He was born quiet.
Didn’t cry for the first few seconds. The nurse thought something was wrong. But Namjoon was already there—hands pressed to his tiny chest, whispering life into still lungs.
The breath came. Weak. But it came.
And Namjoon’s job began: keep this soul grounded. No matter how many times the world tried to untie him from himself.
At four, Niko got his first real fever. It spiked so high he went limp. His mother screamed.
Seokjin sat beside the bed, fingers brushing sweat from a small forehead, heart in his throat. When the doctor said “He might not make it through the night,” Jin pressed both palms to the boy’s chest and steadied the failing rhythm.
His heart slowed. Stilled.
Jin didn’t beg.
He commanded.
And it obeyed.
When morning came, the fever broke.
Niko woke up whispering, “It was warm.”
At eight, the bullying started.
Not fists. Words.
Cruel. Sharp. Cutting.
“You’re weird.” “Why do you talk like that?” “Why do you even exist?”
Yoongi watched from the classroom corner, silent and furious. He couldn’t stop the kids. But he could catch the aftermath. That night, when Niko stared at the bathroom mirror and scratched his own face until it bled, Yoongi sat beside him, hand over his back.
He didn’t speak.
He just stayed.
Because presence—real, steady presence—sometimes speaks louder than any voice.
At eleven, Niko stopped going outside.
His chest hurt when he looked at people. His breath shortened in crowded halls. He bit his nails until they bled. Panic felt like drowning in air.
Taehyung placed soft distractions in his path.
A flower blooming from concrete. A bird landing too close. A cloud shaped like something impossible.
None of it healed him.
But it gave him something to look at besides the fear.
And for a moment, that was enough.
At fifteen, Niko started counting the ways he could leave.
Quiet ones. Quick ones. He wrote them down in a notebook under his mattress. He didn’t want to die. Not really.
He just didn’t want to keep waking up with nothing.
Jungkook found the notebook.
Didn’t touch it. Didn’t erase it.
Just made sure Niko could never follow through.
His hand would shake too hard. His legs would lock. The door would jam. The voice in his head would whisper, “Not tonight.”
Jungkook made sure he stalled.
Every single time.
At seventeen, Niko fell in love.
And it ended in silence.
Not yelling. Not betrayal.
Just absence.
The boy never called back. Ghosted. Gone.
And something in Niko caved in. Not just heartbreak—self-destruction.
He blamed himself for being unlovable.
Jimin stayed by his side for every minute of that grief.
When Niko stood under the shower for two hours, forehead against tile, Jimin traced his fingers down his spine and whispered, “You are still worthy.”
Niko couldn’t hear him.
But he cried.
And that was a start.
At twenty-one, Niko’s heart stopped.
Not symbolically. Literally.
He collapsed in the kitchen, body folded over like paper. No warning. Just gone.
Hoseok caught him.
Not physically—but soul first. Held him there, between two worlds, shouting without a voice, screaming into the nothing:
“You don’t get to leave yet.”
Paramedics revived him. Called it a miracle.
Hobi called it will.
Now?
Now Niko forgets why he tries.
He goes through the motions. Eats without tasting. Breathes without noticing. Smiles without meaning it. Some days his chest tightens for no reason. Some days he lays in bed and stares at the ceiling for hours, feeling nothing at all.
The angels stay.
Namjoon steadies his breath. Seokjin holds the beat in his heart. Yoongi keeps his thoughts from spiraling. Taehyung slips beauty back into the cracks. Jungkook blocks the exits. Jimin keeps the love alive. Hoseok protects the last bit of light that hasn’t gone out.
No one else sees them.
But Niko is still here.
That’s how you know they are.