Chapter Text
"Anger is self-destructive." Splinter stood in front of them with his hands folded behind his back. He was lecturing Raphael about jeopardizing their most recent mission. Some total jackass had insulted him and his brothers, catching them on video in the process.
A human now had proof of their existence, and Splinter was pissed.
"I always thought it was others-destructive."
"Raphael! Stand up." Splinter commanded, and Raph obeyed.
Anger is self-destructive
I always thought it was others-destructive
It took Raphael a long time to realize the weight of those words.
Afterall, his anger has never hurt him. He was the strongest fighter on the team, so what if he had a temper. If anything, his temper made him a better fighter! So why was it such a problem?
Coincidentally, that same day was the first time Raph ever hurt himself. Physically.
"And then we'll bash some bots!” Raph said excitedly, punching his palm. He noticed Leo staring at him, disapprovingly. “What?"
"We are going to bash some bots. You are going home." Leo barked back, the stern look on his face not fading.
"What, are you kidding? Come on, guys. Are we gonna let Leo power-trip like this?"
The two shared a glance between themselves, and then looked back towards Raphael.
"I think Leo's right."
"You gotta control your temper. Until then, we just can't trust you."
His three brothers turned to walk away from him, leaving him alone under a streetlamp. Angrily, he yanked his sai out of their holsters and threw them to the ground, a frustrated cry escaping past his lips.
Who does Leo think he is? What, just because he's the leader now, he can tell Raph what to do? And Splinter’s gonna back him up? Always?
He stomped back to their sewer home, still mulling over the events of the day in his mind. The greasy fat guy recording them, Splinter’s lecture, the insults, all of it. His brother’s insults were repeating in his mind, over and over.
"You move like a bloated buffalo."
"And you're always whining. "Poor me. Nobody understands me.”"
“You're ugly!"
"And gassy"
"Oh, you talk so tough, but inside, you're just a scared little baby."
"Who needs his bottle?"
"And his diaper changed?"
"What's the matter, Raph? Gonna cry?"
God, he was angry. Scratch that, he was pissed.
He stomped through the dark, grimy tunnels, each echoing step a testament to his fury. The cool, damp air of the sewers did nothing to temper the fire raging in his chest.
"You gotta control your temper. Until then, we just can't trust you."
He can’t believe Leo said that. He was the one who always had their backs in a fight! He was the one who never hesitated! And for what? So they could bench him? So they could treat him like some… some problem child?
He kicked at a loose grate, sending it clanging against the concrete wall. The sound was satisfying but fleeting, quickly swallowed by the oppressive quiet of the tunnels. His hands instinctively balled into fists, his knuckles white.
He wanted to hit something. Anything. He wanted to smash that stupid camera, that fat idiot's smug face, Leo's arrogant smirk, the disappointment in Donnie and Mikey's eyes.
Raphael reached the worn-out, graffiti-covered entrance to the subway line that led closer to their hidden lair. The familiar stench of stale urine and metallic ozone filled his nostrils.
He descended the grimy steps, each one taken with a force that jarred his teeth. The flickering, weak fluorescent lights overhead cast long, distorted shadows that seemed to mock him. He could almost hear his brother’s taunts echoing off the tiled walls.
"Oh, you talk so tough, but inside, you're just a scared little baby."
"What's the matter, Raph? Gonna cry?"
No! He wasn't some soft, whiny baby. He was Raphael! The strongest, the toughest! But the strength, the toughness, it felt trapped inside him, with no suitable target. Just the suffocating emptiness of the subway tunnel, and the suffocating anger within him.
His chest heaved. His vision narrowed to a crimson haze. He could feel the blood boiling in his veins, every nerve ending screaming for release. He had to hit something. He had to.
The pressure was unbearable. Raph snarled, a low, desperate sound that echoed off the damp concrete. He scanned the empty platform, seeking anything; a support beam, a stray piece of cracked masonry, but the subway tunnel offered no suitable catharsis.
The insults, the rejection, the feeling of uselessness, it coiled tighter and tighter in his gut, a hungry, venomous snake consuming his insides.
He spun, a blur of green muscle, a cyclone of uncontrolled energy. His massive right fist, honed over years of relentless training, coiled back. It was meant for the air, for the imagined face of the fat jackass who mocked them, for Leo’s stubborn, lecturing jaw, for the whole stifling concept of limits his family kept trying to impose on him.
He threw the punch with every ounce of frustration and kinetic strength he possessed, intending to empty the rage from his core. But the tunnel was narrow, his movements too frenzied, his focus utterly shattered by the blinding crimson rage.
Instead of cutting harmlessly through the air, the fastball of his fist slammed into his own left forearm with a sickening, wet CRACK!
The sound was shockingly loud in the sudden silence, the sound of fused bone against bone, muscle impacting muscle with the force of a wrecking ball.
Raphael gasped, not a roar of pain, but a sharp, involuntary inhale that tasted of dust and rot. The red haze that had enveloped his vision shattered immediately.
He stumbled back a step, clutching his injured arm to his plastron. It felt instantly hot, numb, and yet intensely alive with a searing, deep ache that radiated down to his elbow. He could feel the muscle twitching violently beneath his thick skin. He had hit himself with the power he usually reserved for crushing Kraang armor and punching through cinder block walls.
For a terrifying, brief moment, he realized he had completely lost himself. He hadn't even aimed. The sheer, violent impulse had simply required an outlet, and in the absence of an enemy, his body had become the most convenient target.
His heart hammered against his ribs, but the furious, internal screaming, the rapid-fire cycle of insults and rebuttals, Leo's disappointing words, had stopped.
The chaos was gone.
He could breathe.
He stood panting, the adrenaline spiking, staring down at the spot where the impact had occurred. He gingerly flexed the fingers on the injured arm, drawing another sharp wave of white-hot agony. Yes, it hurt. Terribly. He might have bruised the bone or pulled something significant.
But beneath the throbbing, a strange, chilling calm settled over him.
The physical pain was clear, definable, and honest. It wasn't the complicated, suffocating knot of emotional betrayal and helplessness. It was just pain. Real. Solid.
And for the first time in his life, Raphael felt a startling, horrifying sense of relief.
He didn’t know how to explain the bloody bruise to Splinter, however.
Raphael hobbled through the lair’s doorway, the usual boisterous atmosphere of their home unnervingly subdued.
“Raphael? Is that you?” Splinter’s voice, laced with concern, echoed from the dojo. “Where are your brothers?”
Raph froze, his injured arm throbbing a dull, insistent rhythm against his plastron. He could feel Splinter’s gaze even before he turned. The old rat was already on his feet, his keen eyes scanning Raphael’s hunched form.
“Leo sent me back,” Raph grunted, his voice cracking a bit. He tried to sound nonchalant, but the effort pulled at his already strained muscles.
Splinter’s brow furrowed. “I see,” was all he said, but Raph could feel his father’s disappointment even though he didn’t verbalize it. Raph’s jaw tightened. The familiar sting of Leo’s disapproval, coupled with his own raw self-inflicted wound, was too much.
“It wasn’t my fault!” Raph snapped, too quickly. He saw Splinter’s eyes widen slightly at the harsh tone, and then his gaze flickered to the rapidly discoloring skin of Raph’s left forearm. The bruise was already a deep, angry purple, spreading like an ugly bruise on a ripe plum.
“Raphael,” Splinter said, his voice now a low, serious rumble. He reached out his paw, stopping just short of touching the injured arm. “What is that on your arm?”
The familiar pressure of Leo’s words, “We just can’t trust you,” resurfaced, and with it, the urge to lash out, to shatter something, anything, to prove them wrong. But the searing pain in his arm was a stark, undeniable reminder of the consequences. He couldn’t afford to lose control again, not like that.
Not with this obvious, self-inflicted damage.
“It’s… it’s from our fight with the Kraang,” Raph blurted out, the lie feeling flimsy even to his own ears. He tried to shift his stance, to hide the growing discoloration. “We ran into them on our patrol when we were trying to get the tape back from that guy.” He resisted the urge to refer to said guy as ‘the old fatso’. “One of them, uh, hit me pretty hard with his uh… robot fist.”
Splinter’s whiskers twitched, his eyes narrowing as he studied Raphael. The lie was transparent, and Raphael knew it. He could see the conflict in Splinter’s gaze, the paternal concern warring with the master’s intuition.
“His robot fist,” Splinter repeated slowly, the skepticism evident in his tone.
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter!” Raph stammered, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.
“I see,” Splinter hesitated, seeing his son becoming worked up.
He looked away from Splinter’s discerning gaze, his eyes landing on his bedroom. Spike was likely basking under the light in his terrarium. Raph felt a pang of something akin to envy. Spike had it easy. No pressure, no expectations, just… basking.
He knew he couldn’t hit himself anymore. Not like that. The pain was a brutal, stark lesson. The raw, visceral release he’d sought had come at a price that would be impossible to explain away. A black eye from a rogue robot was one thing, but a badly bruised, possibly fractured, arm from… what? A robot fist?
“I need to talk to Spike,” Raph mumbled, turning his back on Splinter and heading to his room. He needed an audience that wouldn’t question him, that wouldn’t judge. He needed a silent, scaled confidante.
He knelt by the glass, ignoring the fresh wave of throbbing agony that shot up his arm as he moved. Spike blinked slowly, unperturbed by Raphael’s sudden, angry presence.
“Don’t worry about me, Spike,” Raph muttered, gesturing to the growing bruise on his arm. “Long night. Let’s go get you some dinner.”
He let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline from his self-inflicted punishment finally starting to ebb, leaving him exhausted and sore. He picked up his turtle and made his way into their small, cramped kitchen to find a leaf for Spike to chew on.
“The thing is, Spike, I need to smash things. But they won’t let me. And if I can’t smash them, what am I supposed to do? Just… sit here? Get all bottled up until I explode anyway?”
He looked down at his bruised arm, a grimace on his face. “Guess I can’t just… hit myself anymore. Too obvious.” He sighed, the sound hollow in the quiet kitchen. “Guess I gotta find a new way to deal with it.”
He watched Spike slowly extend his neck, taking a tentative bite off the leaf from his dish. Raphael almost envied the simple, primal need. He, on the other hand, was drowning in a complex mess of anger, hurt, and a gnawing fear that he was, indeed, a problem that couldn’t be solved.
The quiet contemplation of his pet offered no easy answers, but for now, it was a welcome respite from the shouting in his own head.
“Patrol was a disaster. The Kraang got away with that old fatso, and who knows what they want with him.” Raph paced throughout the kitchen. “I can’t believe Leo sent me home!”
He pushed the fridge using both his hands, instantly cringing when it sent pain shooting up his injured arm.
“Who does Leo think he is? So what if I got a temper? I'm still the best fighter we've got. In fact, if anything, my anger makes me a better fighter. You understand me, don't you, Spike? Chew on your leaf if you understand me.”
As it turns out, Raph saved the day in the end. Despite his injured arm, he was able to beat the crap out of the fatso, who ended up being mutated into a spider Mikey named “Spider-Bytez”. His brothers, of course, questioned his bruised arm, but he told them the same thing he told Splinter.
“While I was in the van, a Kraangdroid punched me really hard.”
“I didn’t know Kraang could punch that hard.”
“I don’t remember you looking banged up at all.”
“Do you guys think the Kraang have their own WWE?”
He was able to blow off their concern with one simple outburst. Like usual.
The air in the Turtle Lair was thick with the scent of stale microwave popcorn and a faint smell of smoke from Donnie’s latest wiring experiment. The turtles were sitting around the living room, accompanied by April, who’s been living with them since her father was kidnapped by the Kraang.
It had been months since the whole Spider-Bytez incident, and Raph had long forgotten the whole hitting himself thing.
They were watching a spectacularly terrible teen drama called Crestwood Prep: Beyond the Grade Point. On screen, a pale, black-clad girl was cornered by a blonde cheerleader in a hallway that looked nothing like the dirty hallways in real high schools.
“Look at her,” the blonde sneered, flipping her hair. “All those desperate little lines. You look like a poorly stocked shelf. A walking, talking barcode.”
The emo chick gasped dramatically, clutching a copy of The Bell Jar to her chest.
Raphael wasn't watching the confrontation. He was wedged between April O’Neil and a loudly munching Mikey. He had given up on the plot about twenty minutes ago when the main protagonist started crying over a lost locker key.
Instead, Raph was happily engrossed in the newest issue of his favorite comic series: The Fantastic Four Food Groups: A Nutritional Epic.
He chuckled, muttering to himself, “Jeez, the Human Torch-ellini is way cooler than the original.”
Mikey stopped trying to peel the cheese off his slice of pizza. His brow furrowed in genuine confusion.
“Wait, wait, back up,” Mikey said, pointing a sticky finger at the screen where the bullied girl was now running away in slow motion. “Did she call her a barcode? Like, for scanning stuff? Is she trying to say she’s cheap? Or that she needs a price?”
April, who was leaning forward, chin in her hands, sighed and muted the television. The moment the melodrama evaporated, the atmosphere in the lair shifted, becoming quieter and more real.
“No, Mikey,” April said softly. She glanced at Leo and Donnie, seeking their help. “That’s a really nasty slang term. It refers to self-harm.”
Mikey blinked. “Self… what?”
Donnie cleared his throat, adopting his nerdy, explanatory tone. "Self-harm, sometimes called self-injury, is when someone intentionally hurts their own body as a way to deal with intense emotional pain or distress."
“Exactly,” April added, her voice laced with empathy. “When people feel overwhelmed, or like they have no control, or just totally numb, they might cause physical pain because that pain feels easier to manage than the chaos inside their head. The term 'barcode' is cruel because it refers to the lines or cuts someone has made on their body.”
Raph had been reading about the Thing made of mashed potatoes, but the sound of April’s voice, now stripped of its casual tone, cut through the comic book fantasy instantly.
His large, green hand froze mid-page. He didn't turn around, but his focus snapped away from the Food Groups and locked onto the conversation. The ridiculous image of Mr. Fantastic Celery Stick faded into the background.
His mind flashed back, to when he had punched his own arm, as hard as he could. The bruise grew to be a nasty, deep purple in the following days, but faded after a couple weeks. He remembered the immediate, jarring pain had momentarily cleared the red rush of anger, replacing it with something manageable: physical throbbing.
Now, hearing April’s explanation, a way to deal with intense emotional pain or distress, Raph felt a cold knot tighten in his gut.
Was that what he had been doing? Was hitting himself actually a form of self-harm?
He heard Leo contribute to the conversation, because apparently his brothers are experts on the subject. "It often goes unnoticed because people are ashamed or afraid of being judged. They frequently hide the injuries under long sleeves by cutting their wrists."
Raph slowly lowered the comic book onto his lap.
He looked down at his own forearms. They were thick, powerful, and swathed in the familiar, tightly secured white linen wraps that he wore everyday, and sometimes even at night when he forgot to unwrap them. They were protection for his body, shielding his skin from impact.
But as he stared at the fabric, Raph silently traced along the grooves, realizing how much he could hide under those wraps.
Suddenly, the wraps didn't feel like protection anymore. They felt like a convenient mask.
He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, pulling his arm tighter against his plastron. He had thought it was just anger management. He hadn't realized there was a word for what he had done. And that the word was about pain, not strength.
He stayed silent, listening as Leo gently stressed to Mikey that if he ever saw someone struggling, the most important thing was to be kind and tell a trusted adult.
Raph didn't say a word. He just clutched the comic book tightly, wondering how many hidden pains could be obscured by simple, everyday bandages.
But no! He wouldn’t do that anymore! He was strong, not “hurting” or “overwhelmed” or any of the other things April said self harmers were!
He definitely wasn’t a stupid emo.
Wordlessly, he got up from the couch and stomped off to his room with a huff, offering no one an explanation.
Eventually, the turtles celebrated their sixteenth birthday. Thinking back, so much of Raph’s life had changed from the time he turned fifteen to the present. Before, it was just them, underground, training, getting into petty squabbles. After… well, after was everything else.
He remembered the first time they breached the surface. The lights, the noise, the sheer scale of it all. They hadn’t even had time to take it in before the pink brains in robot bodies showed up, snatching a girl and her dad. April O'Neil.
Leo, of course, tried to take charge, but it was a mess. Donnie was already smitten, which just made the whole thing more chaotic. They failed, plain and simple, and it burned in Raph’s gut. Their first chance to prove themselves to their father, and they failed.
Splinter had seen it too, then named Leo the leader. Raph had nearly choked on his own breath. He was always certain he would be the leader of the team. Afterall, he was the strongest.
Leo being chosen felt like a slap to the face, a wound that had never quite healed. But he had to admit, Leo had a knack for it, even if Raph would never say it out loud.
They'd saved April that time, made a friend, but her dad, Kirby, was still gone. A heavy trade.
Their first real fight in the city had led the Shredder right to their doorstep, or manhole, rather. That meant old family business, the stuff Master Splinter rarely talked about. Something about him and Shredder being brothers once, and a woman named Tang Shen.
He’d grown up hearing the stories, over and over again, but it was hard to piece together that his father had really been human. Sounded like a soap opera, but the hatred was real enough.
Raph just knew it meant more fighting, and honestly, a part of him thrived on it. The city became a battlefield. Mutants created by the Kraang’s ooze, Foot ninjas lurking in the shadows. He’d even punched a mutant alligator named Leatherhead, before the big lug became an ally. Weird.
Then Karai showed up. Shredder’s adopted daughter. Raph hated her, truly. Hated how she’d brainwashed his brother. Even now, after she’d betrayed them, Leo was still infatuated with her.
But nothing was as big as Kraang Prime. That giant brain thing, trying to drag Earth into Dimension X with its stupid Technodrome. It was pure chaos, a scale of destruction Raph had only imagined in his darkest training drills. They fought, they clawed, they barely held on.
Then Leo… Leo had just stopped. Held the thing off, just so they could escape. Raph felt something cold and sharp pierce through him as he watched his brother face down that monster.
Mikey and Donnie had to practically wrestle him away, dragging him into the escape pod, kicking and screaming with a fury he didn't know he possessed, as the Technodrome crashed into the Atlantic.
When Leo washed up, battered but alive, Raph had done his best to act like it was nothing. Just Leo being Leo, always showboating. They’d celebrated, of course. A real victory. For a minute, Raph thought maybe the worst was over.
He was wrong.
So wrong.
A month later, they discovered the Kraang were back
In an attempt to fight the Kraang, he and his brothers had accidentally turned April’s dad into a mutant bat-thing. Kirby. April had been furious, her trust shattered, and Raph couldn’t blame her. They’d screwed up, big time. It took saving her from Karai again, another messy fight, for her to finally forgive them.
Now, sitting on a rooftop, the city lights blurring below, Raph tried to make sense of it all. Fifteen. He and his brothers were fifteen when all this went down.
Now, they’re all sixteen, and although they were able to celebrate their birthday, or rather their “Mutation Day”, there was still always a sense of doom looming over them. Afterall, he and his brothers had seen more bloodshed, more mutant freaks, more alien invasions than most people saw in a lifetime.
Every punch he threw, every time he dodged a blade, it felt… natural. Instinctive. He was sharper, faster, meaner. He had to be.
He was fine. He knew he was. All this fighting, all this violence, it wasn’t affecting him. Not really. He was still Raph. Still the same hothead, the same tough guy. He just… adapted. That’s all.
Still, his memories weighed on him. The thought of Leo standing there, staring down Kraang Prime, holding it back for them… it had been a moment of pure, blinding anger. Anger that Leo would be so stupid. Anger that he’d put himself in such a dumb position. Not fear. Never fear. Raph didn’t do fear. He just got angrier. And that was fine. Everything was fine. He was fine.
“The others hold you back. Limit your potential. You don't need them. Just like you said.”
Slash’s words bounce around his mind. The lair was quiet, almost eerily so, after the chaos of the day. Raphael sat hunched on the edge of his bed, the dim glow of the city filtering through the grates above, painting his room in shades of bruised purple and grey.
His brothers were asleep, or at least they were pretending to be. Raph alone felt the heavy weight of the day’s events pressing down on him, a suffocating blanket of anger and disbelief.
Spike. No, not Spike. Slash.
Spike, his best friend, his confidante, the one creature in the world who seemed to understand him without judgment. His best friend, who he'd grown up with, nurtured and protected. That same creature had turned on him, on them, with a fury that mirrored his own, amplified and twisted.
He’d hurt Donnie. He’d nearly killed Mikey. He’d tried to drive a wedge between Raph and his family.
“You don’t need them.”
Slash’s words echoed in the silence, a venomous whisper that picked at the raw wounds of Raph’s own insecurities. The worst part was, hadn’t he thought those very words himself, just hours before? Hadn’t he complained about his brothers, about their carelessness, about being blamed?
Had Slash merely been the monstrous manifestation of Raph’s darkest, most selfish thoughts?
Was Raph really that bad of a brother?
A growl rumbled in Raph’s chest, low and guttural. How dare he? How dare Spike twist his own frustrations, his own complaints, into an excuse for such monstrous betrayal? His best friend, his secret keeper, turned into a raging beast that wanted to destroy his family. His family. The very people Raph would die for, even if he grumbled about them every step of the way.
The anger surged, a hot, blinding wave. It wasn't just at Slash; it was at himself, at the world, at the injustice of it all.
He slammed his fist into the wall with a sickening thump. Plaster cracked, a fine dust puffing out. A jolt of sharp pain shot up his arm, settling in his knuckles. He looked at his hand, the skin scraped, a bead of crimson welling up.
He found himself, for a fleeting, desperate moment, enjoying the sharp sting, a raw, external sensation that offered a brief, fierce distraction from the simmering cauldron inside.
The sight of his bleeding fist, however, reminded him of when he punched his arm a year ago.
He remembered the burning agony, the way his arm had throbbed for days, a brutal, self-inflicted wound. He remembered the look of concern in Master Splinter’s usually calm eyes, a look he hated to see.
That memory, that look of concern, stopped him cold. He couldn't do that again. He couldn't give his father another reason to worry, another visible sign of his brokenness. Not like this.
But the need for an outlet, for a release, was a ravenous hunger gnawing at him. If he couldn't wound himself on the outside where they would see, where Splinter would know…
A chilling thought, cold and precise, slid into his mind. He looked down at his arm wraps, the rough fabric that had been a part of him for as long as he could remember, a second skin, a layer of protection and concealment.
He could hurt his wrist instead of his forearm. Like the girl in that shitty teen drama, what was it called again? The name was stupid, who cares. The point is, he could hurt his wrist, then hide it, just like the emo chick in the teen drama had done.
Slowly, deliberately, for the very first time, Raphael began to untie the knots, unraveling the bindings. He watched as the tight fabric loosened, then fell away, revealing the pale, unblemished skin of his wrist beneath. It felt strangely vulnerable, exposed.
His eyes scanned his room, settling on a discarded shuriken from a training session, its edge glinting faintly in the gloom. He picked it up. He remembered Slash, his best friend, his pet, mutated and twisted, trying to tear his family apart. The betrayal was a physical ache, a crushing weight in his chest.
With a shuddering breath, a silent, desperate cry for relief from the internal torment, Raphael brought the sharpened edge to his wrist.
In the following days, Raph hadn’t felt much better. If anything, the internal friction had intensified. The small, secretive cuts hidden beneath his wrist wraps offered only the briefest moments of silence, like a faulty pressure valve that only hissed for a second before sealing shut again.
The relief was temporary, the guilt lingering, and the underlying anger was quickly becoming corrosive.
Without Spike, the lair felt smaller, louder, and infinitely more irritating. Raph had lost his best friend. Now, every sound, every movement, every well-meaning gesture from his brothers grated on his nerves.
Mikey's attempts to lighten the mood with disastrous cooking experiments made Raph snarl, "Can you not make this entire lair smell like burnt garbage, Mikey? I’m trying to think!" Donnie’s constant analytical chatter, usually a benign background noise, became intolerable.
His fuse was nonexistent. He was constantly coiled, aggressive, searching for a fight he could win, or at least one he could start and then quickly flee from. He was trying to force the external world to reflect the internal chaos he couldn't control.
The worst, as always, was Leo. Leo, the responsible one, the one who tried to maintain order, who looked at Raph with a mixture of concern and exasperation that Raph instantly translated into judgment.
The tension finally snapped three days after the Slash incident, during a late-night training session. They were running drills, sparring lightly, but Raph was hitting hard, too hard. He fought with a reckless, desperate energy, ignoring form and relying solely on brute force.
"Raph, lighten up!" Leo yelled, sidestepping a brutal sai swipe that would have broken his ribs. "It’s practice, not a street fight!"
Raph dropped his stance, breathing heavily, scales flushed a furious red. "Oh, you wanna talk about street fights, Leo? Maybe if you weren't so busy trying to look good for Sensei, maybe we'd actually be ready for one!"
Leo lowered his katanas, his expression hardening into the 'leader look' Raph despised. "We're worried about you, Raph. You're completely out of control. We need to focus right now, not lash out."
"I am fine!" Raph roared, the sound echoing off the cavern walls. "Why do you always have to be the boss? Why do you always have to tell me what to do? I’m sick of it!"
"Your attitude affects the rest of the team!" Leo shot back, frustration finally spilling out. "We just need you to talk about what happened. You haven't stopped tearing the place apart since-"
"Since Spike left?" Raph interjected, his voice dropping to a dangerous hiss, fueled by both grief and self-pity.
Leo recoiled, knowing he’d stricken a nerve with his brother. "That's not what I meant, Raph.” He sighed. “I’m sorry your pet was mutated. Please, just talk to us. We are your brothers."
"No," Raph spat, already turning away.
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. The air felt thick, suffocating, and the pressure in his chest was a blinding, unbearable heat. He needed to escape, needed to silence the voices screaming in his head—Slash’s voice, Leo’s voice, his own accusing inner voice. The only thing that worked was the sudden, sharp, external pain that fractured the overwhelming emotional noise.
He tore out of the dojo, ignoring the surprised calls of Donnie and Mikey, and slammed the steel door of his room behind him.
His eyes immediately went to the rough canvas of his arm wraps. They were a lie, a thin barrier hiding the ugly truth. He ripped one off, the rough material catching on his dry skin, momentarily stinging.
He fumbled slightly, rummaging through the chest near his bed until his fingers brushed against the familiar, cold metal. The shuriken was balanced perfectly, its edges wickedly sharp.
He looked down at his left wrist. The pale skin was just starting to heal from his initial desperate effort days ago, leaving thin, pink lines that felt tight and sensitive under his fingertip. The sight wasn't a warning; it was a beckoning signal.
This is the answer. This is the only thing that works.
He brought the point to his skin, ignoring the shallow protest of his mind. He pressed down, hard enough to feel the resistance, but carefully enough to keep the wound within the hiding place of the wrist wrap.
The initial shock of the pain was intense: a clean, precise slice through the roiling mess of his emotions. It wasn't enjoyable, but it was necessary. It was a trade: raging inner turmoil for controlled, focused physical agony. As the warmth of his blood welled up and began to track down his arm, the tension in his shoulders eased.
Leo’s frustrated face vanished. Slash’s venomous whispers faded. The noise stopped.
For one fleeting, silent instant, Raph felt nothing but the sting. It was a terrible, desperate relief, confirming the terrifying reality: this brutal, hidden ritual was now his only functional outlet. And with his anger only growing, he knew he would be back for the silence again soon.
The silence lasted perhaps thirty seconds.
It was a perfect, crystalline moment of non-thought, anchored entirely to the acute, focused sensation in his forearm. He watched the bead of crimson thicken and trace a path down the green shell of his wrist. Calm. That was all he registered.
Then, the cold reality rushed back in, faster and more suffocating than the initial emotional storm.
The shuriken clattered onto the bedside table, suddenly feeling filthy and grotesque in his hand. The cut was neat, small, and private, but looking at it filled him with a scorching wave of self-disgust.
Pathetic.
He was the toughest out of his brothers, the fighter, the one built of pure, uncompromising rage,n ot some frantic, bleeding coward hiding secrets in the dark.
The relief wasn’t relief at all; it was a cheap trick. Like trying to put out an inferno by throwing a single cup of water on the flames. The pain momentarily grabbed the fire’s attention, but now the fire was back, stronger, fueled by the shame of his own desperation.
He frantically grabbed a clean cloth from his weapons trunk, pressing it hard against the wound. His movements were jerky, driven by the immediate need to erase the evidence. If anyone found out, if Leo or Donnie or Mikey saw the physical proof of his internal collapse, he wouldn’t be able to look them in the eye.
The cloth quickly spotted red.
He slammed his fist against the mattress, a muted, angry thump that was swallowed by the thick walls. The shame was suffocating, vast and icy, but Raph refused to drown in it. Instead, he did the only thing he knew how to do: he converted the shame back into the familiar, protective heat of anger.
He wasn't weak; he was furious. Furious at Slash, furious at Leo for being right, furious at the world for taking Spike, and above all, furious at himself for needing the blade.
This simmering, corrosive rage was the only thing that felt real, the only thing that kept him upright when everything else felt like wet tissue.
As he fumbled with the clean gauze and the rough canvas of the wrist wraps, sealing away his vulnerability, a quiet, terrifyingly rational thought surfaced. It was a thought born of raw, bleeding panic rather than pride.
Sensei.
Splinter had seen them through everything. He was the anchor, the master of emotional control, the father who understood the dark corners of the soul. Raph imagined walking into the dojo, unwrapping the canvas, and simply showing him.
Splinter wouldn’t yell. He wouldn’t judge. He would see the pain, not the weakness. He would help Raph find a way out of the suffocating, silent warfare he was waging against himself.
He paused, the rough fabric of the wrist wrap held taut between his fingers. He could do it. Tonight. Before the sun rose.
But then, the fear struck, cold and paralyzing.
He pictured Splinter’s face in the moment of realization. Not the face of the angry sensei, but the face of the heartbroken father. That deep, ancient sadness that always appeared when one of his sons was truly lost or wounded.
Raph could handle anger. He could handle disappointment. He could even handle Leo’s exasperated judgment. But he could not, absolutely could not, handle the light in Splinter’s eyes turning to pity.
Pity meant he was broken. Pity meant he had failed the foundational expectation of their life: discipline. If he went to Splinter, he wouldn't just be admitting he was struggling; he’d be revealing the dark, unstable core that threatened to tear their team apart.
He would disappoint his father, not just as a student, but as a son, and the weight of that potential failure was infinitely heavier than the sharp sting of the shuriken.
He finished wrapping the bandage, pulling the knot tight, a physical commitment to silence. The pressure was uncomfortable, but it cemented the secret.
No.
He wouldn't go to Splinter. He would figure it out himself. He had to. He would use the shame, use the guilt, combine it all with the anger, and convert it into pure, destructive force. He couldn't risk the disappointment. He couldn't risk the pity.
Raph stood up, the anger stiffening his spine, pushing the frantic terror back into a dark recess. He was fine. He was just angry. And if the only thing that cut through the noise was the cold bite of steel, then that was the burden he would bear alone, hidden beneath the wraps, until he found a real target for the fury building inside him.
In the following days, Raph had spent almost all of his free time on the surface, patrolling the city and raging in the alleyways, throwing and kicking anything in sight.
He convinced himself that patrols and cutting were enough to keep his anger at bay. They weren’t.
The rage Raph had nursed in the shadowed alleys of the surface felt heavy and dull, a constant low-grade vibration just beneath his skin. It had demanded release the night before, and the tight, painful control he exerted now was exhausting. When he stepped into the training dojo the next morning, the air already felt charged, waiting for the lightning.
Splinter stood at the center of the mat, his tail sweeping measured arcs on the wooden floor. His eyes, though old, missed nothing.
“My sons,” Splinter began, his voice calm and resonant, “you are truly becoming impressive warriors. But to grow as a team, you must know each other's strengths and weaknesses—not just in battle, but under pressure.” He drew a deep breath. “Today, we test that pressure. A free-for-all.”
All four turtles drew their weapons with a synchronized shing. Raph’s sais felt instantly familiar and cold in his hands, grounding him.
Then came the assault.
A noise like a foghorn being dragged through wet cement erupted from Mikey’s mouth, followed by a searing, foul cloud of digestion aimed squarely at Donnie’s face. Donnie flinched back instantly, his mask going taut with immediate horror.
“Ugh, right in my face! Really?” Donnie gagged, stumbling backward as the smell, a truly unholy blend of fermented yeast and decaying fish, hit the air. For a moment, the world swam in a sickening shade of magenta and sickly green around his focused vision.
Mikey threw his head back, howling with triumph. “Garlic and clam pizza! The secret weapon!”
Splinter watched the ensuing chaos with a slight nod of approval. “This competition is a free-for-all. Last turtle standing wins. Hajime!”
The moment the command was given, Raph exploded. He wasn't aiming for finesse; he was aiming for impact. Donnie, still blinking spots out of his eyes and struggling for clean air, never saw the kick coming. It was a vicious, sweeping boot that caught Donnie beneath the plastron, driving the oxygen from his lungs and sending him flying backward. He hit the massive, reinforced support pillar that stood in for a training tree with a sickening thud, sliding limp to the ground.
Raph didn't even pause. He felt a cruel spike of satisfaction and snarled: “Sorry, Donnie, it’s a ninja-eat-ninja world.”
Mikey stopped laughing immediately, his smile vanishing as Raph’s hot gaze locked onto him. The energy Raph was giving off wasn't competitive; it was predatory. Mikey raised his nunchaku defensively just as Raph lunged.
But Leo, always faster and smoother, slid between them.
Raph checked his momentum sharply, his muscles tightening painfully, fury instantly diverted. “What are you doing, Leo? I was going for Mikey.”
Leo deflected Raph’s immediate swing with his katana’s blunt edge, a look of focused calm fixed on his face. “What part of ‘last turtle standing’ don’t you understand?”
Their weapons clashed in a rapid, ringing exchange. As Raph pressed his relentless physical assault, Leo used the momentum of the fight to execute a swift, low crouch. He didn’t strike Mikey, but used the motion to launch a wave of loose training sand directly into the young turtle's eyes.
Mikey yelped, rubbing furiously at his stinging vision, stumbling backward until he tripped on the edge of the mat and crumpled.
“Gah! Aw, man!” Mikey whined, spitting grit.
Splinter’s voice was a low murmur, just loud enough to cut through the din. “Distraction, misdirection. Powerful weapons in a ninja’s arsenal.”
Raph ignored the lesson. Leo was the only thing standing between him and the win, and suddenly, the desire to win became the desire to dominate, to squash the frustrating stability his brother represented.
“Looks like you've leveled up to the boss fight,” Raph growled, lowering his stance, his muscles coiling.
Leo met the gaze without flinching. “I’m gonna wipe that smirk off your face permanently, Raph.”
They clashed violently. The sounds were heavy, steel against steel, fleeting feet. Leo danced away from the crushing blows, using Raph’s own momentum against him, until, in a lightning fast maneuver, he managed to wedge the hilt of his katana perfectly under the guard of Raph’s right sai. With a sharp twist, the sai sprang from Raph’s grip and clattered harmlessly across the mat.
Disarmed and momentarily thrown off balance, Raph instinctively scrambled backward, climbing the training tree with desperate speed to retrieve his weapon. But before he could fully secure his footing, Leo launched himself upward, delivering a sharp, clean kick to Raph’s face.
Raph went flying, landing hard on the mat, momentarily stunned.
Donnie, who was recovering on the floor, managed a weak smile. “Well, Leo won it this time.”
Mikey, seeing the look on Raph’s face, not just disappointment, but a terrifying, simmering heat, scrambled further away. “Uh-oh! He's awoken the beast.”
The loss, the humiliation of being disarmed, tore through the thin veneer of Raph’s control. The earlier terror Raph had buried erupted, superheated and instantly transforming into pure, blind fury. It wasn’t about the spar anymore; it was about the noise inside his head, and Leo had created a silence Raph could not tolerate.
Raph didn't bother to retrieve his sai. He screamed a guttural sound and lunged at his brother.
Leo, expecting a resumption of the fight, but still armed by the rules of the match, was unprepared for the sheer brutality and illegal tactic. Raph didn't grapple or throw; he drove his massive, armored fist directly into Leo’s jaw.
The punch was devastating, radiating outward from Leo’s head. Leo’s body went instantly slack, telescoping into the mat with a sickening, heavy impact, the air forced from his lungs. He didn't move.
Silence crashed down over the dojo.
Donnie bolted upright, horror etched onto his face. “Raph! What are you doing?”
Raph stood over his brother, breathing hard, his muscles trembling. His chest heaved, but the noise was gone. There was only ringing silence and the terrible realization of what he had done. The anger had delivered the desired silence, but at a catastrophic cost. Panic, cold and sharp, replaced the fury.
He backed away, raising his hands, his voice thick with denial. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. It was an accident. Seriously.”
Leo groaned, a low, painful noise, and slowly pushed himself up on one elbow, clutching his jaw. He looked up at Raph, his vision swimming. “Did you guys get the number of that bus?”
Splinter approached Raph slowly, his eyes heavy with profound disappointment. He did not need to check on Leo; the injury was clearly painful, but not fatal.
“We have spoken about this time and again, Raphael,” Splinter said, his voice low and firm. “Anger is a dangerous ally. It clouds your judgment. You need to control it lest it controls you.”
Raph snapped back, the fear of censure overriding the shame. He couldn't admit the truth, not here, not now. He couldn't admit he felt like he was losing his mind. He had to defend the fury he considered his strength.
“But, Sensei, I wasn't angry! I was just determined to win.”
Donnie managed to look from Leo’s bruised face to Raph’s defensive posture. Mikey shook his head sadly.
All three brothers murmured in unison: “Mm.”
Raph felt the blood rush to his face, the denial spiking his temper higher than the guilt. “What? I said I wasn’t angry!”
He couldn't stand the collective judgment, the immediate, total understanding that he had failed. He grabbed his retrieved sai and shoved past his Sensei, his shell grinding against the wall as he stormed toward the exit tunnel.
“This always happens,” Raph muttered to himself, staring down at the bustling traffic below. “I'm fine until those guys push my buttons. It's not like I was trying to hurt Leo. They just don't get it.”
The city sprawled beneath Raphael, an array of shimmering lights and shadowed alleyways. He perched on the ledge, the cool night air blowing against his plastron. His gaze swept over the familiar concrete jungle, a restless energy thrumming in his veins.
Then, a disturbance. Down below, in a grimy backstreet, a flurry of motion disrupted the usual urban hum. Purple Dragon thugs, easily recognizable by their gaudy silks, were cornering a lone figure.
"That guy's out of control," Raphael muttered, his voice a low growl. The stranger moved with a ferocity that was both chaotic and effective, a blur of motion against the static ranks of the gang. He wielded a hockey stick with surprising brutality, each swing a thunderous crack that echoed off the brick walls. "Time for a little intervention."