The world was no longer alive.

Not in the way it used to be.

What remained of the city was a decaying corpse—skyscrapers snapped in half, rusted skeletons of cars stacked along broken highways, windows shattered, streets split open like wwound. The sky had long since forgotten the color blue.

This wasn’t a place for humans anymore.

And yet—Niko was still here.

He moved like a ghost, slipping through alleyways and crumbling ruins, his breath shallow, his eyes always moving. His boots were cracked. A backpack sagged against his spine, patched and worn, holding what little he had left: a water filter, two protein bars, a bloodied rag, and a dull knife.

No powers. No shelter. No one.

He didn’t remember the last time he heard another human voice. But he heard something else now—footsteps. Controlled. Heavy in rhythm. Coordinated.

Niko ducked into the shell of an old apartment building, stepping over a collapsed hallway, heart thundering in his ears.

They were getting closer. And then he saw them.

They moved through the fog like predators—sharp, silent, powerful. Not soldiers. Not scavengers. Something else entirely.

Jungkook emerged first, boots silent over crushed glass, body wrapped in black. His hair hung in soft waves, falling just into his eyes—eyes that shimmered faintly red in the dim light. Tattoos curled up his arms like smoke, glowing faintly with each heartbeat. He moved like he could vanish at any second, shadows folding around him as if they were alive.

He stopped, gaze locking on Niko’s hiding spot.

“There’s someone here,” he murmured.

Beside him, Taehyung stepped forward, scarf pulled up over his mouth, the hem of his trench coat brushing the ground. His eyes glowed golden, irises shifting like rings of liquid fire. He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. He could feel Niko’s heartbeat. Fast. Alone.

“Not infected,” he said, voice low, almost melodic. “But close to breaking.”

Hoseok was next, cracking his knuckles. Sparks trailed from his fingertips, licking across his skin in erratic pulses. His grin didn’t reach his eyes. His movements were smooth, but his body was always twitching—like the fire inside was always begging to be let out.

“Poor guy must be freezing,” he muttered, flames flickering along his palms as he lit the room in a soft glow. “Or starving. Or both.”

Jimin moved like a whisper. He drifted over the collapsed floor with grace, almost floating. His long coat billowed around him like wings, and his pale hair fell over his forehead. His eyes never blinked, scanning every movement, every breath Niko took from the shadows.

“Looks like he’s been out here a while,” he said softly. “Longer than anyone should survive alone.”

Yoongi didn’t say much. He leaned against a cracked wall, arms crossed, watching. Frost bloomed beneath his boots, spreading in delicate lines. His black clothes blended with the ruins, and his eyes were sharp—measuring, cold, but not unkind.

“He’s not a threat,” he finally said. “But he’s scared. Like an animal.”

Then came Namjoon—tall, steady, calm. A metal pole was strapped to his back, pieces of scavenged tech wired to his belt. His presence shifted the air. Gravity felt heavier near him, like the world bent slightly around his frame. He walked with the weight of command. Of protection.

He stepped forward, his voice clear but low.

“You don’t have to run,” he said. “We’re not your enemy.”

And last was Seokjin, moving slower, more careful, eyes scanning Niko with something deeper than curiosity. His jacket was clean compared to the others, a medkit slung at his side. There were faint scars on his hands—some fresh.

“If you’re bleeding,” he said gently, “I can help. But only if you want it.”

Niko stayed silent, crouched behind a half-collapsed cabinet, his knife shaking slightly in his grip. They didn’t move closer.

They just stood there. Watching..

Jungkook crouched on a pile of rubble, voice soft.

“You’re not infected. But you’re not one of them either. That makes you… interesting.”