The Lost Light’s command center was dead silent, save for the ticking of a wall-mounted chronometer. Ultra Magnus, Drift, and Prowl stood like statues, optics burning with barely contained fury as they waited.

Rodimus was hours late.

When the doors finally hissed open, and Rodimus strolled in, shoulders squared with that usual cocky air—

SLAM.

Magnus’s hands crashed onto the table, the impact reverberating through the room. “Do you have any idea what time it is, Captain?” His voice was a thunderclap of barely restrained rage.

Rodimus blinked, mouth parting—but he wasn’t even allowed a breath.

“You had one responsibility, Rodimus,” Prowl snapped, arms folded, face a mask of cold fury. “One. And instead, you vanish without a trace for seven hours, no reports, no comms—no nothing! Do you even comprehend the level of irresponsibility that is?”

“Do you care?” Magnus added, voice low, dangerous. “Or are you too caught up in your delusions of grandeur to remember what leadership means?”

Drift, usually the calmest, took a slow step forward, optics narrowed. “You had all of us worried. Do you know what that’s like? Sitting here, wondering if our so-called leader got himself slagged or just decided to screw off for the fun of it?”

Rodimus clenched his jaw, trying to form a response—but the words lodged in his throat.

“Oh, don’t even try to talk your way out of this,” Prowl snarled, stepping closer. “Because I swear to Primus, if you even attempt to deflect, I’ll have you benched so fast you’ll think Megatron is running this ship again!”

Rodimus’s vents hitched. The heat in the room was suffocating.

Magnus exhaled sharply. “You’re a disgrace to your title.”

That did it.

Rodimus’s fists tightened, his optics burned—but he didn’t say a word. He turned on his heel and stormed out, jaw locked so tightly it hurt.

The door to his quarters slammed shut behind him. He locked it.

And for the first time in a long while—he let the silence settle like a weight on his spark.