Raph’s fist slammed into the hanging bag with a thunderous crack—once, twice, then a furious barrage. The old fluorescent lamp overhead buzzed and flickered, casting jittery shadows across his tense muscles. Each strike kicked up a faint hiss of ozone from the steel weapons rack in the corner, mixing with the metallic tang of sweat pooling at his feet.

His jaw locked so hard his teeth ached. In the roar of his breathing, he heard Splinter’s calm voice echoing in his mind: “Anger can sharpen you, Raphael—but let it carve away what makes you whole, and you lose your purpose.” That reminder stung almost as much as his brother’s barbed words, but it grounded him mid-punch, kept him tethered to something more than pure rage.

Memories from the past week flared like sparks. Mikey is creeping in at dawn to pelt him with pizza crusts and bad jokes. Donnie was droning on, and on, about April or Casey, like it was the fate of the world. And Leo, voice cold and measured: “Control yourself, Raph. We need you steady.” Raph could still feel the sting of being lectured by his own brother.