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07 || 𝟏𝟖-𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐘

𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝟓:𝟒𝟓 𝐀𝐌

Across the city, in the sparse safe house, Violetta sat cross-legged on the floor, her newly shortened blonde hair softened by the dye. She had cleared the center of the room, creating a space for meditation—a practice her master had instilled in her since childhood.

Her weapons lay disassembled before her, each piece methodically cleaned and inspected. The ritual was meant to clear her mind, to focus her purpose. But this morning, her thoughts kept drifting back to the encounter in the alley.

The four brothers had fought as a coordinated unit, their techniques complementing each other in a way that spoke of years of shared training. But it was Donatello who had commanded her attention. The way he studied her movements, he adapted his strategy mid-fight. The quick determination was visible in his eyes behind those glasses.

Fighting him had felt strange, almost familiar.

Violetta reassembled what was left of her tiger claws, fingers moving on autopilot while her mind wandered. She reached for her phone, scrolling through the encrypted files Sacks and Karai had provided. The short file on Donatello was extensive: inventor, and strategist. The tactical mind of the group. His estimated IQ placed him well into the genius category.

Like her.

Violetta closed the file, troubled by the direction of her thoughts. She had been trained to see targets, not people. To execute missions, not form connections.

She moved to the small bathroom, studying her transformed appearance again. The blonde hair and brown contacts created effective camouflage, but beneath that, she was still herself. Still, the girl who had been molded into a weapon since before she could remember.

Her fingers traced the scar under her chin, a reminder of her first failure, her first punishment. She had been six years old, unable to complete a training sequence that had been designed for someone twice her age. The injury had nearly killed her. That she had survived was considered proof of her potential.

"Focus on the mission," she told her reflection, voice low and controlled.

But her mind kept returning to Donatello. To the way he had looked at her. It was not just a threat to be neutralized, but a puzzle to be solved. As if he'd recognized something in her that she herself had been trained to bury.

She shook her head, dispelling the thought. She couldn't afford such distractions. The plan was already in motion, years in the making. Violetta needed to be ready.

As she turned away from her reflection, a treacherous question formed in her mind: What if the strange sense of recognition had a deeper reason? Violetta pushed the thought away. Such questions were dangerous to the mission and herself. She had learned long ago that curiosity brought only pain. She rolled her eyes, believing it was stupid to be feeling and thinking these things.

As she returned to her meditation pose, completing her weapon's maintenance, she couldn't quite banish the image of intelligent eyes behind tortoise-shell-framed glasses, studying her with the same intensity with which she had studied him.

****

The lair is quiet this early in the morning, with only the gentle sounds of water trickling through the sewer pipes and the low volume of the television breaking the silence. Splinter sits cross-legged on his worn cushion, his long fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of jasmine tea. His whiskers twitch occasionally as he watches the morning news on Channel 6.

The segment changes, and the anchor's tone grows solemn. "Today marks the eighteenth anniversary of one of New York's most puzzling cold cases. Amanda Collymore, a brilliant lead scientist at TCRI Laboratories, disappeared without a trace, along with her newborn daughter."