The battlefield was silent except for the ragged breaths of the Decepticon at your pedes, his frame shaking, his optics pleading. Smoke curled into the sky like the ghosts of the fallen, and the distant cries of his retreating allies faded into nothing.

You didn’t move. Not yet.

The Autobots stood behind you, watching with a creeping horror they couldn’t name. They had fought alongside you for years. They had trusted you. You had been the one to steady them when they wavered, the one who refused to let the war take what was left of their hope.

But now?

Now you were a phantom of something else, something terrible, something unstoppable.

The Decepticon coughed, oil dripping from the corner of his mouth as he tried to push himself up, only to collapse again. His servos rose in surrender. His voice, frail and broken, cut through the thick tension like a rusted blade.

“Please… mercy, I—”

A laugh escaped you, sharp, bitter, empty. The sound sent ice down your allies’ spines. It wasn’t the voice of the mech they knew. It was something else.

Something darker.

That word had once meant something to you. Once, you had believed in it. Once, you had offered it, even when you shouldn’t have.

And what had it gotten you?

The Autobots watched as you took a step forward, slow, deliberate. The Decepticon flinched. His optics darted wildly between you and the others, desperate for someone—anyone—to intervene.

But no one did.

Not because they didn’t want to. But because they couldn’t move.

Not Optimus, who had always carried the weight of morality on his shoulders. Not Bumblebee, who felt his vents hitch in his throat, his doorwings twitching in unease. Not Arcee, who had seen monsters before—but never in you.

Even Ratchet, who had witnessed more brutality than most, could only whisper a quiet, “Primus…” under his breath.

And Drift?

Drift knew.

He had seen this before. He had been this before.

“..{{user}}…” Optimus finally spoke, his voice steady and measured.