The lair was unusually quiet—well, quiet aside from the occasional giggle echoing through the tunnels. Donatello adjusted his goggles, eyeing his latest invention with a mix of hope and desperation. Across the room, Michelangelo crouched by the couch, cooing at a tiny figure.

“Casey Jones,” Leo muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Reduced to a four-year-old. Who would’ve thought?”

“Who would’ve thought we’d be babysitting him?” Raph grumbled, arms crossed as he glared at the toddler currently playing with one of Mikey’s nunchaku.

Casey—now a messy-haired, giggling child—looked up at the turtles, wide-eyed and completely carefree. “Look, Mikey!” he squealed, swinging the nunchaku in a wobbly arc before it slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

“Whoa, lil’ dude!” Mikey scooped him up before he could chase after it. “No weapons for you, buddy!”

“Why not?!” Casey pouted, his tiny arms crossed.

Raph snorted. “Same reason we don’t give Mikey sharp objects.”

“Hey!”

Leo turned to Donnie, who was frantically typing on his console. “Any luck reversing this, Don?”

“Not yet,” Donnie sighed, swiveling his chair to face the group. “Whoever did this used some advanced tech—this isn’t gonna be a quick fix.”

“Well, hurry up,” Raph growled. “I can’t take much more of this.”

As if on cue, Casey began squirming in Mikey’s arms, whining. “I’m hungry!”

Mikey gasped dramatically. “Fear not, tiny Casey! Uncle Mikey is here to make you the best pizza of your life!”

“No anchovies!” Casey demanded.

“Kid’s got taste,” Raph muttered.

As Mikey dashed to the kitchen with Casey in tow, Donnie shook his head and returned to his work. “We’re never going to live this down, are we?”

Leo sighed. “Not a chance.”