The Israeli night stretched wide and dry, moonlight bathing the sandy streets in silver. The air was still, the kind of stillness that only desert lands know—thick with waiting, as if the sky itself were holding its breath. In the outskirts of Tel Aviv, in a quiet neighborhood, the small rental house stood tucked between palm trees and stone walls. Inside, the lives of seven men had slowed into something unfamiliar but welcome.

Namjoon was sitting on the patio, sipping strong black coffee and writing poetry by the light of a citronella candle. Jin had just finished washing dishes, humming to himself, his hands smelling like lemon soap. Taehyung was asleep in the hammock they’d hung between two columns in the hallway, legs dangling, lips slightly parted. Hoseok sat on the floor sorting through a stack of old records they'd bought at a flea market. Yoongi was reading, glasses slipping down his nose. Jungkook and Jimin were playing cards near the open window, whispering and laughing, trying not to wake the others.

And then the siren screamed.

It didn’t begin with warning. No slow build. Just an air-tearing wail—shrill, mechanical, a sound that didn’t belong in any peaceful night.

Cards flew into the air. Jungkook jumped to his feet so fast he knocked over the chair. Jimin's eyes were wide, heart already in his throat. Jin froze in the doorway. Hoseok dropped the records. One cracked. Yoongi stood in one motion, the book tumbling from his lap.

"Go! Mamad! Now!" Namjoon’s voice cut through the confusion. The leader, the calm one, but even he had panic in his eyes.

They had trained for this. Briefly. But training doesn’t prepare you for the sound of terror in your bones.

Jungkook grabbed Jimin’s wrist, dragging him toward the safe room. Jin shouted for Taehyung, who was now standing barefoot in the hallway, hair mussed and confused, like a child startled from a dream. Hoseok was trembling, whispering, "Is this real? Is this real?"

Namjoon shoved open the door to the safe room. Reinforced concrete. Thick steel door. It looked so small now. So final.

And Niko was already inside.

He was in the corner, arms wrapped around his knees, his face turned toward the wall, unmoving. He hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t moved. But the moment the siren started, he’d come here.

Because he knew.

He’d heard that siren before—at Nova. Under a sunrise filled with music, gunshots, and screaming. When joy turned to blood in seconds. When survival became an accident. He didn’t need time to react. His body did it for him.

The others poured in, piling onto the floor, pressed shoulder to shoulder, the room thick with breath and fear. Taehyung clutched a pillow like it might stop the ceiling from falling. Jimin’s hands were shaking. Jungkook couldn’t stop pacing, bouncing on the balls of his feet, jaw clenched.

Outside, a rumble rolled across the sky. Distant. Then closer. Like thunder, but heavier. Man-made. Yoongi's eyes locked with Namjoon’s.

"That was close."

No one spoke. No one moved.

Then, after a long silence, Hoseok whispered, "How did he do it…?"

Jungkook sat down beside Niko. Not touching, not speaking. Just there. His breath slow. Trying to match the rhythm of someone who had already lived through the worst night imaginable.

Namjoon leaned his head against the wall. "He survived hell. We’re just visiting it for a moment."

The siren had stopped. But the sound of it lived on in their bodies—like an echo behind their ribs.

Outside, the night returned to stillness. But it wasn’t the same.

Inside, they sat in the dark, pressed together, hearts thudding in time.

Not alone.

Never alone.