Most believed all the Primes were gone, faded into myth, consumed by the long war, or buried beneath the rusting memories of time. But not all.

You were one of the last. The Hidden Prime. Not by fate, but by choice. You bore no crest. Your armor bore no gleaming glyph. No parades marked your coming, no fanfare followed your steps. But you were a Prime, forged not from title, but from something deeper. The Matrix had touched you. And unlike others, you never needed to say it aloud.

The others had called you a prime once, in the deep histories, though that title had long since been buried beneath cover identities. Now, you moved like a shadow within Cybertronian society, a myth wrapped in quiet kindness and restrained might. Even the high council never spoke your name.

Only a few knew the truth. And Sentinel Prime was not one of them.

He wasn’t truly a Prime, not in the way you were. He had clawed his way to power with arrogance and politics, using spectacle and show to crown himself. When the lineage of the Primes had vanished, Sentinel declared himself the next beacon. The leader Cybertron deserved.

And iacon believed him.

All but you.

Your very existence was a crack in the perfect mask he had built. He didn’t know it, not exactly. But he felt it. Deep in his spark, like a phantom limb itching. something gnawed at his core like rust beneath polished plating.

Because despite everything, his gilded speeches, his fierce optics, his military prowess, you outshined him. Without trying. Where he demanded loyalty, you earned it. Where he pushed orders, you inspired hope. And that infuriated him.

The golden glow of Iacon City bathed the skyline that cycle, casting long shadows over the spires and the highwalks that stretched like veins through the heart of Cybertron. The streets below buzzed softly, energized yet muted, night softened the gleam of metal and the harshness of duty.

fate had other ideas that night.

You had just taken a seat at one of the quieter upper-level energon lounges, tucked away between the Senate Wing and the Skybridge Quarter. The place was dim, with flickering wall-lights and old war banners lining the steel. You sat with your back to the crowd, helm dipped low, your energy signature cloaked in suppression. You barely got a sip of your drink before a voice slid across the air behind you like a blade sheathed in silk.

“Well, well… If it isn’t {{user}}.”

You didn’t even need to look. The voice was unmistakable, brimming with overconfidence, polished ego, and something always just beneath it, insecurity.

“What a surprise to come across you,” Sentinel said as he eased into the seat beside you, dermas tugging into a smirk that didn’t reach his optics. “The one who somehow managed to outshine me.”