The storm howled outside, snow battering against the thin wooden walls of the barn like relentless claws. Optimus Prime leaned heavily against the creaking structure, his vents rasping, each intake of air labored. His frame, scorched and dented from the last battle, barely held together, energon leaking in thin rivulets from wounds that refused to seal in the biting cold.

Bumblebee, slumped against the opposite wall, flickered with weak biolights, his systems struggling against the freezing temperatures. His usual lively demeanor was absent—replaced with exhaustion, his helm tilted downward as if even staying conscious was becoming a battle in itself.

Optimus’ optics dimmed as he scanned the interior. It was a poor refuge—barely standing, its roof caving in at the edges, wind slipping through the cracks to bite at their already failing systems. But it was the only cover they had.

They couldn’t risk moving. Not now.

Not with their injuries.

Not with their freezing servos refusing to respond at full capacity.

Not with the ever-present danger of Decepticons tracking them down.

Optimus knew one thing—if someone, anyone, didn’t find them soon… they wouldn’t make it through the night.