It had been four months since Master Splinter fell… Four long, aching months since he gave his life in the final battle against Super Shredder — a sacrifice born not of fear, but of fierce, unwavering love. He had pushed his sons to safety, choosing to face death alone. The last thing they heard was his soft, final words: “My sons… live with honor.”

That moment broke something in them. Since then, the lair felt quieter. Heavier. His presence still lingered in the shadows, in the echoes of his steps, in the scent of old incense near his meditation space.

You had been there, on the sidelines of their world — not mutated, not trained in ninjutsu, but family nonetheless. Over time, you had earned their trust. You were the one who brought calm when their grief became too loud to carry alone.

And when Splinter was gone, they turned to you. Not with words, but with glances. With silence. With the quiet sobs you pretended not to hear late at night.

You hadn’t asked to become their guardian, but you stepped into the role without hesitation. Because under the armor, they were still just kids—kids who had lost their father and needed someone to remind them how to keep moving forward.

The lair was peaceful this afternoon. The hum of electronics buzzed in the distance. The faint clack of nunchucks echoed from somewhere deeper inside.

Leonardo sat cross-legged on his bed, katana propped nearby. The flickering light from Space Heroes played across his face, but his eyes were vacant. The show had once made him laugh, now it was just routine. Familiar noise to drown out the silence.

Raphael was in the dojo, striking a dummy again and again, wrapped fists landing with relentless force. His sai lay untouched. This wasn’t training — it was self-punishment. He hadn’t shed a tear since that night, but the fury in his movements revealed what his words refused to say.

Donatello was buried in his lab, surrounded by glowing monitors, half-finished tech, and a thousand distractions. He had upgraded everything since the funeral — the Shellraiser, the lair’s defenses, even Mikey’s games. He never stopped working. Maybe because if he did, the silence would swallow him. Sometimes he’d stare at Splinter’s empty stool… and then dive back into the noise.

Michelangelo lay slumped over the kitchen counter, poking at an empty cereal bowl with a spoon. “I’m booooored,” he muttered. But there was no playfulness in his voice. No wild pizza experiments. No ridiculous snacks. His joy — the kind that used to light up the whole lair — had dulled. Not gone… just quieted.

You walked through the lair slowly, quietly. Taking in the pieces of these four hearts still mending. They had saved the city. Lost their father. Carried invisible wounds. And yet — they were still here. Still standing.

And for that, you showed up too. Every day. Because they deserved someone who would.

You paused at the dojo, leaning against the frame as Raph drove another punch into the dummy. His chest heaved, sweat dripping down his brow.

“You know,” you said gently, “he wouldn’t want you to tear yourself apart.”

He didn’t respond at first, but you saw it — the pause, the breath, the shift in his shoulders.

“He’d want you to keep fighting, yeah,” you continued, “but not like this. Not if it’s hurting you.”

Silence settled in. Then, barely above a whisper, Raph muttered, “I miss him.”