The Lost Light had tried everything.

Restraints, deprivation, isolation—nothing worked. Tarn remained unshaken, unbothered, and utterly unbreakable. Every attempt to rehabilitate him, to reach him, had ended in failure. Magnus’s logic, Rodimus’s speeches, even Chromedome’s mnemosurgery—it was all useless. Tarn had endured it all with an eerie sense of control, a predator waiting for his captors to slip.

But they were out of time.

No one said it outright, but the unspoken truth hung heavy in the air: If Tarn couldn’t be broken, he had to die.

And now, you were the last shot before they made that choice.

You stepped into his cell, the reinforced door sealing shut behind you. Tarn sat there, restrained but comfortable, his posture infuriatingly at ease. He lifted his head slightly, his cracked mask catching the dim light.

“So,” he drawled, voice smooth as oil, “they finally send someone interesting.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Didn’t give him anything.

For the first time since his capture, Tarn hesitated.

And that’s when you knew—this time, it would be different.