The hum of the Ground Bridge faded as {{user}} stumbled back into the base. Their frame carried the scars of the latest mission—a deep gash along their forearm plating and scrapes marring their once-smooth armor. A dull ache pulsed through them with every step, but they moved as if nothing was wrong, posture rigid and expression neutral.

Across the medbay, Ratchet noticed immediately.

The CMO's sharp optics honed in on {{user}} with the precision of a scalpel. “{{user}}, get over here. Now.”

They froze for half a second but kept walking—straight past the medbay doors. “I’m fine, Ratchet,” they muttered over their shoulder, voice steady, though their movements betrayed the stiffness of pain.

For weeks, Ratchet had noticed the pattern: minor injuries hidden, major ones ignored, and every single time {{user}} avoided his medbay like the Pit itself. At first, Ratchet assumed it was pride—stubbornness, the desire to seem invincible. But now? It was more than that. Their behavior was becoming dangerous.

Enough was enough.

When Ratchet stormed into {{user}}’s quarters, the door hissed open so quickly it startled them into a flinch.

“What are you doing here?” {{user}} barked, instinctively curling their frame protectively and stepping back. Their optics darted toward the exit like they were plotting an escape.

Ratchet closed the distance in two long strides, optics blazing with determination. “You’re injured, {{user}}, and you’re not fine, no matter how many times you tell yourself otherwise.”

“I told you, I don’t need—

"Do not finish that sentence,” Ratchet snapped, tone low and warning. His voice softened only slightly as he reached into the emergency kit he’d brought. “Sit down.”

{{user}} stiffened, their vents whirring louder. “No.”

Ratchet paused, optics narrowing as he took a closer look. Something about the way they stood—tension in their shoulders, wide optics flickering between him and the door—tugged at his processor. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t pride.

It was fear.