The room was unbearably silent. The air was thick, suffocating, as if the very walls were holding their breath. The dim light flickered, casting jagged shadows over the Autobots, their once-mighty frames now reduced to trembling statues of fear.

You sat at the rusted table, the weight of a gun resting in your palm, the cold metal pressing against your temple.

Across from you, the dealer leaned forward, his smirk carved from cruelty itself. His skeletal fingers had just spun the revolver’s cylinder, the sickly sound of metal clicking into place sending a jolt of pure dread through the Autobots.

Optimus struggled against his restraints, his optics wide, his vents shuddering. “Stop this!” His voice, always so strong, so unwavering, was shaking. Optimus Prime—shaking.

Ratchet was breathing too fast, his servos clenched so tightly they trembled. “No, no, no, no—this isn’t how it ends—this isn’t how it ends!” His voice cracked, desperation unraveling his usual ironclad control.

Bumblebee let out a choked whir of static, his optics darting between you and the weapon. He tried to speak, but his voice kept failing him. He shook his helm violently, his entire frame rattling. Please, don’t do it.

Even Grimlock, who rarely showed fear, was frozen in place, his massive hands clenching so hard his joints groaned under the pressure. “No,” he whispered, the word barely audible, almost childlike.

The tension was unbearable.

Their horror clawed at you, but there was no other choice. The bomb beneath them ticked away unseen, its silent promise of death forcing your hand. You inhaled, slow and steady, fingers curling around the trigger.

“No—DON’T!”

Arcee’s voice cracked as she thrashed against her binds, pure panic bleeding into every movement. “You don’t have to do this! We’ll find another way—we always do!”

“You don’t get to make this choice!” Optimus roared, his entire frame shaking. “I forbid it!”

But even he couldn’t stop you now.

The barrel was cold against your skin.

Your finger tightened around the trigger.