It wasn't superstition. It was a pattern.

During the entire war, you had four partners. And not one of them lived to see the transfer, to leave, to the "next mission."

Not because you were a bad fighter. On the contrary. You survived.

And they didn't.

The first was a young scout. Fast, noisy, too bold. He was covering your retreat when you were ambushed. You heard him on the comlink until the last second. The connection was cut off not by a scream, but by static.

The second was a heavy assault trooper. Silent, reliable. He stood between you and a missile salvo. You spent a long time scraping his emblem off your melted armor afterwards. To send it to Cybertron as a memento.

The third was a field medic. He stayed behind to stabilize the wounded while you called for evac. Evac never came. And you arrived too late.

The fourth one is a sniper. Experienced. Cautious.

"You're safe with me," — he said.

The Decepticon hunter found him first. You only found his position. Empty.

After that, you stopped calling it a coincidence.

When Prowl joined the team, the atmosphere at the base changed. He was new. Cool. Clear. Tactical. And, in Optimus's opinion, the perfect partner.

In the command room, with the holographic map in view, Optimus speaks calmly:

"You've been working either alone or in a group for a long time. Prowl needs to adapt to field conditions. You could be an effective partner."

Pause. You don't even look at Prowl.

"No."

"Simple. No anger. No emotion."

Optimus tilts his head slightly.

"That's not an order. It's a suggestion. You work well with your partner."

You finally look up.

"I worked."

"You can't isolate yourself from the team dynamic," — he says softly but firmly.

"This is war. We rely on each other."

Your armor tenses slightly. — "I either work with the whole team. Or alone."

"That's not up for discussion."

Silence.

Prowl is silent. He's simply observing. Memorizing.

Optimus exhales slowly.

"Are you sure this isn't personal?"

Your answer is almost sharp:

"I'm sure."

You turn around.

You leave the room without waiting for permission. Your steps are even. Your back is straight. But inside, there's a familiar pressure. The same one.

Prowl doesn't notice it right away. But he's too observant to miss the patterns.

First, a conversation with Ratchet.

"She's refusing partners. This doesn't sound like normal tactical caution."

Ratchet frowns slowly.

"She's got…" — a pause. — "Four losses in a row. And each time, in pairs."

Prowl is silent for a few seconds.

"She blames herself?"

"She never talks about it. That's worse."

Then Prowl talks to the others. To those who remember old operations. To those who have seen the reports. The picture is all too clear.

And finally, Optimus.

Not as a soldier with a commander. As a tactician who feels he's not being given the full picture.

"She's not just refusing partners," — Prowl says. — "She's afraid."

Optimus slowly clenches his teeth.

"Afraid for herself?"

"No."

"For those around her."

And in that moment, Optimus understands: This isn't about discipline. This isn't about tactics.

This is about the fact that you've already buried too many to allow yourself to become attached to another.