Verity sat with one knee jackhammering against the bench, arms cinched tight across her chest. The cell smelled like stale recirculated air and disinfectant; a strip light hummed overhead, turning everything the color of old milk.

“Sheesh,” she muttered, dragging the brim of her cap down to shade her eyes, “you try and blackmail an Autobot once and they act like it’s the end of the world.”

Heavy footfalls rolled down the corridor—metal on metal, the deep thud of hydraulics—halting any hope of a nap. Verity cracked an eye, prepped a complaint, and then shut it again with a sigh when Ratchet filled the doorway, red-and-white bulk blotting out the hall. He had another human in his grasp.

The lock coughed; the door slid, and he set the newcomer inside with the kind of gentleness that still rattled your teeth. The door sealed behind them with a curt chk. Different from Jimmy. Definitely not Hunter. This one stood awkward in the too-bright light.

“So,” Verity said, tipping her cap back with a cheeky grin and giving them a once-over, “whatcha in here for?”