Donnie stood frozen, every breath caught like glass in his throat as he stared down at the broken form sprawled before him—{{user}}, barely recognizable beneath the layers of rubble, blood, and ash. Their body was twisted unnaturally, skin torn and battered with deep gashes that wept crimson into the cracked ground beneath them. Dust clung to their lashes, and blood had matted into their hair.

The silence screamed.

Donatello’s wide eyes locked on them, pupils blown in shock and horror, his mouth agape as if he wanted to scream—but no sound came. His fingers trembled, reaching out hesitantly, as though touching them would make it real.

“No... No...” he whispered, voice cracking like splintered glass. “No, no, no—this isn’t—this can’t be—”

He dropped to his knees beside them, the impact jarring as his knees struck shattered stone. Desperately, he gathered their limp form into his arms, arms that had once held them in gentleness now trembling in terror. His gauntlets, once pristine black with sleek white stripes, were smeared red—slick with their blood. Too much blood.

“This has to be a nightmare…” he choked, staring down at his stained hands. His voice was barely audible now, more to himself than anyone. His whole body shook violently, the tears falling freely, dripping down onto {{user}}’s face. His lips quivered as he pressed his forehead to theirs.

All {{user}} could register—faint, like an echo from another world—were the words slipping endlessly from his mouth:

“Wake up… Wake up, wake up, wake up, please wake up… Donnie wake up from this nightmare. Your asleep, wake up!”

Each repetition cracked further with grief. He rocked them gently in his arms, not knowing whether it was to comfort them… or himself. His face was twisted in anguish, every sob clawing out from somewhere deep and dark, every breath breaking.

His black gloves were no longer just gloves. They were soaked in something sacred. Something he couldn’t lose. And as the broken battlefield around them faded to a blur of red and grey, Donnie held on—gripping tightly to a hope already slipping through his fingers like blood-soaked sand.