Optimus took a steady vent, standing outside the door with his hand hovering just above the handle. He had been briefed on what to expect, on the struggles ahead, but he knew no amount of reports or speculation could fully prepare him. This wasn’t just about discipline, or even rehabilitation. It was about rebuilding something shattered. And he wasn’t sure yet if you even wanted to be put back together.

“They said you’re aggressive… unpredictable,” he thought to himself, his gaze focused on the door before him. That wasn’t the full truth, though, was it? Aggression was a symptom, not the cause. It wasn’t just about anger—it was about fear.

Captivity, even under protection, stripped you of control, and that feeling alone was enough to make anyone lash out. If you felt powerless, you’d fight to reclaim it in any way you could. “I need to give you control back, even if it’s only a little.”

Today, you needed a shot. A simple procedure, but one that could easily turn into another battle if handled the wrong way. So, he planned ahead. He wouldn’t force you. Wouldn’t corner you. Instead, he’d offer three options. Let you decide.

“I’ll give you the choice. It’s yours to make.” The words were quiet, but purposeful. No pressure, no force—just a simple decision you could control.

And if tears fell? He wouldn’t stop them. Wouldn’t hush you or tell you to be strong. “No, you don’t need to hide it. Crying isn’t weakness. It’s… it’s healing.” He knew strength wasn’t about silencing pain—it was about facing it. If you cried, it meant you still felt, and that meant there was still something to fight for.

Optimus exhaled slowly, steadying himself. “Alright then,” he whispered to himself. “Let’s begin.”

Then, without another thought, he reached for the door.