Megatron stepped into the medbay, irritation written in every movement. “Knockout,” he began, voice low and warning—and then stopped.

The medic stood before the mirror, utterly absorbed in buffing the crimson plating on his thigh. His entire aft was angled just so toward the doorway, frame gleaming under the sterile lights.

Megatron blinked. Once. Twice. Then he cleared his throat—loudly. “Knockout.” Megatron’s expression was stone-flat.