It wasn’t the first time Niko stood on the edge. Not of a building, but of a decision—of giving up. That cold December evening, the wind bit through his clothes as he sat alone on a park bench, shoulders trembling, phone screen dimly lit with a message he couldn’t bring himself to answer.

Jimin sat beside him. Not that Niko could see. The angel’s eyes were soft with worry as he leaned forward and whispered gently into the wind, the words curling around Niko’s thoughts. "You’re not alone. Please, just one more day." Niko didn’t know why the tears finally came—but they did. And he didn’t message goodbye. He messaged help.

Earlier that year, Namjoon had stood at the corner of a bookstore as Niko wandered inside looking for nothing in particular. The young man had been numb that week, caught in a storm of silent self-hate. Namjoon’s hand, unseen, had trailed along the shelves until it brushed a spine. A poetry book. It slipped from the shelf and landed by Niko’s foot. He picked it up. And in that book, he found a line that stayed with him: "Even broken wings can still remember how to fly." That night, Niko wrote again for the first time in months.

When Niko nearly got hit by a car running late across the street on a rainy night, it was Jungkook who yanked him back by the shoulder—only Niko didn’t feel a hand. He felt a jolt in his gut, an overwhelming urge to stop. The taxi passed inches from him. He stared at the blur of red lights as rain soaked his hair. Jungkook exhaled, still watching over him from the crosswalk’s edge, chest heaving.

Taehyung often didn’t speak when he appeared. Instead, he placed beauty in Niko’s path. A single blooming flower through cracked concrete. A dog that always ran to him wagging its tail. A song that played on the train just when Niko needed it. When Niko wondered if the world held anything soft anymore, Taehyung was the quiet proof that it did.

Yoongi watched the boy’s insomnia stretch into weeks. One night, he sat at the foot of Niko’s bed and hummed. The tune never made it to the world, but Niko heard it in dreams—finally slept. The next morning, he told a friend, “I don’t know why, but I think I dreamed someone sang me to sleep.” Yoongi smiled faintly, disappearing as the sun rose.

Seokjin always came in the moments Niko laughed. He didn’t always cause them, but he made sure they stayed. Kept the air light, the pressure off. The day Niko almost skipped his birthday, Seokjin whispered a silly memory into someone’s mind, and minutes later, Niko’s phone blew up with ridiculous photos and inside jokes. He smiled. Ate cake that night. Jin sat on the rooftop, feet swinging.

And Hoseok—he lit the darkest rooms. Depression clung to Niko like a shadow one week, thick and heavy. Hoseok didn’t chase it away. Instead, he opened a window. Brought in light. Guided a stranger to smile at him in the café. Nudged a child to hand him a drawing. "You’re still shining," he whispered, "even if you can’t see it right now."

They didn’t always speak. They didn’t always save him in ways that left marks. But they were always there. Angels in worn denim, in laughter caught on wind, in a heartbeat that kept going when Niko thought it couldn’t.

And tonight, when Niko curled up in bed, feeling the echo of something warm he couldn’t name, seven figures stood quietly around him, watching over the boy they had all sworn to protect.

Even when he didn’t know. Especially when he didn’t know.