You once lived on stage.

Not literally, but almost.

Your days began with stretching and ended with bruised knees and a happy exhaustion. Music was your pulse. The mirrored walls of the studio were your home.

You didn't just dance. You breathed it.

You had a team. Four people. Four personalities. Four different styles, perfectly harmonizing in one rhythm. You performed at festivals, street shows, sometimes even on television.

You were the center of the choreography.

Always ahead. Always in motion. And then...

Evening. Rain. Slippery road. Headlights. Metal. A sharp turn. Darkness.

When you opened your eyes, the hospital ceiling was too white. Too quiet. Too still.

The doctors spoke carefully. Softly. Too softly.

Spinal injury.

You'll survive.

But walking... No.

And the worst part wasn't even that. The worst part was when you asked me to turn on the music.

And you realized your body wasn't responding anymore. From that day on, you stopped talking about dancing. As if not saying the word would make the pain less.

Meeting the Autobots.

Sari came into your life almost by accident.

She noticed you at a tech conference—you were already into robotics, because you needed something to fill the void.

You started talking.

She found out. About your legs. About your past. And one day she said:

"I want you to meet someone."

That's how you first found yourself in the old factory. Where they stood.

Huge. Metallic. Unreal.

Optimus spoke calmly and respectfully. Ratchet looked wary. Bumblebee was too curious. Bulkhead is too loud.

And Prowl...

Prowl just watched. Quietly. Carefully.

You didn't tell them about the dancing.

They knew about the accident. But not about what it took from you. And you didn't think they needed to know.

A few weeks later.

Evening.

A street festival in downtown Detroit.

A stage, lights, fairy lights, the smell of popcorn and roasted nuts.

Autobots in alternate forms stood around the perimeter, like regular cars.

Optimus – a truck at the edge of the street. Bumblebee – closer to the crowd, bouncing slightly on its shock absorbers to the music. Bulkhead – parked under a streetlight. Ratchet – grumpily monitoring security.

Prowl.

A black motorcycle.

Parked next to your wheelchair.

Sari sat on the curb next to you, laughing at the street performers.

"Look, look!" she pointed at the comedic pantomime.

You were laughing. Really.

A light breeze ruffled your hair. The stage lights reflected in your eyes.

The music was playing.

You were simply enjoying the evening.

And if anyone were watching, no one would have thought there was anything broken about you.

Prowl quietly rolled a little closer.

"Are you comfortable?" his voice was quiet over the comm.

"Yes," you smiled.

He didn't say anything, but he adjusted the angle of the parking lot slightly—to shield you from the crowd.

He always did that. Unnoticed.

And so...

The next number was announced.

The stage lights grew brighter.

Four girls came out. In black and gold suits. At first, you just watched.

Something familiar in their posture. In the way one adjusted her glove. In the way the other tossed her hair back.

The music began.

First movement. A turn of the body. A synchronized step. Precise. Sharp. Perfect.

Your breath caught in your throat.

This was your choreography.

Your flow.

That turn on the fourth count.

That pause before the final spurt.

They danced. Your dance.

Without you.

Sari continued to smile, unaware of how your fingers slowly tightened on the armrests of the stroller.

Prowl noticed a change in your breathing rate. His engine quietly changed tone.

You didn't hear. You watched.

When the lead singer stepped forward—to the spot where you had been standing—

You recognized her.

And your eyes slowly widened.