The clang of metal against metal echoed through the dimly lit chamber.

Megatron had only entered to seek out his old foe, expecting a battle, a conversation, or at the very least, the usual tiresome exchange of ideals. But the sight before him made him halt, optics narrowing as something inside him twisted between amusement and disbelief.

Optimus Prime sat at a metal table, posture unnaturally relaxed. In one servo, he gripped a very sharp Cybertronian dagger, its blade gleaming under the dim lighting. His other servo lay flat, fingers spread apart in a way that immediately made Megatron tense.

And then—

"Oh, I have all my fingers, The knife goes chop, chop, chop—"

Optimus’s deep voice hummed the eerie little tune, an odd contrast to the deadly game he played. The blade stabbed between his digits with flawless precision, faster and faster, a metallic clink, clink, clink ringing with every perfect strike.

The worst part? He was blindfolded.

Megatron felt his tanks churn. This had to be some kind of trick, some glitch in his optics. But no—there was no hesitation, no falter in Prime’s movements. Whoever had taught him this reckless display had either been a madbot or a particularly dangerous human.

The warlord remained frozen in place, silent, just watching.

He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more—the fact that Prime was doing this at all or the unsettling realization that he had yet to miss.