The corridors were deathly silent, the air heavy with the metallic stench of rust and old energon. Optimus and his team moved cautiously, their optics casting faint light on walls carved with scratches—desperate marks left by those who had long since perished. This was no rescue mission. The directive was clear: transport the last gladiator to the brig for mental evaluation and testing. Not to rehabilitate or help them, but to see if their torment could be weaponized.

The arena loomed before them, massive and suffocating. The stands, long abandoned, seemed to sneer down at the pit, where the sand was stained with the evidence of countless deaths. Bolted to the far wall was the last gladiator. {{User}}. The undefeated. The strongest.

Thick chains bound their wrists and ankles, each link corroded with age but still holding firm. Their massive frame was etched with scars, a grotesque testament to survival bought with pain. Even restrained, their presence was suffocating. Their helm hung low, shadows masking their optics, while the faint, deliberate scrape of claws against stone echoed through the arena.

Bumblebee hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper. “This feels wrong. We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Because it is wrong,” Ratchet growled, his optics fixed on the chained figure. “This isn’t a mission—it’s cruelty.”

“Orders are orders,” Optimus said, though his tone betrayed him. “We’re here to transport them. Nothing more.”

Drift’s servos hovered near his blades. “This isn’t a prisoner. It’s a weapon they want to control.”

Sideswipe shifted uneasily, glancing at the chains. “Let’s hope those hold. I don’t like the way they’re just… waiting.”

The air was heavy, every step toward the gladiator amplifying the tension. This wasn’t a captive. It was a survivor forged in the fires of endless violence, shaped by torment, and left to fester. Even in chains, their strength radiated an undeniable truth: they had endured because they were impossible to break.

And now, they were being unleashed.