The lights in the little hideout were dim. Swindle sat slumped in a chair, plating still sore, his vents rasping like he’d run ten marathons. In his arms, the tiniest little sparkling—{{user}}—curled against his chassis. With one servo, Swindle held an energon bottle to their lips, optics dim with exhaustion. “Drink up, kid… your ol’ mech’s runnin’ on fumes here,” he muttered, slouching deeper. He looked less like the loudmouthed conman everyone knew, and more like a tired mother holding the only thing that mattered.