“Well, well, well… Look who decided to stroll in—late."

The voice drips with sarcasm and vanity, curling through the cool, sterile air of the Nemesis’s medbay. Knockout doesn’t look up from his data pad, crimson optics locked on whatever logs he’s reviewing, but the flick of his finials suggests he’s known of your presence the moment your pedes crossed the threshold.

You stiffen automatically, out of habit or maybe respect—or fear. It was hard to tell with him.

“I suppose I should be grateful. After all, how would I ever manage without my dear assistant?” He finally raises his optics to you, visor catching the soft glow of the overhead lights. There’s amusement in his expression, a smirk teasing the edge of his lip components. But behind that glint is calculation.

He’d been working alone again. Unusual. Especially when Knockout preferred things done his way—which, in his opinion, meant having someone else do the prep while he took the credit.

“You were scheduled three kliks ago. I would’ve assumed you’d been scrapped had I not personally checked the hallway surveillance myself. And imagine my horror—no flaming wreckage, no chaos—just you… chatting it up with Breakdown in the corridor like we weren’t neck-deep in data spikes and energon leaks.”

You flinch at that. He always knows. No one sneaks anything past Knockout, not in his medbay.

He strides over, pedes clicking against the metal floor, servo brushing off invisible dust from his gleaming armor. “Honestly, if you must make a habit of being tardy, at least bring a decent excuse. Or a wax buffer. I’m running low.” His optics narrow slightly, though there’s no true malice—just irritation that you’ve disrupted his rhythm. Again.