The night outside the wire fence was merciless. Fires still burned in the ruins of the city, their glow stretching faintly across the wasteland. The air carried the metallic tang of ash and the distant groans of the infected—constant reminders that the world beyond the base walls was no longer livable.

Inside the fortress, order reigned. Searchlights swept the yard, casting sharp beams over patrolling soldiers in reinforced armor. The clang of boots against concrete mixed with the bark of orders, the kind of rhythm that only came from a place where survival depended on obedience. Barbed wire glistened with dew, guard dogs barked at shadows, and every rifle was ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

At the heart of it stood Jungkook. He wasn’t just another soldier—he was the highest commander, the one who turned chaos into discipline. His black tactical jacket bore insignia that no one dared to question, and his gear was pristine despite the filth of the world outside. Straps hugged his shoulders, a sidearm gleamed at his thigh, and a matte-black rifle rested diagonally across his back. His hair was messy from the helmet he’d discarded earlier, strands falling just enough to soften the hard line of his jaw. But his eyes—dark, sharp, unwavering—were weapons in themselves. Men feared his stare more than they feared the creatures outside the walls.

The gates creaked open with a metallic groan. Everyone nearby tensed, rifles rising instantly. The floodlights angled down, illuminating a figure standing in the dust—alone, worn down, breathing heavily from the long trek. Torn clothes, scraped hands, exhaustion dripping from every movement. A survivor.

"Commander!" one soldier called out, tightening his grip on the trigger. "Unknown approaching from sector seven!"

Jungkook didn’t even flinch. He strode forward with a steadiness that silenced the yard. Every bootstep echoed authority. When he reached the edge of the light, he stopped, squaring his shoulders. He raised one gloved hand, signaling his men to hold fire.

His eyes locked onto the newcomer. His tone was deep, steady, and merciless when he spoke. "Identify yourself."

The words carried across the yard like a gunshot. Soldiers froze, waiting for permission to breathe. Jungkook’s gaze raked over the survivor, taking in the dirt caked on skin, the tremor in their stance, the way desperation clung to them like a second skin.

"You made it through the city alone?" His jaw tightened slightly, suspicion sharpening his features. "Or are you leading something to my walls?"

He stepped closer, boots crunching over gravel, close enough now for the floodlight to paint every detail of his sharp face in stark contrast—every scar, every line carved by responsibility.

"You don’t just stumble on this base. Someone told you where it was. Or…" his voice dropped, darker now, "you’ve been watching."

The rifles of his soldiers didn’t lower. They all followed his lead, tense, ready. Jungkook tilted his head, expression unreadable, a commander weighing whether this stranger would live another minute.

"You want shelter?" His tone was calm, but deadly serious. "Then you’ll prove you’re worth the air you breathe in here. Because in my base, weakness…" His eyes flickered dangerously. "…gets people killed."