purpose.

 

 

---

 

 

Donnie got close once.

 

He could still feel it—

The pulse of the scanner spiking.

A sharp, sudden ping on the radar. Bright. Strong. Unmistakable.

 

His heart had leapt. Breath caught in his throat. Hands shaking as they hovered over the controls.

It was him. It had to be him.

 

He started tracking, already murmuring coordinates to himself, fingers moving on autopilot—

But then…

 

Gone.

Just like that.

The signal flatlined.

 

As if the very act of being found had triggered Mikey’s retreat.

As if he’d known.

 

Donnie sat frozen for a moment, unable to comprehend how fast it had slipped away. How fast he had slipped away.

 

Then—

 

He screamed. Loud and raw and wordless, the sound bouncing off the lab walls.

And when his voice broke, he collapsed into the hoodie still slung over the back of his chair.

 

Pulled it tight. Pressed his face into the fabric.

And cried.

 

 

---

 

 

Raph caught a glimpse.

 

It was just a blink — rounding a corner near Battery Park, boots hitting damp pavement, heart pounding from the chase —

A black hoodie. High above. Perched on a power line like a bird of prey. Still. Watching.

 

Raph froze.

 

The figure didn’t flinch. Just looked at him. Not with eyes he could make out, but with presence. With that same electric chill that always crawled down his spine in these near-encounters.

He knew. Somehow, he knew who it was.

 

He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

The city noise faded under the blood-rush in his ears.

 

Then — carefully, deliberately — Raph took a step forward. Just one. A silent offer. A silent question.

 

The figure shifted.

And then — like smoke — he was gone.

Melted into the night. Like he’d never been there.

 

Raph just stood there, fist clenched, heart caught somewhere between hope and fury.

 

---

 

Leo got closer than others.

 

There was a storm that night.

Rain hammering the rooftops.

City flashing in electric white and shadowed black.

 

He was tracking a report — a gang jumping someone near the old lair entrance.

 

He reached for his swords.

But someone else was already there.

A blur of chain and movement — precise. Controlled. Quick.

 

No killing.

Just defense.

And Leo knew.

 

He held his breath, watching from the shadows.

 

The figure stood still when it was over. Breathing hard — like every inhale scraped raw across his lungs.

 

Too fast for how short the fight was.

Too labored.

 

Then the coughing came.

Deep. Rough. From the chest. Pulled like it hurt to breathe.

 

Leo’s stomach turned.

He’s sick.

And then — quiet.

 

“Mikey,” Leo whispered.

Barely loud enough to be heard.

 

But the figure paused.

Turned.

And their eyes met.

 

Sky-blue met Midnight-blue

Dull with exhaustion.

Wary.

 

But still Mikey.

Still there.

 

And for a second, he didn’t run.

He looked.

He saw Leo.

And Leo — Leo saw the pain. The hesitation. The weight.

 

And then Mikey turned.

Left.

 

Not like a ghost.

But like someone who didn’t want to be chased.

 

Not yet.

Not tonight.

 

He left slower.

And that was something.

Chapter 18: Quieter Than The Rain

Summary:

The brothers follow the hush of clues to the one place they never truly left behind.
And there—so small, so silent—they find him.

Notes:

Hey guys!! I'm back after almost 10 days- Real sorry life was a roller coaster 💔💔

This chapter is around 4k words, probably my longest and most loaded chapter 😭😭 damn this was HARD, AND SORRY IF THE MAPPING OR MONITORS FELT WEIRD I DON'T KNOW SHIT ABOUT THOSE SUBJECTS.

The Angst train is over... almost.

If you like this feel free to leave a comment, life is kinda shit and conments just keep me motivated :)

The living room sat in half-darkness — dimly lit by the flicker of an old, mostly-muted TV screen and the cold, blue cast of Donnie’s monitors bleeding in from the lab next door. The glow stretched shadows across the walls like long, reaching fingers.

 

It wasn’t late enough to sleep.

But it was far too late to hope tonight would bring answers.

 

Leo paced.

Slow, measured steps across the floor. A cloth in one hand, his sword in the other — not polishing so much as distracting. He ran the rag over the blade again and again, the gesture mechanical, obsessive, unnecessary. The edge already gleamed.

Every few passes, his jaw tightened. His gaze twitched toward the lair entrance with every groan of the pipes, every hiccup of static in the walls. His silence wasn’t peace — it was noise turned inward.

 

He hadn’t said it aloud in hours.

But it never left his head:

 

Where are you, Mikey?

 

 

A sudden CLANK at the outer gate jolted the room. Leo froze, head snapping toward the entrance — hand tightening on his sword.

 

Then footsteps. Heavy. Angry.

Raph stormed down the ramp, hood shoved back, chest heaving with frustration. He looked like a storm made flesh.

 

“Nothing,” he growled. “Again.”

His sais hit the counter with a crash, one spinning slightly before toppling over. The sound echoed through the too-quiet lair.

He scrubbed a hand down the back of his neck, sweat-slick and breathing hard — not from exertion, but from the weight of yet another dead end. He cursed under his breath, muttering something about shadows and alley rats.

 

Leo didn’t stop pacing. Didn’t flinch.

His voice was low. Precise.

 

“You double back through Ninth Street alley?”

“Yeah.” Raph’s tone cracked sharp. “Twice. Nothin’. No prints. No drag marks. Not even trash. It’s like he’s erasing the city behind him.”

 

Donnie hadn’t moved much in hours. Slumped at his workstation, he was silhouetted in blue light, the glow of a dozen monitors flickering across his face. Schematics. Street cams. Breach logs. Topographic sewer overlays. None of it seemed to matter.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard but didn’t type.

His eyes weren’t even fully on the screens anymore — just staring through them, red-rimmed and sunken with exhaustion.

 

Leo turned his head. “Anything from the old security grid?

Donnie exhaled hard through his nose — a tired, brittle sound.

 

“Couple false pings,” he muttered. “A squirrel. Some rats. One pigeon with the confidence of a god.”

 

He flicked his wrist toward a faded thermal image — vaguely humanoid in shape, but from two days ago and long gone. “I’m comparing breach logs from before the blackouts to updated traffic estimates. Running movement algorithms based on speeds that might match Mikey, if he’s injured, but…”

 

He trailed off.

The words just… died.

 

“Nothing holds.”

A silence followed — long and sharp.

 

Leo stopped pacing.

Turned to face them both.

His expression wasn’t angry. It was carved from stone — weariness etched deep. His voice came quiet, but there was steel under every word.

 

“We’re missing something.”

His fingers flexed around his sword hilt.

“He’s close. I can feel it.”

 

Neither of the others responded.

 

Raph folded his arms across his chest and stared hard at the floor, jaw grinding.

Donnie didn’t even blink.

 

The silence settled in again — deeper this time.

And in it, something heavier than all of them:

 

It felt like they were chasing a ghost.

And ghosts didn’t want to be found.

And their little brother — sick, wounded, hiding — was starting to feel like one.

 

In the literal meaning of word.

 

 

 

—

 

 

 

The wind bites harder this high up.

Not a gentle breeze. Not the kind that glides across rooftops like a whisper. No — this is sharp. Brutal. The kind of wind that slices through your shell and carves down to the bone. Even after years of running the skyline, it stings.

 

Raph barely flinches.

 

He vaults over the edge of an old brownstone, feet crashing on loose gravel as he lands hard on a rooftop covered in frost and disuse. The shock echoes through his joints. His kneepads catch some of it, but they’re worn, cracking at the seams. He’s been burning through gear faster than Donnie can replace it. Doesn’t matter.

He keeps moving.

 

Every flicker of shadow gets a second look. Every rooftop water tower. Every glint of a bottle half-buried in rooftop tar. Every neon sign reflected in broken glass.

 

It all feels like it should be something.

But it never is.

 

Just more ghosts. More dead ends. More silence.

 

His breath hisses loud in his ears, faster than it should be. Not from fatigue — he’s numb to that by now — but from frustration crawling up his spine and sitting heavy behind his eyes. He’s not mad at Mikey. Not really.

 

He’s mad at the gaps.

The silence.

The fucking distance.

 

He’s mad at being shut out. At the months of chasing a shadow with a cough and a cloak. At running circuits through a city that feels more like a maze every night.

 

At feeling like the only one still believing Mikey’s out there.

 

Where the hell are you, Mikey? You ain’t this good at hiding. Not from me. Not unless you want it that way.

 

That thought makes his jaw clench tight enough to ache.

 

He leaps another gap, boots thudding onto cracked tarpaper, and finally slows near the edge of the next building. He rises slowly, silhouetted in the harsh white wash of moonlight. He squints past the rooftop ledge.

 

Just then, it started to snow. Slow and soft. the kind of snow you'd only get on the end of winter.

 

Mikey would’ve loved to watch it fall.

Raph quickly shut it out.

 

Below, 17th Street stretches empty.

Just a spine of cracked pavement, hollow storefronts, and rusted-out sedans half-covered in tags. Wind tumbles a crushed cup across the curb. Somewhere far off, a siren blinks weakly in the night, but it’s muffled by distance.

 

Then his eyes catch on it.

 

Nestled between two forgotten buildings — a liquor store long dead and an old laundry with bars across the windows — is a dojo.

Not a flashy one. No fresh signage or security lights. It looks like it’s been asleep for decades.

 

But Raph knows this place.

It’s probably been there since they were hatchlings. Since their first nights out on the surface. He remembers perching on that rooftop across the street. Watching. Curious. The signage then had been newer, the door not quite so caved in.

 

It looks worse now. Forgotten. Faded.

 

The wooden awning is splintered and sagging. The kanji across the top almost unreadable under grime and time. One window is boarded, the other fogged with soot. The whole front feels like a stage set after the audience’s gone home.

 

Empty.

But… not dead.

 

He squints harder, and suddenly, a memory stirs.

A patrol. Maybe ten nights ago. Could’ve been more. Everything's been blurring.

 

He’d passed this block — just another dead end like all the others. But then, in the corner of his vision — a flicker. A shadow. Quick. Ducking under the awning. Gone before he could even turn.

He’d written it off. The kind of hallucination that came from four hours of sleep over four days. Desperation playing tricks.

 

But now? Looking at it again, gut twisting hard?

He doesn’t dismiss it this time.

 

He lowers into a crouch and backs away from the ledge, circling down a back escape ladder — silent, measured. His boots kiss each rung without a creak.

He lands in the alley across the street, breath fogging in the cold. 

And watches.

 

The dojo looms across from him. Still. Silent. Snow catching on it's edges.

 

But it doesn’t feel empty.

It feels like it’s holding something in.

Like it’s waiting.

 

The windows don’t blink. The door doesn’t creak. But the shadows inside are thick — too thick. And the air has a stillness that sets Raph’s teeth on edge.

 

He waits.

 

Hands steady at his sides. Muscles coiled. Every instinct screaming to go in — to confirm, to find, to grab his brother by the shoulders and shake him until he stops vanishing.

But he doesn’t.

 

No bull-rush tonight. No shouting through the door. Not if there’s even the smallest chance Mikey’s inside — and sick.

 

He waits.

Five minutes.

Then ten.

Each second drills into him like water torture.

 

Then—

A flicker.

 

Up near the roof. The shadow of a figure slips past the edge of the broken signage. Light catches briefly on the trailing edge of something black — a cloak maybe. A flash of orange underneath?

 

Then it’s gone.

Raph sinks instantly into the shadows. Breath held. Silent.

 

The figure doesn’t see him.

Doesn’t look back.

Just moves.

Opens the side door. Slips inside.

 

Vanished.

 

And then—

A cough.

Dry. Harsh. Wet at the end.

 

Like it hurts.

It’s muffled. Weak. But not far.

 

Raph’s pulse spikes, stomach flipping.

 

That’s him.

It has to be.

 

It doesn’t matter how long it’s been. Raph would know that sound anywhere. He remembers it from colds in the winter. From dust in old tunnels. From post-battle wheezing that Mikey always tried to laugh off.

 

But this one’s different.

 

Short. Choked off. Like someone trying not to be heard.

Raph’s hands tighten, not into fists this time, but into open palms. Ready. Waiting.

 

Not to fight.

To be careful.

 

He could storm the place. He could blow the door open, corner his little brother, drag him home if he had to.

 

But Mikey’s sick.

And scared.

 

And if he bolts again without a plan, Mikey might leave this place and who knows if they find him again before it's late.

 

So Raph doesn’t move.

 

Just memorizes every brick. Every line of the fire escape. Every back window. He tattoos it into his mind.

 

And then, quiet as the snowflakes falling:

 

“I gotta tell the others.”

 

 

—

 

 

The low, mechanical hum of the lab filled the space like static in the bones.

Cool light buzzed from flickering monitors. A soft fan whirred behind one of the mainframes. Everything else—silent. Too silent.

 

Donnie sat hunched at the main console, goggles askew, one hand buried in a tangle of wires he hadn’t bothered cleaning up in days. The other hovered over the keyboard, tapping with a tired rhythm as he cycled through another outdated schematic. He zoomed in. Traced a maintenance shaft running parallel to the old Lexington drainage line.

 

Too narrow.

He closed it's tab.

Again.

 

A sharp sigh cut from his throat as he fell back into his chair, metal creaking under the weight. He rubbed his eyes beneath the goggle strap, thumb pressing hard into the corners like it might erase the grit behind them.

 

“Come on, Mikey…”

His voice cracked from disuse.

“Where the hell are you sneaking from?”

 

He knew every inch of the city. Every access point, vent shaft, emergency chute, broken pipe, all of the sewers, and bypass tunnel. As for the ones placed in the sewers, he designed most of them. Reinforced others after Raph kept breaking walls. Upgraded everything after April’s last near-invasion.

 

And still, Mikey came and went like smoke through fingers.

No prints. No residue. No stray fibers. Even the pressure sensors hadn’t tripped.

 

He wasn’t just hiding.

He was avoiding them.

 

Donnie hated that thought. Hated how real it felt.

 

He leaned forward again, eyes bloodshot behind the lens as he dragged a thermal scan overlay onto the sewer schematic. It flickered—pale blue, green, and faint infrared smudges of rats, runoff heat from street grates, faint pulses from old water mains.

Nothing else.

 

He’d been running these scans for weeks. Splicing in archived layouts of old New York sublevels — the stuff they built over and forgot about in the 1940s. Some places hadn’t seen human footsteps in decades.

 

Didn’t matter.

Still nothing.

 

Donnie exhaled slowly through his nose and opened one of the lower-priority subroutines. An old network of passive motion sensors — patched together across forgotten tunnels, alleys, sewer caps, and storm drain access points. They were supposed to have been replaced three years ago, but Donnie hadn’t had the heart to scrap them. They were unreliable, yes — kept short-circuiting in winter, picked up raccoons, trash bags, ghosts.

 

Still. They were background logging data constantly.

He opened the feed out of pure habit.

And there it was.

A faint green flash in the corner of the display.

 

Motion Ping: East side – 16th/17th back alley inlet

Timestamp: 03:17 AM

 

He blinked.

Paused.

 

Then gave a tired, almost bitter scoff.

“Probably a rat.” 

Just like the other 23 times prior. But it was left unsaid.

 

He almost closed the window.

But then—

Another ping.

 

Motion Ping: East side – 17th street

Timestamp: 03:17 AM

 

Two minutes apart. Roughly fifty meters between them.

Same side of the city.

 

Donnie stilled.

Now his spine straightened.

 

He reached out—pulled up the full motion log history on that sector. Scanned through the chart. It was bone-dry. Not a single ping for the past eight days. The only pings were from the same day and took place around 02:47 AM., all taking place in the same radius.

 

And they were in one of the city’s quietest dead zones. No gang presence. No foot traffic. No civilian access. No reports of utility work.

It was one of the few patches of city Donnie hadn’t needed to monitor.

 

Because no one ever went there.

And now someone had.

 

“Why would Mikey go there now…?” he murmured.

 

His voice barely made it past his lips.

The cursor blinked slowly on the log entry. The alley readout faded back into standby gray.

 

A chill passed through the lab.

 

Donnie didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe for a moment.

His thoughts began to spiral.

 

Unless he just left and came back, tonight.

 

That’s why there’d been no footage. No sensors tripped. He hadn’t been slipping past defenses.

 

He’d been inside the net the whole time.

He hadn’t left.

 

But he’d been close. Roughly 5 streets apart.

 

And no one had seen him.

Donnie’s throat tightened.

 

He reached up, touched the faded orange stripe still pinned to the edge of the monitor — a torn piece of old wrist tape Mikey used to wear. It smelled like dust now. It hadn’t faded until the last few months.

 

He swallowed hard.

 

Outside, the lair lights hummed low.

The blinking feed dimmed to stillness.

But Donnie’s fingers hovered over the keyboard like he was bracing for a command.

 

Because for the first time in weeks—

He had a lead.

And it felt too fragile to breathe on.

 

 

—

 

 

The lair was quieter than usual.

Not the peaceful kind—the kind of quiet that comes when the world settles and breathes.

 

No.

This was the kind of silence that lingered after.

After shouting. After heartbreak. After too many words had gone unsaid for too long.

 

The kind of silence that had sunk its teeth into their home ever since Splinter left them—

and hadn’t let go since Mikey did too.

 

It clung to the walls, filled the cracks in the tile, pulsed in the overhead pipes.

Like even the lair had gone hollow with the absence.

 

Leo sat at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched, both hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug. Steam had long since stopped rising from the untouched tea inside. The mug had been Mikey’s once—hand-painted with glittery stars, half of them scratched off.

He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

 

Across from him, Donnie sat with his tablet propped in one hand, the other scrolling through sensor logs and algorithm loops. His goggles hung useless around his neck. His jaw was locked tight, lips slightly parted, like he was stuck somewhere between a thought and a scream.

Raph leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, head bowed just enough to cast his face in shadow. His bandana was askew, knuckles scabbed over fresh bruises. He hadn’t spoken since walking in.

 

None of them had.

 

They’d each returned from separate corners of the city—Raph from street-level sweeps, Leo from rooftops, Donnie from deep in the tunnels chasing heat trails and phantom footprints.

 

Parallel routes.

Shared purpose.

Separate pain.

 

Until now.

 

Leo finally set the mug down—gently, like it might break if he let go too fast.

 

His voice was low, but it cracked like something old and tired beneath it.

“We’re going in circles.”

 

Neither of the others moved.

 

Leo kept going, eyes fixed somewhere near the far wall. “Every night. We chase shadows. Leads that vanish. Places he’s already left.”

 

Donnie’s fingers stilled on the screen. He didn’t look up. Not yet.

“He’s not...” Leo hesitated. “He’s not avoiding us to hurt us.”

 

Raph snorted. Quiet, but bitter.

“Feels like he is.”

 

“No.” Leo’s voice sharpened, but not with anger—just desperation. “He’s staying away because he’s scared. But not of us. He’s scared of being found like this.”

 

That landed. Hard.

 

Donnie blinked slowly, then raised his eyes. They were rimmed red and tired, but something behind them stirred.

“‘Close,’” he echoed, like testing the word on his tongue. “The motion sensor near 17th. It’s been tripping. Not often. But enough to make me suspect it. It took place two nights ago, two pings before 3 AM. and two after that. Like someone left and came back, probably for supplies or even to take a breath.”

 

Leo looked at him now. Fully.

Raph shifted near the fridge. His jaw clenched.

There was a pause. Then, like gravel forced through his throat:

“I saw him.”

 

That made both heads snap toward him.

 

Raph stared at the floor, shame flickering behind every line in his face.

“Two nights ago. Near the abandoned dojo off 17th. Excatly like Donnie said right now. Just... for a second.”

 

Leo stood up too fast. The chair legs scraped loudly against the tile.

“And you’re just telling us now?!”

 

Raph didn’t snap back. Not this time.

 

He rolled his jaw, then lifted his eyes—careful.

“I didn’t want to be wrong again,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t want to get our hopes up just to crush ‘em again.”

 

Then quieter:

“Didn’t want to find him sick and not know what to do.”

 

The room went still.

 

Not cold.

Not angry.

 

Just quiet in the way grief is when it softens for a second, when it finally lets you feel the shape of it.

 

Because they all knew.

Something wasn’t right with Mikey.

Something deeper than just him running.

Something that had turned his silence sharp, his tracks faint, his body like a shadow on the edge of theirs.

 

They just hadn’t been brave enough to say it.

Until now.

 

Leo’s voice dropped to almost a whisper.

“We need to stop treating this like a manhunt.”

 

Donnie nodded slowly, standing from his seat. The tablet was forgotten on the table.

“It’s not a chase anymore,” he said, voice steady with conviction. “It’s a rescue.”

 

Raph straightened, pushing off the fridge. His eyes were sharp again.

 

“Then we do it tonight.”

 

No more searching in silence. No more waiting for signs.

They didn’t need a plan, not now.

They had direction. They had each other.

 

For the first time in weeks, they were moving as one again.

And this time, they weren’t going to lose him.

Mikey was still close.

Still here.

 

And they were going to bring him home.

 

 

—

 

 

The night air was colder than it had any right to be.

 

Not the biting wind from the rooftops kind of cold—this was deeper. A still, heavy cold, like the whole city was holding its breath. Like something was waiting to break.

 

Gravel crunched softly underfoot as the three of them moved in sync. Silent. Focused.

 

Leo held up a hand.

Stop.

 

Raph froze mid-step, muscles taut, fists clenched so tight his knuckles audibly cracked. His whole frame buzzed like a live wire ready to snap. Donnie stood a half-step behind them, eyes narrowed, scanning every shadow like they could flicker and vanish if he blinked.

 

They had scoured the city for weeks. One hunch after another. Leads that slipped through their fingers like smoke.

 

But when Raph mentioned seeing something—someone—near the old dojo again, Leo hadn’t brushed it off this time. Not with the way Raph said it. His voice had held something rare.

 

Certainty.

 

So they came. Together. No hesitation.

 

The old dojo loomed ahead of them like a skeleton from another life. Still upright, but barely. The wood was warped, the windows stained with grime and shadow. Its silhouette leaned into the alley like it had been waiting for them.

The kind of place you'd miss if you weren’t looking for it.

 

Leo led, silent and slow, each step deliberate. He didn’t speak, but the tension radiated from him. He remembered this building—barely. A training space above ground, abandoned when they were still too young to be trusted out of the sewers.

 

Now it felt like a grave.

 

Raph started forward, too fast. Leo caught his arm.

“Wait.”

 

Raph scowled, ready to bark something back—but stopped. He looked at Leo, saw the silent fear behind his brother’s calm, and stilled.

 

Donnie stayed just behind them, fingers twitching toward his staff. His body was tight, like a spring wound to breaking.

 

Then—

 

From behind the door:

 

Hhhk—ghh…

 

A cough.

Quiet. Dry. Raw.

The kind that tears something in the chest on its way out.

 

Leo’s heart slammed against his ribs.

That sound—

 

He didn’t speak. Just reached for the door and slid it open in one slow, careful motion.

 

Streetlight spilled across the floor inside—pale, cold, unforgiving.

And there, just inside the entryway, curled against the wall like a shadow someone had forgotten to erase—

 

Mikey.

 

He was smaller somehow. Or maybe it was just the way he was folded into himself, hoodie pulled tight, arms wrapped like he was trying to hold himself in one piece. His mask clung to his face, frayed at the edges, dark with sweat. His breath came in shallow, uneven pulls, and his skin—normally bright lemon—was pale and too still.

 

He looked like he was fading.

 

No vigilante. No mystery.

Just their little brother.

 

Sick. Alone. Barely holding on.

 

For a moment, none of them moved.

 

Raph’s breath hitched.

Donnie made a soft, wounded sound. His knees buckled as he ran inside and dropped beside him.

 

Leo took the first step inside, voice hoarse.

“…Mikey?”

 

Nothing.

 

He stepped closer.

“Mikey. Hey—” His voice cracked. “It’s us. We’re here.”

 

The figure on the floor stirred faintly. Not a response. Just a flinch. Like the name was coming from underwater.

 

Donnie was already beside him, fumbling for his med kit with shaking hands. His fingers brushed Mikey’s forehead and recoiled like he’d been burned.

 

“Oh my god,” he breathed. “He’s burning up—Leo, he’s got a fever, a bad one—how long’s he been here—how the hell did we not—?”

 

Leo knelt slowly, carefully, like Mikey might shatter if he moved too fast. One hand hovered over his shoulder, hesitating.

 

He hadn’t touched him in weeks.

 

“Mikey,” he whispered. “Little brother. We found you. We’re taking you home.”

 

Finally, finally, Mikey stirred again. Just a little. Just enough.

“…didn’t mean to…” he rasped. Barely audible.

 

Raph sank to the floor on Mikey’s other side. His hands hovered uselessly before curling into fists against his knees. His voice broke somewhere between anger and grief.

 

“Why didn’t you come back?” he choked. “You idiot. You stupid, stubborn little idiot…”

But his voice was soft. Cracked. Like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to be mad.

 

Mikey didn’t respond. Just shivered.

 

Leo swallowed hard. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t believe what he was seeing, even as the truth of it ripped through him.

 

This wasn’t just hiding. This wasn’t rebellion. This was survival.

 

And Mikey had been doing it alone.

But not anymore.

 

Donnie was already pressing a cold patch to Mikey’s temple, muttering vitals under his breath. Leo slid closer, laying a hand gently on Mikey’s shoulder, grounding him.

Raph reached out too—finally—his palm landing soft on Mikey’s shell like an anchor.

 

They surrounded him. Shielded him. Not as warriors.

As brothers.

 

They didn’t know how bad it was yet.

Didn’t know how long it had been this way.

Didn’t know how far gone he really was.

 

But they were here.

And they weren’t leaving again.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 19: Better Off Without You?

Summary:

They found him. Everything's alright now. Right?

Notes:

AAAAAAAAAHHHHH SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG!!

Here's an almost long chapter, consider it an apology :)

We're nearing the end, just one more chapter!!

Enjoy!!

 

And. Do. Not. Forget. To. Drink. Water.

 

The dojo was silent, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty but watchful. Dust hung thick in the stale air, stirred only by their footsteps. Moonlight carved thin white scars through the broken slats overhead, laying stripes across warped wooden planks and debris. Even the air seemed to press in, holding its breath.

Every sound was amplified. The groan of the door hinges. The scuff of Raph’s feet against the floorboards. The soft rasp of Mikey’s breathing, so faint it barely seemed real.

 

Donnie was already there, on his knees at Mikey’s side. His hands hovered just above his brother’s plastron, trembling despite the practiced precision that usually guided him. He pressed fingers to Mikey’s throat, waited, pressed harder, leaned closer. His face drained of color.

 

“...Oh no.”

The words hit like a hammer.

 

Leo’s head snapped toward him. His voice was sharp, but strained, as though some part of him already knew what he was about to hear. “What?”

Donnie didn’t answer right away. His fingers pressed again, harder this time, desperate for something more. His scanner blinked weakly in his other hand, but he didn’t need it. His breath stuttered before the words tumbled out, quick and raw, like speaking them made them truer.

 

“His heart rate’s irregular—weak. His breathing’s barely registering. He’s—” Donnie’s throat locked, then broke. “He’s dying.”

 

The word cracked through the room like shrapnel.

 

Leo froze. He had been crouched just inches away, one hand hovering over Mikey’s shoulder, too afraid to touch, too afraid to break him. Now he couldn’t move at all. Couldn’t breathe. Could only stare at the shallow, uneven rise and fall of his little brother’s chest. His voice scraped out, ragged, like he was speaking through glass.

 

“Mikey…”

Softer, again. “Mikey. Stay with me. Please.”

No answer.

 

Behind them, Raph stood rigid, fists curling and uncurling, his whole body trembling with a pressure he couldn’t release. His breath came too fast, harsh and ragged, like he’d been blindsided. Every nerve screamed at him to move—to scoop Mikey up, to smash something, to do anything. But his legs wouldn’t obey. His mind stalled, caught between the sight of Mikey lying there and the idea that this—this—could mean the end. His chest burned. His throat tightened until the only thing left was denial.

 

No.

No, no, no.

 

Leo finally forced his hand down, palm pressing against Mikey’s plastron. The contact sent another wave of horror down his spine. Too cold. His skin was clammy, clammy in a way that didn’t belong to Mikey—Mikey, who was always warm, always moving, always alive.

“Donnie—fix it.” His voice snapped sharp, desperate, frantic. “You can fix it, right? Tell me you can fix it.”

 

Donnie’s lips pressed tight, his breath shaking as he dug through his pack with frantic precision. Gauze. Injector. Portable scanner. His equipment clattered onto the dusty floor, fingers moving too fast, too unsteady. He tried to control it, but his hands betrayed him. Sweat glistened across his temple.

“I’m trying,” he hissed, half to himself, half to Leo. “I’m trying, but his blood pressure’s tanking, his oxygen—dammit, he must’ve been like this for days—”

 

“Then do it faster!”

 

Raph’s roar ripped through the dojo, jagged and raw. The sound bounced off the walls, violent enough to rattle dust loose from the rafters. He collapsed to his knees beside them, grabbing Mikey’s limp wrist in both hands like he could anchor him here through sheer force. His grip trembled, fierce but terrified, his breath breaking into uneven gasps.

 

“Don’t you dare quit on us,” he ground out, leaning so close he could feel the whisper of those shallow breaths against his skin. His voice cracked, thick with desperation. “You hear me, Mikey? Don’t you dare!”

 

Leo’s chest rose and fell like he was drowning, every breath harder to take than the last. His leader’s brain, the one that usually mapped escape routes and battle plans with surgical precision, was useless. Blank. All he could see was Mikey’s slack face, the way his face barely shifted with each broken breath.

He swallowed hard, his hand still on Mikey’s plastron, whispering softer this time, as if tenderness might reach where force couldn’t.

 

“Mikey…”

 

Donnie’s scanner beeped faintly, an erratic rhythm that wasn’t steady enough to bring comfort. His hands moved faster, trying to stabilize vitals that refused to hold. He bit down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, willing his brain to work faster.

 

Raph pressed his forehead to Mikey’s wrist, eyes squeezed shut, words spilling out like confessions he’d never meant to say aloud. “You can’t do this to me, baby bro. You can’t just lay down and go. Not after all this. Not after I—” His voice broke. He clenched his jaw, choking back the words he wasn’t strong enough to finish.

 

The dojo seemed to close in, shadows stretching long, dust swirling heavy. Like the building itself was watching, waiting to see if this was the end.

 

And still, Mikey lay silent.

 

And still, the dojo held its breath.

 

 

–

 

Donnie had snapped into action first.

His hands trembled, yes—but his mind moved faster than any of them could follow. He ripped open his med pack, yanking out a portable monitor, injectors, gauze. Fingers shaking, he moved with a precision born of panic. Every second mattered. Every second could be the difference.

 

“Hold him steady! Tilt his head! Don’t let him roll!” His voice was clipped, sharp, slicing through the thick, suffocating silence that had settled over the dojo like a shroud. The terror that none of them dared speak.

Sensors pressed against Mikey’s chest, Donnie muttering numbers under his breath, scanning the faint blips and flickers on the monitor. Every reading screamed danger. Every faltering line made his pulse spike.

 

Leo’s eyes stung as he took in the sight of his baby brother—so small, so fragile, curled against the wall like a fallen leaf. Something inside him cracked open. He drew a long, shuddering breath and forced control back into his body. Leadership wasn’t instinct anymore—it was necessity.

 

“Raph—lift him. Keep pressure on his wounds. Donnie, talk me through it—what’s happening now?” His voice was firm, commanding, but threaded with raw guilt. I froze. I waited too long. Not this time.

 

Raph unraveled completely. He couldn’t stay still. One moment he pressed his hand against Mikey’s wrist, feeling the pulse flicker and nearly vanish; the next, he was spiralling and punching the floor, every movement a desperate attempt to expel the helpless fury inside.

“You’re supposed to be the strong one! The heart! We don’t work without you!” His words tore out of him—ragged, raw, soaked in panic and grief. Each syllable a confession, an apology, a plea wrapped into one.

 

Mikey shuddered violently. A harsh cough ripped through him, spraying blood across the dusty floor. His fingers twitched against Leo’s steadying grip. The monitor flashed a flatline for a heartbeat that stretched into eternity.

“No—no, come on—breathe—NOW!” Donnie’s voice cracked, clinical calm shredded by panic. He pressed an injector to Mikey’s side, applied pressure, muttered calculations, orders, anything to pull him back.

 

Leo’s hands gripped his brother, steadying, forcing calm into every move, every instruction. Raph’s cries cut through the room, raw and ragged—but even broken, they anchored the trio, tethered them to Mikey’s fragile life.

 

And then—the memory struck.

 

Months ago, a patrol gone sideways, Mikey grinning despite exhaustion, late on chores, lighthearted even when Raph had been furious. Words spat in anger:

“Grow up, Mikey! You’re just dead weight sometimes!”

Mikey had flinched, ever so slightly, then laughed it off. A joke. A shield. A defense. But Raph remembered the flinch now like a blade twisting in his chest.

 

The guilt clawed at him. What if I drove him here? What if my anger, my words, helped put him in this bed? My brother—my baby brother—on the edge of death.

 

“I didn’t mean it… I didn’t mean any of it.” Raph’s voice cracked, barely a whisper. His knuckles were white as he gripped the floor. Rage dissolved into desperate resolve. He could not, would not, let Mikey slip. Not like this. Not after everything. Not with that tiny argument lingering between them like a ghost.

 

Donnie’s hands were a blur—precise, rapid, unrelenting. Leo’s voice was steady, commanding, sharp. And Raph? He became both anchor and storm, presence shoring up the others even as he broke from the inside out.

 

Mikey lay between them—so small, so fragile. Tremors ran through him, his chest rattling with shallow, ragged breaths. Blood streaked the floor, the mask, his hands. But he was alive. Barely.

 

---

 

The dojo now stank of blood, antiseptic, and dust. The air was heavy, unmoving, carrying every sound like it was amplified against the cracked walls. Moonlight streaked across the floor in pale, broken ribbons, painting Mikey’s trembling body in fragments of silver. His chest rose and fell in shallow, stuttering gasps. Each one rattled like glass about to shatter.

 

A sound broke the silence—a cough. Thin, rasping, jagged. It didn’t belong in the world of the living.

 

Leo’s hands froze, steadying Mikey instinctively. His heart jumped to his throat, his pulse thundering.

 

Raph’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles popped, white under the strain. He had to press them against his thighs to keep from smashing the floor. If he broke something, if he lost control, he’d make it worse.

 

Donnie’s eyes flicked from Mikey’s body to the monitor, then back. His lips moved, muttering numbers, calculations, prayers he didn’t believe in. His hands moved faster, trembling but precise, refusing to falter.

 

Then—Mikey’s eyes flickered open. Unfocused, watery, but there. For a second, it was enough. Recognition glinted when they landed on Leo’s shadowed face.

He tried for a grin—half-crooked, shaky, blood streaked at the corner of his mouth. His voice scraped out, almost inaudible:

“Didn’t… mean to… ruin anyone’s night… again.”

The words broke apart on a cough, wet and sharp, spraying red into his palm. His voice cracked like thin ice under too much weight.

 

Leo’s chest clenched with relief so fierce it burned. Tears pricked hot behind his eyes as he whispered, “Mikey…” His hand trembled as he brushed a thumb along Mikey’s cheek, terrified that if he pressed harder, he’d break him.

 

Raph didn’t move at first. He just… froze. A split-second where his brain couldn’t compute the words, couldn’t reconcile the joke with the wreck in front of him. And then it ripped through him—panic, raw and jagged.

 

“You idiot!” His voice cracked open, too loud, too broken. He lurched closer, one hand clamping onto Mikey’s arm, the other hovering like he wanted to shield him from the entire universe. “You—you little idiot, don’t you dare do this to us!” His chest heaved, each breath ragged. Every fragile gasp Mikey took was a knife in Raph’s ribs.

 

Donnie’s mask slipped for just a heartbeat—fear flashing raw in his eyes—before he snapped back into clinical control. “Heart rate’s unstable. Pressure’s tanking. We’re losing ground.” He jabbed an injector into Mikey’s arm, muttering numbers under his breath, recalibrating. His hands shook, but they never missed. He didn’t have the luxury of breaking.

 

Mikey coughed again, weak and wet, before trying to push himself upright. His arms trembled, gave out instantly. He laughed—if it could even be called that—thin, broken, soaked in blood and defeat.

 “Guess… I’m… not… very good… at this whole… hero thing.”

 

Leo bent lower, pressing a hand to his plastron as if to pin him here, anchor him. His throat closed around the words, but he forced them out: “Shh. You’re here. That’s all that matters. That’s all.” But even as he said it, guilt gnawed through him. You froze. You let him get this bad. You failed.

 

Raph’s fury cracked apart into something worse. His voice dropped, low and broken, shaking against the words. “Don’t scare us like that… don’t… you’re all we’ve got, Mikey. You hear me? You’re all we’ve got. You're all I've got.”

 

Mikey’s gaze swam unfocused between them. His lips quivered, the words catching on his breath:

“You guys… don’t… hate me, right?”

 

 

The dojo seemed to hold its breath.

 

Leo’s grip tightened around Mikey’s hand. His voice broke with the force of it: “Never. Never in a million years. Not once.”

Raph’s jaw clenched until it hurt, but his body betrayed him—his shoulders hunched, his head bowed as he leaned closer. His voice was a whisper this time, ragged. “You’re stuck with us, idiot. You hear me? Stuck.” His throat burned, the words raw. The thought that Mikey—sweet, stupid Mikey—could think they hated him carved him open from the inside.

Donnie didn’t look up, didn’t dare stop his work, but he exhaled softly—a sound that almost passed for hope.

The three of them, broken and bleeding in their own ways, pressed in close, forming a shield around him.

 

Mikey’s head tilted, eyes drifting shut, a faint smile ghosting across his mouth despite the blood, despite the tremors, despite it all. Fragile. Defiant.

 

And for now, that spark—the smallest flicker—was enough.

 

 

Donnie’s fingers hovered over Mikey’s plastron, tracking the shallow rise and fall of his chest. His voice was brittle—calm and clinical on the surface, but fraying underneath:

“He’s not stable. His breathing’s collapsing. We can’t keep him here.”

 

Leo’s throat tightened. He already knew, but hearing Donnie say it made it real. He pressed his palm hard against his knee, grounding himself, forcing control into his voice.

“Then we move him. Now.”

 

Donnie’s head snapped toward him, eyes sharp behind his mask. “Move him? In this condition? His airway’s compromised, his vitals are tanking—if we jolt him wrong—”

“I’ll carry him.”

Raph’s voice cut through, low and jagged, like a blade across stone.

 

The words landed like a strike.

 

Leo froze, his leader’s instinct bristling. “Raph—”

“I said I’ll do it!” Raph barked, too loud, too sharp, the dojo’s cracked walls throwing the sound back at them. Then his voice faltered, cracking on the edges as his chest heaved. “Don’t… don’t let anyone else touch him. He’s my baby brother. I’ve got him.”

 

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, didn’t dare. His fists hovered, knuckles white, his whole body shaking with restraint. He glared at Leo like it was a challenge, like daring him to take this one thing away. His breaths came rough and uneven, and when he spoke again, it was a rasp, almost broken:

“You think I’m lettin’ him outta my arms again? After everything?”

 

Mikey stirred faintly at the sound, a groan slipping past his lips—barely air, but enough. Raph’s head snapped down to him, eyes wide, wet, desperate. He reached out instinctively—stopped halfway, fingers trembling inches from Mikey’s skin. His hand recoiled, curling into a fist, like he was terrified he’d break him just by touching.

 

“I’ve got him,” he whispered now. The words shook, stripped down to bone. “When it’s time to move, it’s me. No one else.”

 

Donnie froze mid-motion, his hands hovering over the equipment. For once, he didn’t argue. He swallowed hard, then gave the faintest nod, already shifting to prep what they’d need for transport.

 

Leo’s chest rose and fell in shallow, deliberate breaths. Every part of him wanted to argue, to take command, to direct—but he saw it in Raph’s face. Saw the trembling rage, the fear, the vow carved deeper than blood. He forced the words out, steady but quiet:

“Fine. But not yet. Donnie finishes stabilizing him. We move when he says it’s safe.”

 

The decision was made, but it didn’t ease the weight.

 

Raph stayed crouched beside Mikey, fists pressed to the floor, every muscle straining, coiled like a spring. His eyes never left his little brother’s face, watching every fragile rise of his chest as if daring the universe to take it from him.

 

Leo exhaled slow, quiet, but his guilt burned hotter. He had let it get this far. He had frozen, hesitated. And now Raph was carrying what he should have carried all along.

 

The vow lingered in the air like steel:

When Mikey moved, it would be in Raph’s arms.

 

And in the silence, the urgency sharpened. They all knew the truth.

There might not be much time left.

 

---

 

Raph slid his arms beneath Mikey’s limp frame, careful but shaking, his heart hammering like it wanted to burst through his ribs. He lifted him slow, deliberate, until Mikey’s fragile weight settled against him.

 

Too light.

Way too light.

 

The chill of Mikey’s shell pressed against Raph’s plastron, and his grip instinctively tightened—like if he just held hard enough, he could anchor his brother back to them. His biceps burned with the strain, but he didn’t ease up. Not for a second.

 

Don’t drop him. Don’t fail him.

 

He took a look at his brother's pained face in his arms. That pain didn’t belong on his face. He wasn’t supposed to look like that. Mikey’s face wasn’t made for pain.

 

Not this time.

 

 

Each step across the splintered dojo boards felt like wading through glass and fire. The wood creaked too loud, and Raph hunched low, chin brushing the blood-stiff tails of Mikey’s bandana, shielding him as though the cracked walls themselves might reach out and try to take him. His eyes burned hot, but he kept moving.

 

And his mind betrayed him.

Every fight, every careless word, every time his temper lashed out instead of love—

 

Grow up. You’re not funny anymore.

Dead weight, that’s all you are.

One day you’re gonna screw up and none of us’ll be there to bail you out.

 

He hadn’t meant them. Not really. But Mikey had flinched. Every time. Just enough for Raph to see. And now those echoes were knives, pounding louder than his heartbeat, choking him until the guilt stacked on his chest like bricks.

 

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered into the bandana, his voice splintering. His jaw clenched as his throat burned. “Didn’t mean none of it, little bro. I swear.”

 

Then—movement.

 

Mikey stirred weakly in his arms, eyes fluttering. A croak of air scraped his throat as his head lolled against Raph’s shoulder. His lips twitched, slurred words spilling out like cracked glass:

 

“…heh. Raphie… y’always this… gentle?”

The ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth.

 

Raph’s chest cracked wide open. He let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, ragged and raw, burying his face against Mikey’s temple for a breath too long. “Shut up, idiot. Don’t waste your breath tryin’ to be funny.”

 

But his arms only pulled tighter, cradling Mikey like he’d break apart if he loosened so much as a finger.

 

Behind him, Leo froze, throat tight. This should’ve been him. He was supposed to lead, to protect, to bear the weight. Instead, Raph had seized it, and Leo couldn’t tear the guilt out from under his ribs.

 

Donnie trailed close, portable monitor pressed against Mikey’s side as they moved. His lips were thin, his voice clipped, trembling: “Keep his head elevated—steady—don’t jostle him—” He didn’t dare tell Raph to slow down or hand Mikey over. He knew better. But every flicker on the monitor made his stomach lurch.

 

None of them spoke louder than a whisper. None of them dared to break the fragile thread holding Mikey to them.

 

Because right now, he was in Raph’s arms.

And nothing in the world could tear him away.

 

The dojo doors groaned as Leo forced them open, hinges screeching like the sound might shatter the night itself. The wood was swollen from years of rain, swollen and splintering, and it gave way with a reluctant sigh. Beyond, the city waited—cold, hollow, drenched in moonlight that painted everything in shades of bone.

 

Raph shifted Mikey in his arms, careful, deliberate. Every step felt like moving across glass that might give way beneath him. Mikey’s head lolled against his shoulder, fever-hot and sweat-damp, bandana tails clinging to Raph’s plastron. Each shallow breath that ghosted across his collarbone was too light, too fleeting.

Too easy to lose.

 

Leo slipped through first, blades drawn and low at his sides. His movements were sharp, restless, his eyes flicking to every rooftop, every shadow-warped alley. He didn’t speak—not reassurance, not orders. His silence was colder than the wind, but clear enough: stay ready.

 

Donnie shadowed Raph’s flank, monitor clutched tight against his chest. Wires still trailed into Mikey’s arm, bouncing slightly with every careful step. His gaze jumped from the pale green lines on the screen, to Mikey’s chest, to the way Raph’s hands were shaking as they held on.

“Higher, Raph—yeah, tilt him toward your shoulder. Keep his airway clear.” His voice was clipped, almost harsh, but his knuckles were bone-white around the device.

Then softer, lower, like a confession he couldn’t help but spill: “You’re okay, Mikey. Just keep fighting. Please.”

 

Raph adjusted, careful but clutching harder than he should’ve, like the world was trying to pry Mikey away from him. A cough rattled out of Mikey’s chest—small, but jagged—and Raph reacted like he’d been shot through. He bent over him instinctively, curling his whole body as a shield.

 

“Easy, little bro. Easy,” he muttered into the bandana, the words torn ragged. They weren’t really meant for Mikey—they were for himself. A prayer. A bargain.

 

The city stretched ahead, gutted and broken. Asphalt cracked into jagged teeth, windows staring hollow and blind, fire escapes twisted into dead branches. Somewhere distant, a siren wailed, rising thin into the sky before guttering out again. Silence swallowed it whole.

 

Raph’s feet crunched on scattered glass with every step, each sound too loud in the cavernous stillness. Leo’s shadow cut sharp against the wall as he scanned rooftops like he was ready to tear the night apart if it so much as blinked at them wrong. Donnie’s mutters—calculations, reassurances, desperate measurements—were the only thing filling the void between Mikey’s ragged breaths.

 

Then Mikey convulsed weakly, another cough wrenching his body. All three froze.

 

The monitor screeched sharp before stuttering back to a faint rhythm. Donnie sucked in a hissed breath, twisting knobs with frantic precision. Leo whipped around, blades raised high, eyes wild as he scanned the dark above them. Only shadows glared back.

 

Raph bent lower, holding Mikey tight against his chest, every muscle straining to protect something too fragile to withstand his grip. His jaw locked so hard it ached, his throat burning with words he couldn’t afford to say aloud.

He could feel Mikey’s fever radiating through his plastron—a fragile ember against the cold night air. He pressed him tighter, as if body heat and brute strength could be enough to keep him alive.

 

You don’t get to take him, Raph thought, though he didn’t know who he was daring—the sickness, the city, any higher entity up there, or his own guilt. Not tonight. Not ever.

 

So they pressed on, step by step, three shadows moving through a broken city, carrying their fourth like something sacred.

 

 

Raph kept his head bent close, every ragged inhale brushing against his collar. He was listening for each one—counting them, memorizing them, terrified of the silence between. Each pause stretched too long, each breath sounded too shallow, and with every second, his own chest hurt worse.

Then—faint as a dream—Mikey stirred. His lips moved against Raph’s shoulder, breath hot and broken.

 

“…heh. Guess I’m… the princess now, eh?”

 

The words were barely sound, half-choked by weakness, but they landed like a blade in Raph’s chest. His arms locked tighter around Mikey, knuckles blanching green.

 

“Don’t.” The word cracked out of him, low and desperate. “Don’t you dare joke right now.” He leaned down, almost nose to temple, as if sheer closeness could drag Mikey back from the edge. “You stay with me, you hear me? Stay.”

 

Mikey’s cracked lips twitched, a ghost of that old grin. “Lighten up, Raphie…”

 

The growl that tore out of Raph wavered, catching on a sob he forced back down. His jaw clamped so hard it ached. “I swear, if you slip away on me—I’ll drag you back myself. I can’t… I can’t lose you, Mikey. Not now. Not ever.”

 

The rawness of the confession hung sharp in the cold night. Raph never said things like this—not out loud. But pride didn’t matter here. Nothing mattered but the fragile weight in his arms. His eyes burned, wet and hot, and he blinked furiously to keep them clear. He needed to see his brother’s face.

 

Leo walked close at his side, swords drawn but his gaze softer than the night breeze. His words cut steady where Raph’s cracked.

“You’re not going anywhere, Mikey. We’ve got you. We’re not letting you go.”

Each syllable was a vow, carved deep into the dark.

 

Behind them, Donnie’s voice fired off in clipped bursts, instructions sharp and quick. “Keep his head elevated—steady—don’t jostle him.”

 

But the longer he spoke, the more it frayed. His tone faltered between orders, thinning into something hoarse. “Vitals are dipping—dammit—come on, Mikey, fight.” His fingers flew across the monitor, recalibrating, adjusting, desperate to find steadiness in the flat green line that kept threatening to vanish.

 

For a second, his words slipped quiet—no longer instructions, no longer clinical. Just a brother, begging.

“You’re okay, Mikey. Just keep fighting. Please.”

 

The monitor beeped again—uneven, mocking. Donnie’s stomach lurched, bile stinging the back of his throat. He bit hard on his lip, forcing his shaking hands steady. He couldn’t fall apart. Not here. Not while Mikey needed him to be the one who knew what to do.

 

Mikey sighed weakly, head lolling against Raph’s shoulder. His fingers twitched once, brushing Raph’s plastron, so faint it might’ve been imagined. But Raph felt it. He felt it like the whole world had shifted.

 

His breath hitched as he bowed his head lower, muttering into Mikey’s bandana.

“Don’t you get it? You’re the heart, Mikey. You’re what keeps us… us. Without you…” His throat locked, choking the words off before they were ready. His voice dropped to a rasp, ashamed of how broken it sounded. “Without you, we don’t work.”

 

Leo tightened his grip on his swords, face rigid, eyes shining as if the words had stabbed him too. Donnie’s jaw clenched hard enough to crack, his eyes fixed on the monitor like sheer focus could force the numbers higher. He couldn’t let Raph be right. He couldn’t imagine the team without Mikey—because that wasn’t a world worth imagining.

 

The street swallowed their footsteps, moonlight carving lines across the cracked asphalt. The ruined city loomed around them, faceless and cold. But none of them saw it. All that mattered was the fragile weight Raph carried, the shallow breaths they clung to, and the terror of the silence that might follow.

 

And together, they kept moving—haunted by the knowledge that each step forward might still be too late.

 

---

 

The lair settled into an uneasy stillness.

 

The frantic rush of footsteps, clatter of equipment, clipped orders—it all bled away until the only sounds left were the soft hiss of oxygen, the steady beep of the monitor, and Mikey’s shallow, rhythmic breaths.

 

Donnie sat at the med station, still gloved, posture locked rigid as his eyes tracked the screen. Numbers danced and dipped in erratic patterns, each one a fresh spike of dread in his gut. His expression was clinical—blank, efficient—but his shoulders betrayed him. They sagged with exhaustion, trembling faintly under the weight of keeping his little brother tethered to the world.

 

He kept telling himself this was just another problem to solve. An equation. Input, output. Variables, protocols. He knew the steps. He could do this. But the truth pressed harder with every uneven breath Mikey drew: this wasn’t circuitry or code. If one number slipped too far the wrong way, there was no rebuilding him. No second chance.

 

Leo crouched nearby, sword calluses brushing gently over Mikey’s arm, grounding himself in the warmth beneath the clammy skin. His lips moved occasionally—silent prayers, whispered encouragements, promises Mikey was too far gone to hear. His voice had always been their anchor. Tonight it shook, but it held.

 

Raph couldn’t sit. Couldn’t rest. He prowled the edges of the room in jagged, restless arcs, fists flexing open and closed as if they didn’t know how else to move. Every time Mikey’s breath hitched, Raph froze like he’d been gut-punched, chest seizing. Then he moved again, pacing, haunted.

 

Donnie tried not to look at Raph—tried not to hear the old arguments spilling back into the air.

“Dead weight sometimes.”

Mikey’s easy smile, the one that never quite reached his eyes.

Donnie bit down on his lip, hard. Data points. Focus on data points.

 

But then Mikey stirred, eyelids fluttering weakly. His lips parted, voice so faint it was more air than sound.

“…’m sleepy.”

 

Donnie was there in an instant, leaning close, hand hovering over the IV, gaze flicking to the monitor. “Not yet. You need to stay with me a little longer.” His tone was sharp, commanding—Doctor Donatello, clinging to the authority of science because it was all he had.

 

But when the seconds ticked by, when Mikey’s vitals steadied by degrees, the tight line of Donnie’s mouth faltered. His voice thinned, softened, betrayed him.

“…just a little longer, okay? Just until I’m sure.”

And then, even quieter, meant for no one’s ears but Mikey’s:

“Don’t leave me. I can’t fix this without you.”

 

The monitor leveled. Mikey sighed—a fragile, yielding sound—and sank deeper into the blankets. His breathing settled at last. Weak, but steady. The first true sign of safety.

 

The three of them froze, hardly daring to breathe themselves, listening.

 

Only then did Leo sit back on his heels, eyes closing, his carefully held composure cracking as relief hit him like a wave.

 

Donnie peeled off his gloves with jerky movements, hands dropping uselessly into his lap. He stared at his fingers, trembling faintly, the same fingers that had threaded wires and built miracles—and yet tonight they felt clumsy, insufficient, barely enough. He pressed them flat against his thighs, forcing them still, trying to convince himself they hadn’t almost failed him.

 

Raph stayed pressed against the wall, arms crossed tight over his chest, gaze locked on Mikey like a sentinel who’d never stand down. The guilt sat heavy, pressing him inward, whispering every cruel word he’d ever thrown and every moment he hadn’t been there. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat refusing to budge.

 

“…I ain’t leavin’ you again,” he muttered under his breath, voice cracked and raw. “Not ever. Even if I gotta chain myself here.”

 

Leo’s thumb still brushed Mikey’s arm in steady circles, his silent prayers bleeding into the quiet.

 

And Donnie—Donnie sat amidst the monitors and syringes and blinking lights, drowning in numbers that told him his brother was alive but not safe. He kept watching, kept waiting, because as long as Mikey’s chest rose and fell, there was still something to hold onto. His mind whispered equations and strategies, but his heart was screaming one truth he’d never admit aloud:

 

If those numbers flatlined, no machine in the world could fix the hole Mikey would leave.

 

The monitor stuttered. Mikey’s breath rattled. Raph bent his head lower, arms like iron. ‘You’re not leaving me,’ he whispered, low enough for no one else to hear. ‘Not tonight.’

 

The silence of the lair pressed in around them, heavy, suffocating, but none of them moved. They bore it together—Raph pacing, Leo praying, Donnie watching, Mikey breathing.

 

Alive, for now.