Drift’s optics flared as the crash shattered the peace of the dojo, the sudden impact rattling through his frame like a warning bell. He whirled around, servos already reaching for his blades—Slipstream and Jetstorm were right there beside him.

Then he saw it.

Fracture.

The Decepticon stood in the wreckage, his visor gleaming with malice as he lifted Jetstorm by his neck, the young Mini-Con’s servos clawing at the ruthless grip choking his air supply. Slipstream let out a sharp, panicked cry, already reaching for his blades, but Fracture only tightened his hold, optics locking onto Drift like a predator savoring its victory.

“Miss me, Autobot?” Fracture sneered.

Drift’s frame tensed—every instinct screamed for him to act, to cut the Decepticon down where he stood. But before he could move—

BLAM.

Fracture lurched forward, his grip faltering as an impact slammed into his back, sending him staggering. A growl tore from his throat as he twisted around—

And there you were.

Smoke curled from your weapon, your stance unshaken. Your optics burned with fury, your focus locked onto Fracture like a predator claiming its turn.

“You’re gonna wish you never stepped foot in this dojo.”

Fracture staggered, vents hitching as he processed the unexpected attack. Then, his visor narrowed, a low growl rumbling from his throat.

“Heh… big words for someone about to be scrap.”