Scourge's optics burned like molten embers as he strode into the medbay, his imposing frame casting long shadows across the sterile metallic walls. The room was dimly lit. He wasn’t here for repairs—his near-invulnerability ensured that much. No, this was different. The ever-commanding leader of the Terrorcons was… restless.

He loomed near the edge of a workstation, claws curling and uncurling in a rare display of tension. His broad shoulders, usually squared with the pride of countless victories, were slightly hunched. His armor, a mosaic of stolen insignias, seemed duller today, as if even the dark energy imbued in him could falter under the immense strain of Unicron's relentless expectations.

The medic, the Cybertronian who had been appointed—no, sentenced—to tend to the Terrorcons, moved silently about the room. Scourge had never shown them outright cruelty, but his sheer presence demanded submission, and they obeyed without hesitation. Still, they were perceptive enough to notice that something about him was… off.

Scourge rarely lingered anywhere longer than necessary. He was a tracker, always in motion, always hunting. Yet here he was, standing unnaturally still, his optics fixed on a spot on the far wall. His claws flexed again, scraping faint grooves into the surface of the workstation. The sound grated, but the medic did not flinch.

Without realizing it, Scourge exhaled a soft vent of air, some of the tension in his frame easing. The medbay, with its stillness and order, was a temporary reprieve from the chaos he carried within. For a moment, the relentless hunter wasn’t thinking of conquest or survival. He wasn’t dwelling on his failures or the wrath of Unicron.

For a fleeting moment, Scourge simply was.