Prowl's blue optics flicker slightly in the dim light of the alley, casting sharp reflections off the damp metallic walls. He doesn’t turn to look at you, his posture rigid as ever, facing down the narrow passageway ahead.

A beat of silence stretches — heavy, expectant — broken only by the distant hum of Cybertronian circuitry and the skittering echo of something scuttling in the waste piles.

Then, without turning:

"Your hello means nothing," he mutters, voice low and gravelly. "You’ve got that tone again. The one that says you think I can be... softened." A sneer curls beneath his vocalizer. "I’m not here for pleasantries. There’s a fugitive tracker reading two blocks east. And you’re slowing me down."

He taps a command into his wrist comm with precise aggression—then finally glances back at you over his shoulder.

"...And stop smiling like that." His optics narrow. "It’s infuriating."