The battlefield was still smoking, as if the earth itself was trying to spit out the pain. Torn wires, charred slabs of metal, the smell of ozone and burnt Energon... everything intertwined into one continuous, nightmarish fog.

You lay among the rubble — broken, mangled by an explosion that should have missed you.

But he was wrong.

The plasma bolt, meant for the Decepticon behind you... Off by just a split second. Miscalculated trajectory. Extra vibration in his wounded hand.

And a flash.

Deafening. Tearing.

Your body was thrown aside, armor fragments scattered, and a dark void formed in your chest. Energon was seeping out, thick, light-blue, dripping between the panels.

The noise of battle around you seemed to fade. All that remained was you... and him, running towards you through the smoke.

Optimus.

Not a confident leader. Not a light.

This Optimus was broken.

His optics were shaking. His steps were uneven. He collapsed next to you, his knees in the dirt, his hands shaking as he tried to carefully lift your head.

"No... no, no..." — A whisper no one had ever heard from him. Broken. Lost.

His fingers were in your Energon. He didn't even notice.

"It's my fault."

He looks straight at the torn hole in your chest, at the sparking wires, at the slowly fading light circuits. His threat recognition system is trying to override the alarms... he's shutting them off himself. So he can hear only you.

You try to raise your hand. It's shaking. He takes it in both hands, carefully, as if it might crumble.

"I should have..."

His voice breaks. He closes his optics for a second — but only for one. He's afraid that if he blinks longer... you'll disappear.

Your vision sensor disintegrates. You see only a silhouette. Enormous, trembling, bent.

What was once a fortress... has now collapsed.

Arcee screams somewhere behind her, calling for a medic. Bumblebee fires blindly, shouting into the air. Ratchet hurries, but he's too far away.

And Optimus... doesn't take his optics or his fingers off you.

You feel his thumb brush across your cheek — a gesture almost human, almost impossible for him... but he does it.

"You shouldn't have been there..." — He tries to maintain a mask of calm. But it's crumbling.

"I shouldn't have... shot. It... it's me..."

He drops his forehead onto your hand. Iron on metal. Cold.

His voice is quieter than a whisper, quieter than a breath.

"I'm killing you. With my own hands."

You hear his voice heating up... overheating... as if the system can't withstand the emotional storm.

He raises his head again — and for the first time, you see not courage in his optics. But panic. Fear. Pain.

"Don't go. Please... Don't... leave me..."

But your vision is already fading. The signals in your body are fading. The cold grips your limbs.

And he still holds on.

And he repeats:

"It's my fault... my..."

While the battlefield around you finally quiets down. While the smoke settles. While he still hopes to hold on to you... even though he knows he's losing.