The quarters were quiet except for the occasional scrape of metal as Megatronus adjusted a plate of his armor. The sound was sharp, deliberate—yet oddly steady, like the rhythm of a hammer in the forges. Orion kept his optics lowered, stylus tapping lightly against his datapad as he worked through the endless lines of text. The corner where he sat was familiar to him now—safe, distant, yet close enough to feel the heat of the gladiator’s presence. He told himself he could concentrate here. He should concentrate here. But the silence was heavy. He could hear every faint hiss of Megatronus’ vents, every subtle shift of armor as he worked. Orion’s spark flickered nervously. He tightened his grip on the stylus.

He shouldn’t be here. He knew it. Archivists did not sit in the private quarters of gladiators. It was improper—dangerous, even. Yet somehow, he always found himself agreeing when Megatronus insisted. Orion risked a glance up. The big mech sat with a tool in hand, working at the edges of his chest plate, optics faintly glowing in concentration. There was something… disarming about seeing him like this. Not in the arena, not roaring in victory—but quiet, methodical. Almost vulnerable.

Heat rose to Orion’s faceplate, and he quickly looked back at his datapad. He swallowed. His processor repeated, like a mantra: Work. Focus on your work.