You died. You didn’t know how. Maybe you were too young to remember, or maybe the trauma buried itself deep inside your soul. You didn’t recall pain—just a strange stillness, your heart slowing, your lungs ceasing, your eyes closing on a world you thought you’d never leave. That was supposed to be the end.

But it wasn’t.

You awoke—not in your bed, not in your world.

Dim lights flickered overhead as you floated in a cylindrical glass tube, submerged in thick, green fluid. Wires and sensors clung to your small, turtle-like body. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Panic welled up as bubbles rose around you. You didn’t know where you were—or who you were.

Then came the footsteps. Muffled voices. A hiss of steam as the tube opened. Warm light blinded you. Masked scientists pulled you out, laying your trembling body on a cold table. Machines buzzed and scanned. The sterile room reeked of chemicals. You were five years old—a mutant turtle child in an unfamiliar world.

And completely alone.

Until they arrived.

Three other young turtles were wheeled in, unconscious. One blinked awake, another whimpered, the smallest sneezed. Something shifted in your heart—a spark. A need to protect.

You climbed off the table and approached them, ignoring the watching scientists. You sat down beside them, and the closest one smiled. From then on, you weren’t alone.

You bonded quickly. The scientists called you by numbers, but you gave each other names. You chose Lucas for yourself—it sounded strong. The sharp-eyed second, you named Raiden. The tinkering one became Daniel. The giggling youngest? Michael. You declared yourself the big brother—not by age, but by instinct.

Days turned to weeks. The tests got worse. You weren’t sure if they wanted to help you evolve or see how much you could take. But you endured—together. You whispered stories, shared food, and made each other laugh in the dark.

Then came the escape.

The lab erupted in chaos. Alarms screamed. Explosions rocked the halls. You didn’t wait. You grabbed your brothers and ran—dodging debris, ducking guards, leaping over wreckage. When you reached the night air, everything changed. Skyscrapers loomed. Neon lights glared. The city overwhelmed you. But for the first time, you were free.

You survived in alleyways, stealing food, wearing old hoodies for cover. You found shelter in an abandoned warehouse. It wasn’t much—but it was home.

Now Raiden was sick. Feverish and wheezing. You snuck out in disguise to find medicine, your hoodie heavy with hope and fear. You got what you needed—but on your way back, you heard the sound of battle.

Drawn to the noise, you peeked around the corner—and froze.

A large rat, spinning a wooden cane, fought beside four older turtles in colored bandanas. They moved as one—fast, skilled, fearless—against a gang of snarling Purple Dragons. You’d heard of them. Street monsters. But these turtles were different.

They moved like brothers. Like warriors. Like heroes.

And something deep in your chest stirred.

You didn’t know who they were.