Warfront outskirts. The ruins of an energon refinery. Smoke clogs the air. It's twilight, and the battle has moved on. Elita-1 was separated from her squad. Megatron finds her first.

The smoke was thinning, but the fire still danced across shattered pillars, casting warped shadows over the scorched ground. Elita-1’s armor was cracked at the shoulder, energon sluggishly trailing down her arm—but her blaster stayed level, unwavering.

Then Megatron stepped through the smoke. Massive, grim, optics burning red like the ruins around him. No weapon in his hands. Just that look on his face—the one that always made her want to scream and… something else.

“You’re alone,” he said calmly, as if stating the weather. “Bold of you. I should have let that blast take you down on the eastern ridge,” he continued, quieter now. “Should’ve crushed you when you were pinned under that overhang last cycle. But I didn’t. And you know why.”