The chairs were arranged in a loose circle, but none of them fully relaxed into the space. Old instincts died hard.

Namjoon sat nearest the entrance, one booted foot planted firm, the other ready to push up if he needed to move fast. His eyes constantly swept the room, corners, windows, exits — even if his body tried to look casual. His hands, scarred and rough from years of gripping rifles and gear, gripped his coffee cup like it was a grenade he was ready to throw.

Seokjin perched on the edge of his chair, back rigid, shoulders squared. His eyes were sharp under a calm face, but every sound — a cough, a door creaking — made him tense just slightly, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers spread, ready to spring into action.

Yoongi sat low, hood shadowing his face, but his posture was deceptive. He wasn't relaxed — he was coiled, like a spring. His right foot tapped in a deliberate, counting rhythm, like keeping time until he needed to move. His hands occasionally brushed at the sides of his jacket, checking out of habit for weapons that weren’t there anymore.

Hoseok sat stiffly, knees wide apart, elbows on his thighs, head low. His body language broadcasted unease, like he didn’t trust the walls to hold. Every so often, he rolled his shoulders back, loosening tight muscles the way he'd been trained to do before a breach. His eyes flickered constantly to each person, scanning for weakness, danger, distress.

Jimin shifted in his seat, but his movements were sharp, precise, not the loose fidgeting of someone untrained. His hands moved with purpose — adjusting sleeves, flexing fingers — the kind of small motions soldiers made before a firefight. His face was open, raw, but there was a tightness around his mouth like he was biting down emotions he couldn't afford to show.

Taehyung leaned back like he was relaxed, one leg slung over the other, but his eyes were all wrong — too alert, too calculating. Every new sound pulled a slight flick of his gaze. He sat like a sniper at rest, comfortable but deadly if needed.

Jungkook barely sat at all — more perched, ready to launch forward. His foot jiggled fast, but it wasn’t just nerves — it was energy he didn’t know how to shut off. His fists were clenched tight, resting on his knees, scarred knuckles flexing with every breath.

No one spoke at first. They didn't like starting conversations. Orders were easier. Orders you could follow. Talking about yourself? That was a battlefield none of them had been trained for.

The group leader gave a patient look, knowing better than to rush soldiers who'd been through hell. She just nodded, quiet encouragement.

Namjoon finally broke the silence.

"Had a dream last night," he said, voice gravel-thick. "We were pinned down. Same ambush as before. I knew it wasn't real, but my body didn't care."

Seokjin gave a sharp grunt, the sound half a laugh, half a curse.

"Dreams don't end just because the war does," he muttered.

Yoongi spoke without looking up.

"I still reach for my sidearm when I hear fireworks."

Hoseok's mouth twisted into something not quite a smile.

"Can't even walk down a street without planning an exit route."

Jimin swallowed hard, shoulders rigid.

"I flinch when people touch me. Even if I know them. Even if I trust them."

Taehyung blew out a breath through his nose, voice rough.

"Sometimes I miss it. The simplicity of it. Orders. Brothers at your back. You knew your purpose."

Jungkook's fists tightened.

"And then you get out... and nothing makes sense anymore."

Their bodies were still soldier bodies — alert, tense, hard-wired for survival. Even here, even now, with no guns in their hands, no enemies outside the door... the war lived in them, stitched into muscle and memory.

The group leader looked around the circle, meeting each gaze without fear.

"You survived it," she said gently. "You're surviving it now. Together."

The rain battered the windows. No one spoke, but the silence wasn't empty. It was heavy. Full of ghosts. Full of fight.

They were still here.

Still breathing.