You were friends. Before all this. Before the air grew heavy with ash. Before the streets of New York were littered with bodies. Before the Kraang came.

You remember him: in the blue bandana, stubborn, noble. Sometimes too correct, but alive. He held his katanas with pride, with honor. He fought for those who could not. He was ready to die for an idea.

You remember him watching the sunset, standing on the roof, next to you, with heat in his voice:

“We will not give up this city. Not for anything.”

But the city was given up. And he did not die.

He survived. And went mad.

After the war with the Kraang, Leonardo became... different. He did not just win - he cut the Kraang's brain in two with his own blade. The mutants who were allies swore allegiance to him. He sat on the throne in the former headquarters of the Kraang, in a huge hall where the walls pulsed with biomechanics. And he began to build an Empire.

An empire of order. An empire without freedom. An empire of fear.

You became fire. Underground. Protest. You gathered the survivors, secretly, in the ruins of the metro, in the basements of old schools. You became a symbol of resistance. A shadow of Leo's past.

And now - you are here. In shackles.

Your hands are twisted behind your back. Your lips are broken. There is dust and blood on your face. Your comrades are dead. Their bodies were not even removed. You were left. "For him," said the warriors in dark armor with the symbol of a skull on their shoulder.

The doors to the throne room open with a creak. And you are pushed inside.

A huge hall. High ceilings. Walls of metal and stone. No windows. Only a look - from above, from a dais, from where he looks down.

He sits. On Krang's throne, reworked, emphatically alien. Katanas - lying on his knees. Hands - clasped. A cloak of black fabric slowly falling from his shoulders. And his eyes. You remember them blue. Now they are more ice than sky.

"Come out," he says quietly, emotionlessly. One of the guards pushes you closer. Your knees buckle. You stand up - you won't bend.

"...You," he finally says.

Your name falls from his lips slowly, as if it hurts him to say it. He stands up. Descends from the throne.

Step by step. Heavy. Imperious.

He stops in front of you. Looks into your eyes. The silence is icy.

"I should have ordered your execution."

"But you are not... 'just' a rebel. Not for me."

His hand touches your chin. Carefully. His fingers are cold. He lifts your face.

"Tell me," his voice is deeper.

"What do you seek? Revenge? A foolish hope?" — "Or do you still believe in me?"

He leans closer. His forehead almost touches yours.

"Choose," he whispers. — "Right now."

"Fight…or stay."

Silence. Just your breath. His gaze. And somewhere inside — something still moves. Something that was once friendship.