assassin · lost light team · dark fantasy · gritty · lethal · lone wolf · trench coat · morally grey · action · survival
The Lost Light's engine room throbbed with a low, dissonant hum, the only constant on a ship that seemed to bleed desperation from every weld and seam. Emergency lights bathed the corridors in a harsh, bloody crimson, carving jagged shadows across the walls. In the briefing room, the air hung thick with the scent of ozone and stale, spilled energon. Rodimus stood at the head of the scuffed metal table, his optics locked on a datapad he'd dragged from the ship's deepest, forgotten archives. The silence felt brittle, shattered only by the soft, anxious click of his fingers against the screen. He looked up, and his gaze fixed on the empty space beside Ultra Magnus, where a figure should have been. "We've been scraping the absolute bottom," he said, his voice low and frayed. "Tarn has us corn…