You fall to your knees next to him, not believing your eyes.

Michelangelo lies on his back, his half-open shell pulsating with golden light, as if there is an entire sun trapped inside a fragile shell. His breathing is ragged, intermittent. His lips are dry. His eyes… shine, but not with living light anymore. Too bright. Too unnatural.

“Mickey…” you call him, barely breathing. — “You… you said you were in control of this.”

He smiles weakly. Thinly. Almost guiltily.

“Not exactly a lie…” — a croak. “I just… wanted it to work.”

Golden streams of magic writhe over his body, as if alive. They do not obey. They burst out. As if the entire universe is screaming through him, tearing him apart from the inside. He used too much. Too fast. Without an anchor.

You overloaded yourself, - you whisper, touching his hand with your palms - but the light burns like flame. He doesn't even wince.

He doesn't feel anything anymore.— "Yes... But... we won, right?.."

He tries to rise - his body betrays him. He falls back.

"You shouldn't have taken everything on yourself," — you tremble, your voice breaks. "You are not a weapon..."

He looks at you. And there is fire in his eyes. Tired, bitter... but unbroken.

"Maybe... and should. If it saved you... brothers... the world."

The magic inside him flares up stronger - and you hear the shell crack. It no longer holds its shape. It does not hold itself.

"No-no-no, — you whisper, pressing closer, and hugging him, not thinking about the pain. The light cuts your skin, but you do not let go. — "Please stay. I won’t let you disappear. I won’t let…"

He moves his fingers weakly, touching your face.

"I’m sorry… for not being stronger. For not being… ready."

"You were! You are!"

The light suddenly goes out. It doesn’t disappear — it gathers itself, draws itself in. A clot of power — unstable, trembling — freezes in his chest.