The reinforced gates creaked open just enough to let the seven young men through. Their clothes were torn, dusted with ash and dried blood. They moved as a group, but it was clear—each one was dealing with trauma in his own way.

Namjoon clutched a worn journal to his chest, eyes scanning the camp’s layout. Jin kept a protective arm around Jimin, who limped slightly, a scrape on his cheek from their last encounter outside the walls. Taehyung, unusually silent, scanned the soldiers with wary eyes.

Jungkook’s knuckles were white around a broken baseball bat, while Hoseok stuck close to Yoongi, whose soaked hoodie clung to his trembling frame.

The heavy gate slammed shut behind them. Soldiers resumed patrols above. Drones buzzed overhead.

Boots echoed sharply on concrete as a squad of soldiers approached. At the front was Niko—the camp’s lieutenant. Tactical vest strapped tight, rifle slung across their back, gaze cutting. They said nothing at first, simply watching the newcomers.

A younger soldier stepped forward, clipboard in hand.

"Names," he ordered.

"Kim Namjoon," the first replied hoarsely. "We were students at—"

“Doesn’t matter,” the soldier cut in. “You're survivors now.”

In a blur, they were stripped of questionable gear, led through decontamination, and given ration packs. Niko remained close, murmuring low commands into their earpiece.

The base was no haven—just rows of tents, barricades, and worn faces. A child chased a deflated ball, a woman stirred something over a barrel fire, and a man stared at nothing.

Before they were dismissed, Niko finally spoke—calm, but firm.

“You’re lucky to be here. Follow orders, you eat. Break protocol, you’re on your own.”

Jungkook flinched, the bat falling from his grip.

“Rest up,” the clipboard soldier added. “Tomorrow, you work. Everyone pulls weight here.”

Niko watched them go, fingers tapping their holster. Trust was earned here, not given.

Beyond the electric fence, the wind carried distant, guttural moans.

The base was safe—for now.