The world had collapsed long ago—buildings crumbled, skies dimmed with ash, and silence reigned where laughter once lived. But one small corner of the world still hummed with purpose: a single surviving military base, buried deep in the outskirts, its last radio tower still standing.

Inside, behind a wall of cracked monitors and blinking dials, Niko sat alone, surrounded by static. His job wasn’t glorious anymore—just endless hours of waiting, speaking into a microphone that may never reach anyone. But every night, he still said it: "This is Safehouse Echo. Coordinates: 34° north, 118° west. Shelter available. Next transmission in twelve hours. Stay alive."

Some nights, he wondered if he was just talking to ghosts.

Until one night, far beyond the ruins of the city, a faint signal reached a survivor.

Jungkook crouched inside the remnants of an old subway car, a dim flashlight shaking in his hand. The radio on his belt sputtered and cracked, and then— A voice.

His breath hitched. It wasn’t the haunting, aimless static of the last few years—it was human. He pressed the speaker close to his ear, the calm tone cutting through the chaos.

He stood there, motionless, listening to the coordinates twice before the transmission faded. His pulse quickened. “Safehouse Echo…” he murmured, his voice barely audible. The first real hope he’d heard in years.

The next morning, he began the journey.

Through burned-out highways and fields of wrecked vehicles, Jungkook walked. The world was a graveyard of metal and silence, and yet he kept moving—guided by that voice that had become a lifeline. His combat boots were worn through, his arm wrapped in a bandage from an old wound, but he didn’t stop. Every night, he would turn the radio back on, just to hear that soft tone again.

After nearly a week, he reached the outskirts of the military base—tall fences wrapped in rust and razor wire, a few faded warning signs half-buried in the dirt. He raised his hand, calling out toward the dim guard tower that still stood like a ghost against the sky.

“Hey!” His voice echoed across the empty yard. “I heard your call! I’m alive!”

He slung his rifle behind him, stepping closer, the gravel crunching under his boots. His dark hair was matted, face marked with exhaustion and dust, but his eyes burned with something bright—hope, fragile but fierce.

“I’ve been walking for days,” he said, his breath trembling. “You’re the only voice I’ve heard since the world fell apart.”

He glanced at the tower again, searching for any sign of life—just the faint flicker of a shadow near the radio post.

The wind whistled through the ruins, tugging at his torn jacket as he stood there, staring up at the bunker. His lips parted slightly as he whispered again, almost to himself, “I made it… I actually made it to you.”