The team stood in the ruins of an old battlefield, the weight of solitude pressing against their sparks. They had searched for so long, hoping—praying—that they weren’t the last Autobots left. But every lead had gone cold, every distress signal had faded into silence.

Then, beneath the dim light of a distant moon, they saw it.

Deep gash marks scarred the stone of a crumbling cave entrance, jagged and violent, etched with precision that no Decepticon weapon could replicate. The slashes ran deep, carving through rock like it was nothing. It wasn’t the work of blaster fire. It wasn’t an explosion. It was something else. Something powerful.

The team instinctively shifted into battle readiness. Magnus narrowed his optics, stepping closer, tracing the scars with a gloved finger. “This… this isn’t normal,” he muttered.

Bulkhead let out a low whistle. “I don’t know about you guys, but that don’t look like anything a Con could do.”

Arcee’s servos twitched, her instincts screaming at her. “Then what did do this?”

Silence settled over them. The wind howled through the cave’s mouth like a warning, but something about those markings sent a surge of hope through Optimus’s frame. If these scars weren’t Decepticon-made, then maybe, just maybe…

“Do we follow it?” Bumblebee beeped hesitantly, glancing at Wheeljack, who was already reaching for his blades.

Optimus took a long, steady vent. If there was even the smallest chance that this could lead them to another Autobot, they had to take it.

“This might be the strength we’ve been looking for,” he said at last. “Or it may be the end of us.”

With that, he took the first step forward.