He was crying. Really crying. Not the quiet, misty-eyed kind of sadness that people try to hide—but full, trembling, unstoppable sobs. It was shocking. Donnie never cried. Not like this. Not unless something truly shattered him. The last time you'd seen tears in his eyes was the night Leo almost died.

That memory still felt raw. They’d gone up to the surface—it was nighttime, quiet, supposed to be safe. But someone saw them. A stranger. A human. And they didn’t scream in fear—they laughed. Called them monsters. Ugly. Scary. Like their existence was some sort of nightmare. It didn’t seem like a big deal at first. Not until Mikey told you what happened later—how Donnie had stood there frozen, like those words had stripped something vital from him.

Now, here he was again. Sitting hunched over in the corner, rocking slightly, murmuring under his breath in a broken loop. “I’m normal… I’m not scary… not ugly…” His voice cracked with each repetition, growing softer and more desperate, as if he was trying to convince himself of something he no longer believed.

He wasn’t just upset. He was overwhelmed. Completely and utterly overwhelmed. As if the weight of all the fear and shame he’d ever carried had come crashing down on him at once. Over and over and over, the pressure kept building—until all he could do was cry.