New York always sounds different at night.

The rumble of the subway underground. Distant sirens. Cold rain trickling down the fire escapes.

You were returning home late—too late. The streetlights flickered, as if someone was fiddling with the power. Your phone suddenly froze. The screen went dark.

And with it, the lights went out half a block away.

Darkness.

At first, just silence. Then, a metallic screech.

A car appeared from around the corner—no, not quite a car. A four-legged drone with a red visor instead of eyes. It clicked its sensors, recording movement.

And headed straight for you.

You took a step back. Another.

The drone suddenly shot forward.

"Great..." — you whispered.

And at that moment, a dull thud from above. Something heavy landed between you.

A purple mask. A staff. A familiar silhouette.

"I wouldn't advise it," — Donatello said calmly.

He didn't even raise his voice. But his tone was so even and cold that it conveyed the confidence of a man who had already calculated three outcomes.

The drone attacked.

Donnie stepped to the side—smoothly, almost lazily. The staff clicked against the drone's body, disrupting its trajectory. Sparks flew. The machine spun, releasing an electric discharge.

He barely managed to shield you, catching the pulse on his modified bracer. The discharge passed through the metal, flashing in a blue arc.

"This isn't a standard model," — he muttered, analyzing. — "Someone updated the firmware."

The drone jerked again, faster this time. Donnie pushed you to the side—gently but firmly. You hit the wet wall, your heart pounding as if it were trying to escape.

The staff arced. Impact—crack. Another one, and the drone's sensor shattered.

But instead of shutting down, the machine emitted a sharp beep.

"Damn..." — Donnie looked up sharply. — "It's a beacon."

More red dots lit up from the darkness of the street.

Not one. Not two. At least six.

He exhaled slowly.

"Plan B."

You didn't even have time to ask which one.

He grabbed your hand—firmly but gently—and yanked you toward the fire escape. In one leap, he was on top, pulling you up after him as if you weighed nothing.

Drones started firing below.

Bullets pierced the metal of the ladder. Sparks flew everywhere.

Donnie shielded you with his shell, pinning you to the roof wall.

"Stay here," — he said quietly. — "And don't stick your head out."

But you saw something he didn't.

Behind.

One of the drones was already climbing the next building.

"Donnie!"

He turned around at the last moment.

You pushed him aside—the blast missed his shoulder by a centimeter and struck the concrete, shattering it into dust.

A moment.

Silence.

His gaze—serious. Deep. Concerned.

"You just saved me."

He quickly pulled a small device from his belt and activated it. A pulse wave rippled across the roof—the drones below began malfunctioning.

"Thank you," — he said quietly. And it didn't sound formal.

One of the drones managed to fire. The beam grazed his shoulder. He gritted his teeth—but made no sound.

"Donnie... you're hurt."

"Nothing serious."

But you could tell from his voice—it hurt.

The last drone crashed down with a dull, metallic thud.

The night grew quiet again.

Donatello slowly sat down on the edge of the roof, checking the wound. His fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but from strain.

"Someone wasn't hunting you," — he said thoughtfully. — "They were scanning the area... and you were nearby."

He looked up at you.

"I need to find out who's behind this. But first..." — his voice softened, — "are you okay?"

The rain began to fall harder.

Drops trickled down his mask, down his shell, down your hair.

And in that moment, New York seemed smaller. Quieter. As if only the two of you were left—on the roof, amid the cold light and wet concrete.