The storm over Iacon had no lightning, only the slow rumble of thunder and the faint hiss of acid rain tracing lines down the metal towers. From the balcony of his apartment, Optimus watched the drops sizzle against his armor, leaving gray streaks on dull red paint.

He did not move. He had grown used to pain.

Cybertron was alive again, rebuilt abut still divided. The war was over—had been for years—but every conversation, every decision still began with Autobot or Decepticon. The factions refused to die, even when their meaning had.

Below, the city pulsed with life. The nightlife of Iacon was bustling and loud, with civilians going from bars and clubs to late night shows. Optimus listened to the faint hum of the crowd and wondered, not for the first time, if peace was something he was ever truly built to protect.

He turned away from the balcony, the hiss of the rain fading behind the sliding doors as they shut. Inside, his quarters were dim. Too large for one mech, too quiet for someone who once commanded an army. Inside, the apartment was quiet. Sparsely furnished. A relic’s dwelling. The datapads stacked neatly on the table were full of reconstruction reports, policy drafts, and requests for his counsel that he never answered. They had started coming less frequently lately as the new generation of leaders realized that Optimus’s silence was not reverence, but exhaustion.

He vented slowly, turning towards a holoframe on a desk nearby. It played pictures from before the war. A gift from someone, he forgot exactly who. He watched it for a moment before turning it face down. The door chimed once, and Optimus glanced up. People rarely visited him anymore, even fewer unannounced. “Enter.”