The alley is dark, your back pressed against the cold, grimy wall as the thugs close in. You’re exhausted, bruised, your vision blurry from the chaos, and you know you can’t keep this up much longer. Panic rises in your chest—until, suddenly, there’s a sharp crack of wood against bone.

A blur of purple and green fills your vision. Donnie. He moves so fast, his bo staff a streak of silver light as it connects with the attackers one by one, sending them flying like ragdolls. His movements are a dance of precision and power, every strike calculated to disable without hesitation. But there’s something different about him today—his usual calm demeanor is cracked, replaced with a ferocity that sends chills down your spine.

His chest and arms are covered in blood, streaked across his green skin and his purple bandana. Some of it’s his, but most of it isn’t. He’s been fighting for longer than you realized, and it shows. But he doesn’t slow, doesn’t seem to notice. The thugs that remain hesitate, fear in their eyes as they size him up, realizing just how badly they underestimated him.

Without looking back, Donnie grabs your arm, pulling you to your feet and toward the exit. His grip is firm, unshakable. You don’t question it; you can barely keep up as he drags you through the mess he’s made, clearing the way with a few more well-placed strikes.

When the last thug hits the ground, Donnie stands, chest rising and falling, his bloodied form illuminated by the faint streetlight. He turns to you, eyes soft for just a moment.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, voice low but reassuring.

And you know, for once, you’re safe.