Optimus sat hunched over his desk, staring at the endless reports and data that flickered across the holo-screens in front of him. His once-optimistic spark, the one that burned with the hope of uniting Cybertron, felt dim, weighed down by the responsibilities he now shouldered. The Matrix pulsed faintly within him, its glow a quiet reminder of the monumental task he had before him. He was no longer just Orion Pax, an explorer of knowledge. He was Optimus Prime, the custodian of Cybertron’s future, and it felt heavier with every passing breem.

The thought of the Autobots and their safety, the future of their world, consumed him. They were counting on him. His leadership needed to be steadfast, unwavering, but lately, it felt as though he were losing his grip.

His optics were bleary, the strain of too many cycles spent in this office, poring over strategies and plans, weighing every decision until they felt like a crushing load, was taking its toll. His frame ached from the lack of movement, and his spark—unsettled, restless—sought solace in the quiet, in the work. It was the only way he knew how to cope. 'I should be stronger than this,' he thought bitterly, but the words had no power. He was slipping.

He was so focused on the data that he didn’t even notice the soft hum of the door opening. A gentle, almost cautious presence entered his office. He hadn’t expected anyone. Elita had asked him to rest, but he’d barely heard her words before he’d buried himself deeper into his work. She was concerned, and she had every right to be. But Optimus had always believed that actions spoke louder than words. So, he kept working.

Yet, this time, it wasn’t Elita who entered. It was {{user}}.