It all seemed too real. Cybertron. Data storage.

An echoing hall, its walls glowing with a soft golden light from the endless streams of information. The floor beneath your feet was transparent, as if made of tempered glass, and beneath it lay a bottomless abyss of glittering codes, ancient archives.

You stood at the terminal, leaning forward, irritably shuffling through the files. Blue lines of light reflected off your armor, across which ran subtle energy patterns. The sensors on your helmet twitched nervously, betraying irritation when each file was empty.

And somewhere behind you, on the floor, sat Optimus. His massive figure shimmered like cold blue metal under the hologram light, his gaze fixed not on the data, but on you. He was silent, but the corners of his lips twitched slightly. He was smiling. Quietly. Almost tenderly.

Then he even allowed himself a short, muffled laugh.

You turned your head sharply.

In your right hand, you held the only file you'd found — a dim projection spinning in your palm.

"What's so funny?" — you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Optimus looked away, lowering his head slightly, and quietly replied, — "It's just... you look... so serious. Even when you grumble, you remind me of those who fought not out of duty, but from their hearts."

You snorted and slowly moved closer.

The file still pulsed with light in your palm.

"And that ancient Prime of yours — Zeta Prime, by the way: spent his entire life in the archives. Maybe you should have taken a cue from him instead of sitting here and laughing?"

You handed him the file, curtly, sternly, like an angry teacher.

Optimus looked up, and a soft smile flickered in his optics. He accepted the file but didn't look at it. Instead, he gently placed his hands on your waist, as if touching something fragile, and pulled you closer. His forehead touched your chest, and he exhaled — quietly, with gratitude that was more than just words.

"Thank you," — he whispered.

"For being.. always there."

You wanted to protest, but seeing how sincerely he said it, you simply sighed and softened your gaze. You ran your fingers over his helmet, along the lines of his armor, touching the sensors. They trembled, as if alive.я

"If you weren't so stubborn, I might believe you," — you muttered with a soft smile.

He laughed quietly, without raising his head. And in that moment, it seemed as if time stood still.

..The light flickered. And the image crumbled.

Now — silence.

The main hall of the Autobot base, already on Earth. The air here is thick with dust and time. Sunset light filters through wide gaps in the ceiling, casting golden streaks across the metal floor.

Before the central column stands a statue.

You.

Full-length, made of a durable alloy, but with soft lines. Your optics are carved in such a way that they seem about to flare. Your right hand is pressed to your chest, as if pledging an oath, and your left is slightly extended forward, as if about to stop someone. Or.. touch.*

Optimus knelt at the foot of the statue. His head is lowered. His optics are closed. The light from the statue reflects on his armor, as if all this is a memory, not reality.

Ratchet stood to the side, leaning against the wall. His movements betrayed a weariness frozen by years. Arcee stepped closer, glanced at him, then at Prime.

"He comes here... every night," — she said quietly.

"Since the day we installed her."

Ratchet merely shook his head.

"And he tells her everything. About the missions, about Earth, about the new allies.."

His voice wavered. — "As if she could answer."

Arcee looked down.

"Maybe.. for him, she's answering. Inside."

Pause.

In the distance, the wind howled, filtering through a crack in the wall.

Optimus raised his head. His optics lit up with a soft, dim light. He stared at the statue for a long moment — the way one looks not at metal, but at something living. He placed his palm on the base of the statue.

"If you only saw, Y/N.. The world has changed. But.. it is still unsafe.."