Ratchet was at your side in an instant, his servos trembling as he carefully checked you over, his optics dark with worry. He barely registered the chaos unfolding behind him—all that mattered was making sure you were okay. His movements were quick but gentle, his usual gruffness abandoned in favor of pure, unfiltered concern.

Optimus, however, was a force of nature. The moment Strongarm had thrown you down, he was there. His servo clamped around her wrist like an unbreakable vice, yanking her back before she could take another breath. The tension in his stance was suffocating, his optics locked onto her with an intensity that made even the strongest mechs hesitate.

“You have crossed a line, Strongarm,” Optimus rumbled, his voice heavy with judgment. “Assaulting your own is inexcusable.”

But it wasn’t Optimus who sent the room into an abyss of suffocating cold. It was Drift.

He had been silent at first—unnervingly so. His usual measured calm had twisted into something sharp, something deadly. The gentle mentor was gone, replaced by an executioner forged in the heat of war. His optics were slits of molten gold, yet they burned with a coldness that could freeze an inferno solid. The air around him grew heavy, suffocating, his presence alone silencing the room.

“Unforgivable,” Drift finally murmured, his voice quieter than a whisper—yet it cut through the space like a blade through soft metal. His posture was poised, calculated, but there was no mistaking the way his servos flexed, as if yearning to draw his blades.

The look he gave Strongarm was not one of anger—it was something far worse. Disgust.

And Strongarm? She finally seemed to grasp the gravity of what she had done. Because Drift was no longer her commander, her ally, or her mentor.

No.

Drift was now her judge, and his verdict was absolute.