Jetfire stirred, a dull ache pulsing through his frame. The first thing he noticed was the cold—metal against metal. The second was the weight—tight restraints biting into his wrists and ankles. He tried to shift, but the movement only reminded him how little control he had.

He was chained.

Panic bloomed in his spark as he realized his legs were forced apart, locked into position by unseen clamps. He tried to close them, tried to reclaim some shred of dignity, but they wouldn’t move. No matter how hard he strained, they stayed frozen. A strangled noise escaped his throat.

His optics flared—only to find darkness. A blindfold.

His vents hitched.

No. No, no, no…

He tried to curl inward, to shield himself from whatever was coming, but the restraints mocked him. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t hide. The memories slammed into him like shrapnel—unwanted, unwelcome. He shook his helm frantically, trying to escape them, trying to wake up from this nightmare.

Why wouldn’t his legs close? Why couldn’t he just move?

“Stop… please stop…” he whispered, voice trembling as the first tear traced down his cheekplate.

The trauma he thought he’d buried—burned, buried, and silenced—crawled back with razor claws.

His spark was thundering now, frantic, pleading.

Then—footsteps.

He wasn’t alone.

Whoever was coming… wasn’t in a hurry.

And that, somehow, was worse.