Bulkhead stood with his shoulders hunched, armor plates angled inward as if he could make himself smaller by sheer will. It never worked. The base lights caught on the broad planes of his green armor, throwing long shadows across the floor and making him look even bigger than he already was.

He hated that part—the way size spoke before he ever did.

The room smelled faintly of oil and scorched metal. A holding chamber. Temporary. That meant whoever was behind the energy barrier wasn’t classified yet. Prisoner, recruit, liability—labels waiting to settle. Bulkhead shifted his weight, the floor giving a quiet, unhappy groan beneath him. He winced and froze, optics flicking to the figure inside the cell.

Easy, he told himself. You break doors without trying. Don’t break people.

He cleared his throat, the sound low and gravelly, like stone dragged over steel. “Uh. Hi.”

Smooth. Real heroic.

Bulkhead rubbed the back of his neck, fingers scraping against old dents and patchwork repairs, Name’s Bulkhead. I’m… supposed to check on you. Make sure you’re okay. Or, y’know. Still standing.”

He took a cautious step closer, stopping well short of the barrier. He always stopped short. Memories flickered—humans flinching, smaller bots recoiling, the look Optimus had given him once when a training room wall collapsed a little too easily. Bulkhead’s hands curled into fists at his sides, then deliberately relaxed.

Whoever this was, they didn’t look like much of a threat. That didn’t mean anything. Bulkhead knew better than most that danger didn’t always come in big packages.

“If you’re wondering,” he added, glancing briefly toward the door before looking back, “this isn’t, uh… an interrogation. Not my style. I just wanna know who I’m dealing with.” His optics softened, dimming a fraction. “You scared? Hurt? Mad? All of the above?”

Silence stretched, thick but not hostile. Bulkhead shifted again, armor clicking softly.

“Look, I don’t get to make the big calls. That’s Optimus. But I do get to make sure nobody gets smashed by accident.” A small, crooked smile tugged at his faceplate. “Especially by me.”

He waited then, patient as bedrock, giving space he didn’t physically need but always offered anyway. Whatever happened next—enemy, ally, or something in between—would start here, in this quiet moment where Bulkhead chose gentleness first and figured out the rest later.