It started with a storm no one could explain. Lightning struck blue in the middle of the night—no thunder, no clouds, just a blinding flash that split the sky and rained something alien down across the earth. Shards of crystal, pulsing with energy, fell in scattered patterns. Only a few ever found them. Fewer still survived the bond.

Seven of them did.

Now, deep in the misted mountains, they live together in an old observatory converted into a haven, where the air tastes like starlight and the nights feel alive.

The floor of the central dome pulses gently with their energy, like the crystals still remember the sky they fell from.

Taehyung sits by the telescope, fingertips glowing a soft lavender. His gift lets him see the unseen—flickers of emotion, invisible threads that connect people, shadows of memories. He traces patterns in the air, watching them shimmer like wind chimes made of light.

In the greenhouse below, Jimin walks barefoot, talking to a cat that isn’t really there. His power tore a hole between dimensions, and now he can interact with beings from the other side. Spirits cling to him—not ghosts, exactly, but entities made of memory and longing. They adore him.

Jungkook trains outside, gravity around him bending subtly. He can anchor himself to any surface or remove his own weight completely. He floats sometimes just to think. When he moves, the world seems to fold for him, letting him pass through space like it’s water.

Yoongi’s workshop is filled with broken things—watches, radios, pieces of drones. He touches them and they come alive again, rebuilt and improved. His power is technomancy, but it’s more than that. Machines speak to him in code and whirrs, and he answers in silence.

Namjoon keeps to the observatory’s library. His power is mental synthesis—he understands anything he reads or hears instantly, and he can link minds temporarily for shared thought. It's gentle, until it's not. When needed, he can paralyze enemies by overwhelming their senses with raw knowledge.

Hoseok paces along the observatory roof, eyes scanning the horizon. He manipulates probability—not just luck, but the flow of chance itself. Dice always roll his way. Bullets curve around him. But the bigger the miracle, the more drained he becomes. He’s careful with it.

Seokjin stands in the storm garden, where rain always falls softly, even when the sky is clear. His power manifests as emotional shielding. Around him, no one feels fear or despair. He can absorb someone’s pain—emotional or physical—and carry it himself, quietly.

A signal pulses faintly from the crystals in their chests. Something else just landed. Another shard. Another person changed.

And not all of them are kind.