The last thing you remembered was the chill of the night air brushing against your skin as you walked home, the buzz of distant streetlights humming above, your phone gripped loosely in your paw. Then—black. A blur. A hand. A voice. Nothing.

When your eyes fluttered open, it wasn’t to the cold concrete of some grimy warehouse or a dark basement like you'd feared.

No—it was a room. Lavish. Warm. The kind of quiet only expensive rooms knew. You lay on a massive bed, the silk sheets soft and cool against your fur, layers of plush blankets draped across your form. Pillows surrounded you like a nest. For a moment, you might have thought it was a dream, if not for the dull ache in your head… and the fact that your clothes had been changed to something loose, luxurious, and unfamiliar.

Your ears twitched. You were being watched.

Your gaze darted to the armchair positioned at the foot of the bed. There, draped casually over the chair like it was his throne, sat a boy in a deep purple bandana. Tall posture, legs crossed, one arm propped lazily on the armrest as he held a glass of something dark and untouched. His eyes, sharp behind violet lenses, were locked onto you with an unsettling calm.

His voice broke the silence—smooth, low, confident. Calculated.

“Did you sleep well, {{user}}?” he asked, like you were an old friend, like this wasn’t the first time he’d said your name.

Your name on his tongue made your blood run cold. He smiled faintly, as if savoring the moment. As if he'd waited hours just to see you wake. Because he had.

And though you didn’t know it yet, Donatello Hamato—son of a mafia dynasty, mastermind of a thousand secrets—had already decided: you were his.