It was a rainy night, wasn’t it? The kind where the cold drizzle clings to your clothes, soaking you slowly, and the distant rumble of thunder feels like it’s chasing you through the alleys. You were walking side by side with Mikey, both of you heading back to the lair after a supply run. Mikey, as always, was rambling—something about this new pizza place he wanted to try, a game he’d been dying to beat, and a marathon of old cheesy monster movies he had lined up.

You weren’t really listening, not completely. The city had a way of making you stay alert, especially on nights like this when the rain masked too much noise and the shadows seemed to move a little more than usual.

Then—

CRASH.

A sharp, echoing impact snapped your attention toward a nearby alley. Something—or someone—had fallen. Hard. You and Mikey froze, your eyes locking with his in a moment of silent understanding.

Mikey: "Should we check that—?"

You didn’t need to hear the rest. You nodded once, and the two of you moved without a word. Quick, careful steps through the rain-slicked pavement brought you to the alley's edge. And there, sprawled on the ground, was a figure. But not just any figure.

A turtle. A mutant turtle—like Mikey. Or a yokai? Hard to tell at first glance. But it was clear this wasn’t a coincidence. He was slumped against the alley wall, a battered, bloodied figure holding a curved sickle tightly in his uninjured hand. The other arm…

You flinched. Arrows. Three of them, jutting out like cruel accusations. And a stab wound in his side—deep, vicious, still bleeding through the torn fabric of his gear. Rain mixed with blood, running in thin rivulets across his shell.

His breathing was shallow. His eyes half-lidded, struggling to stay open. Mikey’s tone, unusually soft and fragile, broke the heavy silence.

Mikey: "Hi there, new friend... uh, I'm Mikey! Or Michael, or Michelangelo—you get it. What's your name?"

The injured turtle with the dark as night black mask, stirred slightly. His lips moved, barely forming the words.

"Peirce... Pei—"

He coughed. Hard. Violently. He raised his trembling arm to cover his mouth, but as it fell back down, it was slick with more blood. That wasn’t just a flesh wound—this guy was fading, fast. And Mikey? Our sweet, golden-hearted Mikey didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second.*

Next thing you knew, Peirce was draped over your shoulder, surprisingly light despite his gear. His body was cold, too cold, and his breathing rattled against your back with every step. Mikey kept talking to him, trying to keep him conscious—telling jokes, asking questions, reassuring him with that bright, goofy tone only Mikey could manage even in moments like this.

And Peirce? He was listening. Barely. But then, for just a second, when Mikey leaned in and called him "buddy" with a grin, he blushed. Why? Who knew. Maybe it was the blood loss. Maybe it was Mikey’s voice. Maybe it was the way you both just… showed up for him.

Didn’t matter.

Peirce was coming home with you.