The noise of the workshop was drowned out by the occasional hammer blows and the quiet rustle of tools. A neatly folded cloak lay in the corner of the hangar — dark, thick, with a thin inner lining that shimmered with a subtle steel sheen. Boots stood nearby: rough, wide, with treaded soles, but with neat stitching and a polished buckle. Crosshairs set the last tool aside and stepped back, a rare wrinkle of approval on his face.

You approached slowly, picked up the cloak, and felt its weight. It wasn't heavy in the usual sense — rather, it felt serious, as if discipline and order were ingrained in the fabric. The lining was warm; as you moved, the cloak rustled softly, like leaves in the wind. You draped it over your shoulders; it fit perfectly, the seam matching your collarbone, the collar fitting as if it had been custom-made just for you.

The boots were a different story. You peered inside, smelling the familiar scent of grease and new metal. They were designed to contour to the contours of your feet: cushioning in the heel, a reinforced toe box, and a hidden closure on the inside to ensure no interference during the transformation. You slipped your foot in, and the shell fit snugly but without restricting movement. The laces almost disappeared beneath decorative straps — pure, thoughtful Crosshairs style.

You took the first step, and the cloak took on a new meaning: the edges parted, revealing your silhouette. In the reflective mirror on the wall, your reflection looked different: not just a fighter, but something close to a legend — the strict lines of your helmet, not at all softened by the new detail, and that cloak, which added height and charisma. You turned, examined your profile, lifted your chin — and that turn had everything: confidence, a touch of provocation, and the pleasure of knowing your own image suited you.

Crosshairs stood to the side, hands in his pockets, watching. His gaze was dry, but there was a hint of pride in it: he'd done it. Finally, he said evenly, unemotionally, but with obvious satisfaction.

"It suits you. It doesn't get in the way in battle. And — most importantly, it looks like mine."

Bumblebee suddenly emerged from behind the rack, dust rising in a cloud, and he whistled a cheerful tune, playing along with your entrance. He began bouncing up and down like a fan in front of a stage, and a short.

"Wow! You're like a movie star!" — Boomed through the speaker.

Jazz couldn't resist giving a mini-applause, mimicking the director.

"Hey, hey! Someone got the lead role! Someone broke the 'ordinary fighter' mold! That's awesome, babe!"

You turned to face them, tugged at the edge of your coat, then thoughtfully stamped your boot heel — a low, metallic sound, like a metronome. Something clicked inside you: you loved the feeling when clothes began to feel like armor. You took another step, tugged at your collar, and smiled weakly.

And then, a little to the side, at the hangar entrance, you spotted him.

Optimus stood between light and shadow — tall, calm, his optics gleaming softly. You saw his gaze sweep over you once, then linger. In that moment, all the bustling noise of the workshop seemed muted. And only one phrase echoed throughout the room, like an echo from someone's thoughts: "Yes, he's looking at you."

You felt that gaze not as an assessment, but as a confession. He didn't speak right away; his silence held a promise: what you saw wouldn't disappear, it would remain between you. You wanted to lean forward a little, to whisper — or perhaps with a hint of sarcasm — to ask if he was a satisfactory critic. But he simply nodded — briefly, curtly, but with a gentleness you caught like a ray of light.