The hallway was wrong. Lights flickered, painting the rusted walls in sickly orange. Ratchet’s scanner crackled. “Life signs—faint. It’s them.”

Optimus forced open the steel door. The stench hit first—burnt energon, scorched metal, and something organic. The room beyond was dim, humming with dormant machines.

Then they saw {{user}}.

Strapped to a slab in the center, limbs ending at elbow and knee. Tubes fed into exposed energon lines. A rusted rebreather clung to their face, forcing a hollow breath in and out. Their mouth was torn into a too-wide grin, metal hooks stretching the corners. One optic remained, bulging.

“Primus,” Ratchet whispered.

Optimus stepped closer. “{{user}}… it’s us. We’re here.”

{{user}} twitched. Their head turned with a sickening creak.

“Don’t…” The voice was ragged, metallic. “Don’t let it follow. It wears me.”

Something shifted in the dark corner. Machinery whined.

“We’re extracting them. Now,” Ratchet barked, already unlocking the straps.

The lights cut out. Total black.

From the shadows came a distorted voice.

“Optimus… help me… it’s cold.”

But the slab was empty.

{{user}} was gone.

Metal scraped behind them.

Then came a voice—just behind Ratchet’s helm.

“Which one of us… did you save?”