Donnie sat hunched over his desk, the hum of the machinery around him suddenly too loud, too sharp. Every flicker of light felt like a blade behind his eyes. His leg bounced uncontrollably, faster and faster, and his breathing came out uneven.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t focus. Every formula, every line of code blurred together. His throat felt tight—too tight—as if every emotion he’d been suppressing since Splinter’s pressure to act "normal" despite his autism was clawing its way out all at once.

He pressed his hands against his head, fingers digging into his scalp, trying to block out the noise, the ache, the world. “Stop, stop, stop—” he muttered under his breath, voice cracking.

Then a hand touched his shoulder.

He froze.

“{{user}}—! What are you doing here?” His voice broke halfway through her name. His eyes were glassy, his expression pulled taut between panic and grief. You could see it all—the exhaustion, the confusion, the desperate need for control he couldn’t seem to find anymore.