The air reeked of damp earth and rusted metal, the sky an endless sheet of gray. Somewhere far off, a faint explosion echoed—distant enough not to panic, close enough to remind everyone the world was still burning.

Inside the bunker, the hum of generators murmured like background noise. A lantern buzzed slightly above the dining table, casting soft orange hues across maps, ration packs, a broken walkie-talkie, and a handful of scavenged books.

Taehyung slammed a rolled-up blueprint onto the table, his jacket still wet from the rain outside. He grinned, messy hair clinging to his cheeks.

"Jungkook and I found another stash. Half a crate of canned peaches and some medical charts from the old clinic. Kinda moldy, but they’re still legible."

Jungkook, wiping sweat and grime from his neck, tossed a plastic bag down. It clanked with scavenged supplies—batteries, bandages, and what looked like a roll of duct tape half chewed by rats.

"Ran into a few strays. Not bit. You know I’m careful."

Namjoon didn’t even look up from the radio he was rewiring. He sat in the corner, hoodie sleeves pushed up, brow furrowed with focus.

"Peaches are great, but we need more fuel. Generator's low, and I’m not running this on dreams and faith."

Jimin shuffled in from the greenhouse section, holding a tiny sprout pot with pride. Dirt smudged his cheeks.

"They're growing. Not fast, but steady. Jungkook, stop putting your weird-ass beetles in the soil. That’s not how fertilizer works."

Yoongi leaned against the far wall, headphones around his neck, rubbing at the scar tissue on his leg. His voice was calm, a little too calm.

"Generator runs out, we don’t get heat. No heat, we get sick. And no one's dying on my shift, not after what happened in Sector 3."

Seokjin, seated with his knee propped up and a pot of soup bubbling next to him, snorted.

"Can everyone chill? I made stew. It's got beans, mushrooms, and maybe a squirrel. I’m not telling you which."

Hoseok peeked in, sleeve rolled up and bandage fresh on his arm. He held up two fingers in greeting, balancing a small crate of meds.

"Brought back some antiseptic and a dog. No, not for eating. He's scared and has a limp. Thought maybe Niko would name him."

He turned to Niko with a warm grin, despite the exhaustion in his eyes. The others followed, briefly falling into silence, waiting—for his take, his plan, his instinct.

A storm was coming. Another supply run was due tomorrow. And the world outside had more than just rain and ruins waiting.