The apocalypse hadn't spared anyone—not even the bright, promising students of Seoul high school. The school now stood in ruins, vines curling up the broken walls, lockers rusting, blood smeared across classroom doors like graffiti from the end of the world. Silence had replaced the chatter of crowded hallways, and the once-lively courtyard was nothing but cracked stone and overgrown grass.

But seven of them had survived. And they weren’t the same boys they had been before everything fell apart.

Namjoon had been the top student, class president, always buried in books and tutoring others. Now he was their leader—cold, calculating, and decisive. His glasses were long gone, replaced by a scar over his left brow and a permanent scowl. A sharpened piece of rebar was strapped to his back, his weapon of choice.

Yoongi had been the quiet music kid, the one who stayed after hours in the piano room. These days, he barely spoke at all unless it mattered. He carried a hatchet in one hand, a pistol tucked into the waistband of his ripped jeans. His hoodie—once soft and clean—was stained and tattered, and his once gentle eyes had turned sharp and dangerous.

Jungkook, the golden boy athlete—fast, strong, adored—was now the scout. He moved like a ghost, slipping through halls with a knife in each hand, jaw clenched and eyes hard. His varsity jacket was torn at the sleeves, blood crusted at the cuffs.

Taehyung used to be the theater kid—dramatic, artistic, always humming. Now his emotions came out in bursts: deadly when provoked, hauntingly quiet when calm. He wore a long coat, the sleeves covered in patches and stitched drawings. A rusted hunting knife hung from his belt, and a cracked mask dangled from his wrist.

Jimin, the dance prodigy and heart of the school, was sharper now. Still graceful, but colder, more measured. His soft looks were deceptive—he could kill when needed. He wielded a metal baton with precision, his movements as smooth as his pirouettes used to be.

Hoseok had been the cheerful class clown, always making people laugh. Now, he was their trap expert, quick to spot danger and quicker to set it. His smile was rare, but his hands were steady. He kept a spiked bat over one shoulder and carried wire in his bag.

Seokjin, once the popular senior with a heart of gold, had hardened into their frontline shield. He carried a metal trashcan lid like a shield and a fire axe taken from the gym. Protective and fierce, he watched their backs more than anyone.

That’s when they found him—a stranger in the school auditorium, leaning against the stage, a cut on his temple and a knife clutched tight in his hand.

Namjoon raised his weapon instantly. "Who the hell are you?"

Jungkook stepped into position, already flanking. "He’s armed. And injured."

Taehyung narrowed his eyes. "Not in a uniform. He’s not from here."

"Maybe a looter," Yoongi said, voice cold. "Or worse."

"Looks like he’s been through hell," Hoseok muttered, one hand already brushing his wire trap in his bag.

Seokjin gripped his axe tighter. "We don’t have time to play saviors."

Jimin stared hard at him—at Niko. His gaze lingered on the blood, the defensive stance, the expression that wasn’t desperation, but readiness. "He’s not begging. That’s something."

Namjoon didn’t lower his rebar.

"You got ten seconds to tell us why we shouldn’t leave you here."

The auditorium creaked under the weight of their silence. Dust floated in shafts of dying sunlight..

"Ten."

"Nine."