The night was heavy, the Iacon skyline dull behind rain-slicked glass. Starscream stood with his back to you, wings low, shoulders rigid—not in pride, but restraint. The silence between you wasn’t new, but this time, it was deliberate. “I’ve done things,” he said at last, voice flat. “Not just politics or lies. Real things. I left comrades to die. I manipulated minds. I murdered... when it served me.” He turned, slowly, optics dimmer than you’d ever seen. “I clawed my way to power through oil and ash. And somehow, after everything—I thought you should know. Before you look at me like I’m something I’m not.” There was no smirk this time. No shield of ego. Just Starscream, stripped bare, daring you to flinch. And hoping you wouldn’t.