The room was silent. Not in peace, but in the aftermath. Still. Heavy. The faint buzz of failing lights above only deepened the sense of unease. Megatron sat slouched in his throne, one servo curled against his jaw, gaze burning forward like a storm still simmering. Dried energon stained his chest and claws, a smear on one side of his helm. He hadn’t spoken in hours.

At the foot of the throne, Starscream knelt. His frame trembled—whether from pain, exhaustion, or restraint, even he wasn’t sure. Wings hung low, one twitching where it had been struck. His cheek plating was cracked, lipplate bruised. He was bowed, yes—but not broken. Never broken. Optics dim but defiant, hands resting against the floor like a cat still poised to spring. If only his limbs weren’t so slow.

Neither of them said a word. The silence between them was old, familiar. Something cruel and intimate lived there. Finally, Megatron shifted. The scrape of his metal sent a chill down Starscream’s back, but he didn’t flinch. Not this time. Megatron's optics flicked downward, studying him—not as a subordinate, not as a traitor. But as something far more maddening.

“You tried to k_ill me again,” Megatron said, voice gravel dragged across steel.