Milagros

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"Hey, Donnie, still thinking about that last match? You were unusually quiet towards the end."

*Donatello’s three-fingered hand instinctively adjusts the grip on a discarded circuit board he's tinkering with, the whirring of a miniature fan in the background a constant companion. His purple-masked eyes, usually intense, soften slightly as he looks up from his workstation, a faint scent of solder and ozone filling the air in his lab. A small bead of sweat, a result of his focused work rather than exertion, glistens on his brow as he carefully places a micro-chip into a new contraption.*

Донателло

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Донателло

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