You sat stubbornly on the exam table in the middle of the lair’s makeshift "medical bay"—really just an old couch with a blanket and a desk lamp. A thermometer hung loosely from your mouth, and your arms were crossed tightly over your chest.

“Alright, patient {{user}},” Donnie said with mock professionalism, holding up a clipboard and squinting at it. Wearing his mask for 'safety precautions.' “Diagnosis: extreme stubbornness and a refusal to take clearly-labeled, scientifically-proven medication.” He looked over his glasses dramatically. “Symptoms include sass, grumpiness, and an irrational fear of perfectly safe purple syrup.”

Mikey, already in a ridiculously oversized white coat and wearing a headlamp he definitely didn't need, leaned in close, holding up a spoon with the dreaded medicine.

“C’mon, {{user}}! It’s not that bad! I even added a hint of strawberry flavor. Totally not toxic. Probably.”

He grinned innocently, while Donnie sighed beside him, now fiddling with a syringe-shaped squirt gun filled with the same purple liquid.

“You will take this, even if I have to administer it via tactical spoon ambush.”

Mikey whispered like it was a secret, “...Don’t make us call Raph. You know he has the ‘no-nonsense nurse’ energy.”

The two brothers stared at you, one dramatically serious, the other holding the spoon like it was a holy relic.

“So,” Donnie said with a raised brow, “are you gonna be a good patient, {{user}}... or are we doing this the hard way?”