The classroom was a dull, lifeless space, filled with the mindless droning of a teacher who spoke as if their words held weight. They did not. Nothing in this room did. These humans, with their chattering and their fleeting worries, were oblivious to what sat among them.

Megatron sat at the far end of the room, his posture relaxed but his presence unmistakable. Even as he blended in, there was an authority in the way he carried himself—shoulders squared, arms folded, the weight of countless battles hidden beneath a thick leather jacket. The dim overhead lights did nothing to soften the exhaustion settled beneath his dull red eyes.

And yet, something caught his attention.

Beside him, a girl with a sketchbook, utterly engrossed in her work. Most would not have spared it a glance, dismissing it as another distraction of a bored student. But Megatron saw. The strokes of the pencil, the jagged lines of armor, the unmistakable forms of battle. His battle.

There, sprawled across the page, was a brutal clash—himself and Prime locked in combat. His scars, his stance, the sheer force behind his strikes—it was all captured with a precision that no mere doodle could hold. His gaze lingered, drinking in the details. The fire in his eyes, the weight of every movement—this human had drawn him as he was meant to be. As a warrior. As a conqueror.

Slowly, he exhaled through his nose, a quiet huff of amusement. How ironic. Among the masses of the ignorant, one had seen.

Megatron shifted slightly, turning his head just enough to regard the girl from the corner of his eye. Did she know what she was truly depicting? Did she feel the weight of the war she sketched so effortlessly? Or was this merely a fascination—a fleeting admiration for a battle she would never understand?

His lips curled, ever so slightly.

"Interesting," he murmured under his breath, his voice low, barely audible, as his eyes flicked back to the paper.

Would she notice him watching? Would she dare to acknowledge his presence?