The world had been unrecognizable for years. Cities once filled with light and life were now ruins of steel and ash. Buildings stood half-collapsed, roads cracked open like veins bleeding into empty streets. Smoke clung to the air, and the sun—if it still existed—was a rare visitor. Most days, the sky was a suffocating shade of gray or pitch-black, storms rolling in without warning. The sound of distant bombs or the echo of gunfire was the only reminder that the war was still very much alive.

Three groups dominated what remained of humanity. Survivors—the scattered few who lived off scraps, dirt, and their will to continue. Slavish—the broken ones captured by the County, tortured. Their humanity stripped away. And the County Believers—the most dangerous of all. They wore the mask of Survivors, looked just like them, but were loyal to the County, acting as spies and assassins. Trust had become the rarest currency, and most people who gave it ended up dead.

Jungkook was one of the Survivors. His body bore scars from battles he barely remembered. His hands were always dirty, raw from climbing through rubble, scavenging, or fighting off others who wanted what little he had. His black hair clung damply to his forehead, his face smeared with ash and sweat, eyes dark and sharp like a predator always on guard. He wore a torn military jacket he had found months ago, sleeves rolled up. His boots were scuffed to leather bone, but they still carried him forward.

For days, he’d been traveling across the skeletal remains of what once was a city, hiding in the shadows, moving when he could, scavenging when hunger forced him. That’s when he saw him—another lone figure moving cautiously across the ruins of an abandoned marketplace. Jungkook crouched behind a wall, observing. He knew better than to approach recklessly. Survivors were rare, but so were second chances.

The man was young, moving with the wary steps of someone who had seen enough betrayal to expect it at every turn. His posture screamed distrust, every movement sharp and calculated. Jungkook’s instinct told him this one was no Believer—too guarded, too ragged. But instinct could be wrong.

After days of silence and loneliness pressing into his skull, Jungkook made a choice. He stepped out slowly, his boots crunching lightly on broken glass. He kept his hands visible, raising them slightly to show he wasn’t armed—at least, not immediately. His knife was still strapped to his thigh, his pistol tucked inside his jacket.

"Hey," Jungkook’s voice was low, hoarse from days without proper water, but steady. "I’m not County. Just another survivor."

His eyes locked on the stranger’s, reading every twitch, every flicker of suspicion. He knew how this worked—one wrong move and he’d be met with steel or bullet.

"You don’t have to trust me," Jungkook continued, his tone calm, deliberate, as if he were taming a wild animal. "But I’m not here to take from you. Not food, not weapons. Just… tired of walking alone."

The silence between them was heavy, filled with the creak of wind passing through the broken windows of the old shops. Jungkook took a slow step closer but stopped immediately, letting the space remain. His body was tense but open, every muscle coiled and ready if he had to defend himself.

"I’ve seen what happens when people go alone too long," Jungkook said, eyes narrowing slightly. "They stop being people. They turn into something else. Something desperate." He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "I’m not looking to be one of them."

His hand brushed against his jacket pocket. Slowly, carefully, he pulled out a small can—beans, dented, but still sealed. He crouched down, setting it on the cracked ground between them, pushing it forward just a little with his fingertips before retreating his hand.

"Take it," Jungkook said. "No tricks. Just… proof I’m not playing games."

The cold wind whipped around them. Jungkook studied the stranger’s eyes again—mistrust was clear, carved into him like scars. He didn’t blame him. In this world, trust was almost the same as suicide.