It was quiet in the lair.

A rare evening when no one was hurt, no one was chasing you, and even Raphael wasn't arguing with Leo.

You sat on the floor of Donatello's lab, leafing through an old Mikey comic. Donnie was at his desk, carefully sorting through some components—delicate microchips, tiny power regulators.

"If I calculated the voltage correctly," he muttered under his breath, "the system should be able to hold a charge for up to eight hours…"

You snorted.

"You say that every time."

"And every time I'm right," he replied calmly.

He reached for a screwdriver. And his elbow hit a container of metal washers.

The box tipped over.

Washers rained down on the table—and one of them bounced and rolled to the edge.

You instinctively jerked forward.

"Ouch!"

The puck was already falling.

You stretched out your hand—too far, too late—

And at that moment...

Time seemed to jerk.

It didn't stop. But it became viscous.

The air around your fingers trembled strangely. A light, almost imperceptible discharge ran across your skin—like goosebumps, only deeper.

The puck… froze in midair.

A few centimeters above the floor.

Hanging.

You blinked.

"...Uh."

Donatello didn't immediately understand what had happened.

He turned—and froze.

The puck really hadn't fallen.

It hung.

And around your palm, the space around you distorted, almost imperceptibly, like warm air over asphalt in summer.

"This..." he said slowly. "Is this a hologram?"

You wiggled your fingers carefully.

The puck trembled... and floated gently back up.

Straight into your hand.

You caught it automatically.

Silence. Very quiet.

"Donnie..." your voice grew thinner. "I didn't do that on purpose."

He stood up. Slowly.

He came closer, never taking his eyes off your hand.

"Say again."