The lab hummed softly with the sound of machinery and bubbling vials, the air thick with the sterile scent of chemicals. Donnie was deep in concentration, eyes darting between formulas and test tubes as he worked tirelessly on his latest attempt at creating retro-mutagen. His fingers moved with quick precision, his brow furrowed in focus—yet his tension was eased by your quiet presence nearby.

You sat on a stool wrapped in a large, cozy blanket, watching him work with a calm curiosity. You didn’t really understand everything he was doing, but you liked being there; it made the cold metal room feel warmer somehow. Donnie liked it too—he worked better when you were around, less pressure in his chest, fewer frustrated mutters under his breath.

Your attention drifted to a small beaker beside you, filled with a glowing pink liquid. It shimmered faintly under the lab lights, swirling like cotton candy fog. You assumed it was harmless—Donnie had dozens of odd-looking concoctions lying around, after all. So, absentmindedly, you began swirling it in the glass, watching how the light danced through it.

One careless flick too far—and the liquid sloshed out, splattering across your hand.

“Oops,” you whispered, freezing.

“What?” Donnie called absently, not looking up from his notes.

Panic pricked at your chest. Before thinking, you did the dumbest thing imaginable—you licked the pink substance off your hand.

Instantly, a searing burn tore through your veins. The glass slipped from your grasp and shattered against the floor. You gasped, clutching your stomach as the world tilted.

Donnie’s head shot up at the sound. “What’re you—?” His voice cut off as he saw you collapse, the broken beaker at your feet and a spreading puddle of pink fluid on the floor.

“Wait—no, no, no—what did you touch!?” he shouted, scrambling toward you. But before he could reach, your body convulsed, glowing faintly with the same eerie pink light. Donnie froze in horror as your frame began to shrink, your features softening, your voice fading into tiny whimpers.

The blanket you’d been wrapped in crumpled around you, swallowing your form completely. Then— silence.

Donnie’s pulse hammered in his throat. He hesitated, terrified of what he might find, then slowly lifted the edge of the blanket.

“Ohhh no…” he whispered, wincing at the sight.

There, bundled up in the folds of fabric, was you—no longer your usual self, but a wide-eyed, babbling baby staring up at him in confusion.

Donnie dragged a hand down his face. “Dammit.”