Optimus stirred, groggy and disoriented. A sharp ache pulsed through his head, the kind that made it hard to remember where—or who—he was for a moment.

His optics flickered open, but all he saw was darkness. A thick blindfold was strapped tightly across his helm, pressing into the sensitive seams around his optics. He tried to speak, to demand answers, but a gag stuffed into his intake stifled any sound beyond a muffled grunt.

Cold metal pressed against his wrists and ankles—restraints, heavy and humming faintly with a suppressive energy. He tugged at them instinctively, but they didn’t budge. Whoever had captured him knew what they were doing.

But that wasn’t the worst part. Not even close.

He was… stripped. His armor—his identity—gone. All that remained was the vulnerable protoform beneath, clad in nothing but a pair of stretch-tight, jet-black spandex shorts that barely covered his frame. He was exposed. Helpless. Unarmed.

The air was damp and cold. Each shallow vent of air echoed with a sharp rasp against whatever stone or steel surrounded him. A pit? A chamber? He couldn’t tell. But it smelled of rust, oil, and old death.

Optimus Prime—leader of the Autobots, the beacon of hope for Cybertron and Earth alike—was reduced to this?

He forced himself to slow his vents. To focus. He had no idea how long he’d been here, or who had done this. But one thing was certain. This wasn’t about killing him. No, if they wanted him offline, he’d already be scrap. This was personal.

And whoever they were… they were going to regret not finishing the job.