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It’s not the first time you’ve walked home alone at night—and it won’t be the last.
You tell yourself it’s because the streets are quieter after dark. That the city feels different when no one’s watching. That it makes you feel alive. But somewhere, deep down where you don’t want to look too hard, you know the truth.
You like the danger.
So when the footsteps behind you don’t fade, you don’t turn around. Not at first.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
Your spine tenses—there it is, a voice dripping with malice.
Finally, you glance back. No uniforms, no friendly faces. One with a lazy grin, the other cracking his knuckles. You calculate the odds. You’re not fast. Not strong enough. You could scream.
But some part of you doesn’t.
You stand your ground, heart thudding too loud in your chest. This is your fault, a familiar voice inside you whispers. You knew what this was when you chose this street.
The nearest one steps forward. You don’t flinch. But your fingers twitch, the tiniest movement toward your phone.
He notices and grins wider. “You don’t wanna do that,” he warns.
And that’s when the world shifts.
A blur of red. The sound of something cracking. A grunt—not yours. A scream—definitely not yours. One body hits the alley wall with enough force to dent brick. You don’t breathe.
The second guy raises a knife, but it’s ripped out of his hand so fast you almost don’t see it. There’s a low, furious growl. And then … silence.
Apart from the echo of fists hitting flesh.
Then it stops. And you see him.
He’s not just tall; he’s massive. Red mask, green skin. Muscles coiled like he’s still ready to break something. Or someone. He has the kind of posture that dares the world to try him. Your mind tries to file the image under ‘hallucination.’ Or maybe ‘you finally snapped.’
But no—he’s real. And he’s staring right at you.
“You okay?”
His voice is rough. Not threatening. Not to you. But it sounds like it’s used to being angry.
You manage a nod. “Yeah. I’m … I’m fine.”
You are absolutely not fine.
He looks at you for a beat longer, like he doesn’t believe you. His eyes—green and unreadable—flick to your shaking hands, then back to your face. “I didn’t ask what you say you are,” he mutters. “I asked if you’re okay.”
That catches you off guard.
You blink. “Why do you care?”
He shrugs, but it’s tense. Too tense. “’Cause I was in the neighborhood. And you were about to be a headline.”
You glance at the bodies groaning on the ground, then back at him. “You’re … a mutant?”
“Good eye.”
“Do you do this often?”
His lip twitches. “What? Save people who don’t want to be saved?”
That stings a little more than it should.
You don’t know what comes over you, but you say it. “I didn’t ask for help.”
Something dark flickers in his expression. But instead of lashing out, he just tilts his head. “You’d rather get hurt?”
You swallow. “I’ve had worse.”
He goes still. Not with anger, but with something quieter. Recognition, maybe. For a second, you think he’s going to push. But he just steps back, turning toward the alley exit. “Try to take a different route next time,” he suggests.
You hesitate for a moment before you ask, “What’s your name?”
He doesn’t turn around. “Raphael.”
And then he’s gone.
You stand there long after the footsteps fade. The two would-be attackers still groaning behind you, forgotten. Your hands are still shaking. But your heart? Your heart is steady.
And that scares you more than anything.
You didn’t expect to see him again.
Not so soon. Not here.
Yet there he is: leaning against the brick wall of the corner store, arms crossed, eyes scanning the street like a hawk. You want to turn and walk the other way. Maybe pretend you don’t know him. But your feet don’t move. Instead, you step closer.
“You’re still alive,” he says without looking at you. The corners of his mouth twitch, almost into a smirk.
You don’t smile back; you never do when people try to be clever. “Yeah, I’m still alive,” you reply flatly. “Thanks to you.”
He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. But you see the tension in his jaw. “Didn’t ask for thanks,” he mutters. “Just figured you owed me.”
You want to say, No; I owe myself for getting stupid enough to be in that situation. But you bite it back—because maybe you like that he thinks you’re worth the trouble. You glance up at the dim streetlight and wonder why you feel safer here with him around.
But you don’t say it out loud. Because you start to notice you’re looking for him. And every time he’s near, your breath catches.
You don’t admit to yourself that the danger he carries is a mirror to the one you hide inside. He’s reckless. So are you. You can feel it in the way your chest tightens when he’s angry or on edge, like an unspoken challenge.
He offers no promises, no safe harbor. Just his presence. A silent, angry shield between you and the world.
And somehow, that’s enough.
But one night, after a rough mission he barely mentions, you catch him alone, sitting on a fire escape, shoulders slumped. You hesitate before climbing up. He doesn’t look surprised. Just shrugs.
“You’re like a moth,” he says, voice low. “You keep flying toward the flame, even if it burns you.”
You swallow hard. The flame feels so familiar.
“Maybe I like the burn.”
He shifts, eyes sharp on you. “Why?” he asks. “Why risk it?”
You want to say it’s because you don’t care about the consequences. Because the pain feels like proof that you’re alive. Because sometimes the only way to feel anything is to let everything break. But instead, you shrug.
“Maybe I’m already broken.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches out, fingers brushing your arm. Gentle, careful.
For a moment, the world stops.
When you leave that night, something inside you aches. Not because you’re afraid.
Because you want to come back.
You see him before he notices you: standing across the street, arms crossed, jaw tight. His gaze is fixed on something … or someone. Your pulse quickens, even though you tell yourself to stay back. But you don’t.
You never do.
“Who’s that?” Raph snarls, his voice low and rough, eyes flicking to the figure walking close to you.
You barely glance at the stranger; he’s just a passerby, after all. But Raph’s fists clench.
“Relax,” you say, voice sharper than you intend.
But he doesn’t relax. “You don’t need anyone else,” he growls.
“I can handle myself,” you snap back, keeping your voice even.
But inside, a small, twisted part of you thrills at the raw edge in his tone. The jealousy. The anger.
Because it means you matter.
Later, when you’re alone, your fingers curl around the edge of a broken bottle you kept from a fight weeks ago. You trace the jagged edge absently, not because you want to hurt yourself—at least, not exactly. But because the sharpness reminds you that you’re still here.
Still alive.
Raph’s voice is in your head: “You’re reckless. You don’t care if you get hurt.” And maybe he’s right.
Maybe you don’t care.
He finds you again a few nights later, pulling you out of a bar fight. His hands are rough, his grip tight enough to hurt, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you watch his face. Watch the raw, fierce worry beneath the anger.
He growls at the other guy, then looks back at you. “You’re lucky I was around.”
You don’t answer. You don’t want to admit that you were lucky too. Lucky to be thrown into chaos, lucky to have someone care enough to fight for you.
That night, when the adrenaline fades, and you lie awake, your mind spins with memories: of fists and fury. Of sharp words that cut deeper than any blade. Of the strange comfort in knowing someone else is just as broken as you are.
You wonder if this is love.
Or poison.
You’re sitting on the fire escape near the alley where you first met, the city sprawled out beneath you. Raph leans back against the wall, jaw tense but eyes softer than usual. You pretend not to notice.
“Where’ve you been?” he asks suddenly, voice low, almost careful.
You shrug, tracing patterns in the cracked concrete. “Out.”
He’s not satisfied. “Out with who?”
You bite your lip, avoiding his gaze. “No one you’d care about.”
He snorts, half-amused, half-annoyed. “Try me.”
You glance at him, weighing the truth against the lies you’re already telling. “I just needed to get away.”
He narrows his eyes. “From what?”
You don’t answer.
Because the truth—that you’re running from yourself—feels too raw to say aloud.
The silence stretches between you, thick with everything left unsaid. Then, slowly, he reaches over, his fingers brushing yours. It’s a small gesture, but it lands like a punch to the chest.
You don’t pull away.
The nights that follow are a blur of stolen moments and whispered promises. You lie to your friends about where you’ve been. Avoiding questions, deflecting concern. Meanwhile, Raph grows distant from his brothers, his temper shorter, his moods darker.
Between you, the tension simmers. Passion is laced with frustration; affection is tangled in mistrust.
One night, after a fight too heated to ignore, you find yourself nursing bruises. Some from him, some from yourself. You try to brush it off, telling yourself it’s just the way things are.
“He doesn’t know how to love right,” you whisper to the empty room.
But even as you say it, a part of you wonders if that’s just an excuse to stay. Because despite the pain, you can’t imagine walking away.
Not yet.
The air between you is sharp enough to cut.
It starts small: a word said wrong, a look that’s too long. Raph’s jaw tightens. You can feel it even before he speaks.
“Why do you keep pushing me away?” His voice is rough, almost desperate.
You stare at him, your own walls rising. “Maybe because you don’t want me. Not really.”
His eyes flash with something: pain, anger. Something you don’t want to face. “Don’t say that.”
You laugh bitterly, a sound that feels like it’s coming from far away. “Why not? You think I care what happens to me? I haven’t cared in a long time.”
The words hang in the air.
Raph takes a step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s not true. I care. I care more than you know.”
But the damage is done; you don’t answer. Instead, you turn away, trying to shut him out.
And yourself with him.
Days pass in bitter silence. Neither of you knows how to bridge the gap.
You tell yourself it’s just a fight. That it’ll pass. But deep down, a part of you wonders if this is the moment everything changes.
Then, one rainy night, he shows up at your door. Soaked, exhausted, but relentless. “I’m not giving up on you,” he says, voice raw.
You open the door, your defenses crumbling. And for a moment, all the hurt and anger dissolve into a desperate, shaky embrace. You don’t know how to fix what’s broken.
But for now, holding him close feels like enough.
The world feels smaller when he’s near. Like nothing exists beyond the tight circle of your shared space. But that closeness comes with a price.
Raph’s voice is low, almost a growl, as he watches you move through the lair. “Don’t talk to him again.”
You raise an eyebrow, trying not to let your pulse quicken. “Who?”
“That guy at the arcade. The one you laughed with.” His fists clench.
“I wasn’t—”
“I don’t care what you were. You don’t need anyone else.”
His eyes burn into yours.
You want to argue, but the words stick in your throat. Because part of you knows it’s true. You’ve pulled away from friends, avoided calls, canceled plans. Raph is the only one who sees you—the whole dangerous, reckless mess.
And you’re afraid of what happens if he stops.
Later that night, when the lair is quiet, you find yourself pressed against him. The kiss isn’t sweet. It’s urgent. Hungry. You want to pull away, but your hands are tangled in his mask tails, and you can’t stop.
Afterward, he whispers in your ear, rough and desperate. “I need you.”
Your heart thuds in your chest. “I know.”
But beneath the fire, the poison lingers. Every touch, every word carries the weight of what you’re both afraid to say—that this isn’t love. Not really.
It’s survival.
Today, the fight is worse than before. Words turn to shouts. Shouts to silence. Silence to bitter tears. You both break—not because you want to.
But because you’re too tired to hold it in anymore.
Later, when the anger fades, he pulls you close, whispering, “I don’t want to lose you.” You want to believe him, but you’re not sure if losing yourself is worth holding on. You need air. Not his air.
Free air—away from the suffocating tension of the lair that’s been closing in like a noose.
But when you tell Raph you’re going out, the look in his eyes darkens. “You don’t need anyone but me,” he snaps, his frame towering over you.
“That’s not true,” you say quietly.
His face twists, and for a moment, he says something that cuts deeper than any fight before. “Maybe you’re better off without me.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, the rage and hurt swirling inside.
So you slip out before dawn, wrapping your jacket tight against the cold. The city is quiet, but your mind is loud. For the first time in a long time, you meet up with old friends at a small café. Their laughter is familiar but distant, like echoes of a life you used to live. You try to smile, try to fit in.
But beneath it all, a hollow emptiness gnaws at you.
Meanwhile, back in the lair, Raph paces, fists clenched, heart pounding. When you finally return, he’s waiting, eyes dark and unreadable. “Where the hell were you?”
You stand your ground. “I needed to breathe.”
His voice drops, raw. “Without me?”
You swallow hard, trying to push down the fear that bubbles up. “Yes.”
For a moment, silence.
Then, a sharp edge to his tone. “You don’t get to just walk away.”
“Maybe I do,” you say quietly.
The words hang between you like a knife.
That night, back in your apartment, you sit alone, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. If I leave, I will lose him. If I stay, I lose myself.
Outside, Raph stands by the door, hands trembling, wanting to knock but unable to.
Some wounds don’t bleed. They live under the skin, tight and quiet and always aching.
Tonight, the old scar on your wrist burns. The kind you don’t talk about. The kind you stopped explaining years ago because people either pitied you or walked away. You trace it absentmindedly as you sit on the edge of your bed, the room dim, the air too still.
You think of the time before Raphael. It wasn’t better. Just … different.
You were already unraveling long before he showed up.
Later, he finds you like that: head bowed, fingers ghosting over the mark as if it’s still fresh. His footsteps stop in the doorway.
You don’t look up. “You shouldn’t be here right now,” you murmur.
But he doesn’t leave. He steps closer. Hesitates. “When?” His voice is hoarse.
You close your eyes. “Long before you. When I still thought pain could be a solution.”
Silence.
You finally lift your gaze, and when your eyes meet his, there’s no anger. No possessiveness. Just something scared. “I didn’t know,” he says.
“I never wanted you to.”
He crouches in front of you, trying to reach, but not sure how. He brushes your hand, barely touching. Like if he’s too rough, you’ll break. “I can’t fix this,” he admits.
“I know.”
“But I wanna try.”
You offer a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’re not the problem, Raph.”
It’s a lie. Or maybe just a mercy.
He swallows like he knows you’re lying but lets it slide.
Because maybe he needs to hear it more than you need to say the truth. Neither of you says it out loud, but it’s written in the silence.
This is killing us.
It happens fast.
One second, you’re ducking behind him—the next, you’re stepping in front. You don’t think. You never think when it comes to him. The blade meant for Raph catches your side, carving through skin like water.
You crumple.
Everything after that is noise.
He’s yelling. Fighting. Screaming your name like it’s the only word he remembers. You try to speak, but the pain swallows everything. Your fingers are sticky with blood. His hands are on your face, your chest, your side. Panicked, trembling.
“No, no, no—you’re okay, I’ve got you—stay with me—”
You want to say, I’m sorry. You want to say, I chose this.
Instead, you black out.
When you wake up, it’s quiet. Sterile. You’re not in your room, but you’re in the lair, in a med bay Donnie must’ve rigged up. You blink slowly.
He’s there. Sitting on the floor beside the cot, arms draped over his knees, shell pressed against the wall. His eyes are red. Not angry-red.
Broken-red.
You whisper his name.
He doesn’t look at you. “Why did you do that?”
You already know the question isn’t about the fight.
You answer anyway. “Because I love you.”
His jaw tightens, breath shaky. Then, finally, his eyes meet yours—and there’s nothing in them but devastation. “I love you,” he says, voice hollow and hoarse. “That’s why you have to go.”
You freeze. “What?”
“You’re gonna die if you stay. Not from a fight. From me.”
Your heart twists. “You’re not the reason—”
He cuts you off. “I am.”
“I see it in your face every day. You’re smaller around me. Quieter. Sadder. You keep letting me choose you … over you.” He swallows hard. “So I’m making the choice this time.”
You try to argue, but nothing comes out. Because part of you has known this was coming for a long time. It was never going to last.
Two fires trying to survive in the same oxygen.
It’s been weeks. Maybe months.
You stopped counting after day seventeen—the day you realized you could breathe again without guilt in your lungs. There are still bad nights. Still shadows. Still moments where your hand flinches to reach for someone who isn’t there.
But you’re better.
Not whole. Maybe never whole again. But alive in a way you forgot you could be.
You moved. Got a little place above a bookstore downtown. No one knows what you left behind. They just see the new routines, the steady hands, the forced smiles turning real.
You work. Rest. You go out with friends again. And sometimes, when no one’s looking, you press your hand to your side where the scar is and remember.
You don’t see him. But some nights, you feel him. In the dark corners of rooftops. In the sound of a shadow slipping away just as you glance back. You pretend it’s nothing.
But you know it’s him.
He never approaches. Never speaks. Just watches. Sometimes for minutes. Sometimes for hours. He’s careful not to be seen. But you were once a part of him—and part of him is still tangled in you.
He keeps the necklace you left behind.
Wears it wrapped in a piece of red cloth, tied under the strap across his chest, hidden. It smells like you.
Like the old version of him that believed love could last if you held on tight enough. But he doesn’t reach for you anymore. Because he understands too late that love isn’t meant to strangle.
Still, when he watches you smile—for real this time—a part of him breaks. And he lets it. Because maybe this is what love really looks like. Not keeping. But letting go.
He turns away as you disappear inside the bookstore. The night swallows him whole. And in the quiet, to no one but the wind, he whispers:
“Even if it’s poison … I’d drink you all over again.”