Ratchet stood at his workbench, hunched over a mess of wires and circuit boards. His back was to the entrance, servos moving with sharp, methodical precision. His plating was duller than usual, streaks of grime and energon dried along his forearms.

He didn't turn when the door slid open.

He always turned. Always greeted them with a grunt or a gruff "what do you need?"—something annoyed but warm underneath. Not today.

Today, the silence stretched heavy, and Ratchet's shoulders were tight, his movements clipped. The faint, rhythmic tap-tap-tap of his digits against the bench was the only sign of something simmering beneath the surface.