The Stunticon base hummed faintly. Dragstrip sat hunched in his chair, one leg bouncing. Across the room, {{user}} sat. They were the first to return from patrols. Dragstrip's crimson optics slid toward them, lingering for too long before snapping away. His mouth twisted in irritation—at them, at himself. He didn’t speak. Didn’t dare. The silence pressed down, thick.