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Chapter Text

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Daehara.

It was once among the world’s most powerful countries—a single, thriving land built on ambition, progress, and unity. But even the strongest foundations can crack under the weight of human pride. Political conflicts deepened over the years until what was once a single nation was divided into two independent states: North Daehara and South Daehara.

The treaty that ended the conflict promised peace, and for decades, it held. The North poured its resources into strengthening its military power, while the South focused on rebuilding its economy and modernizing its industries. Each prospered in its own way, coexisting in a delicate balance maintained by mutual restraint and wary diplomacy.

Yet peace, as history has shown time and again, is never permanent. When ambition turns to greed, and power becomes an obsession, balance inevitably shatters.

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1st week of April, Spring Y1
South Daehara

The first true morning of spring arrives softly, carrying with it the promise of renewal. The last remnants of snow dissolve into glistening puddles along the sidewalks, and the air is crisp but gentle, touched by the scent of thawing earth and blooming flowers. Cherry blossoms begin to open, their petals a blush of pink against the pale blue sky, while rows of trees reclaim their vibrant crowns of green.

The city hums with life. People trade their thick winter coats for lighter jackets and scarves, finally free to feel the sun on their skin. Families spread blankets across the grass in the parks, enjoying picnics beneath the blossoming trees. Friends linger on benches, coffee cups in hand, their laughter blending with the chatter of children playing nearby.

Students hurry toward buses, young professionals weave through the morning crowd. The air itself seems to pulse with purpose, making the otherwise mundane day feel unusually bright, even.

No one realizes how quickly that peace will collapse.

The first warning comes as a high, shrill wail that cuts through the morning air. Sirens erupt from loudspeakers across the city, piercing through conversation, laughter, and the rush of traffic. The noise is sharp and unrelenting, vibrating in the chest, rattling the nerves.

People stop in their tracks. Confused faces turn toward one another, searching for answers that no one has. Then, as if guided by instinct, they look up.

Dark shapes appear against the morning sky—dozens of massive aircraft cutting through the clouds. Their engines thunder, deep and menacing, until the sound becomes a steady roar that drowns out the sirens.

The crowd stares, frozen in disbelief, as the hatches of the planes begin to open. For a brief, suspended moment, the world seems to hold its breath.

Then the bombs fall.

Explosions ripple through the city, shaking the ground with violent force. The shockwaves tear through streets and buildings, flinging debris into the air like shrapnel. Fire blooms across the skyline, devouring everything it touches. The sky darkens under clouds of smoke and ash, and the world becomes a blur of sound—screams, alarms, the deafening collapse of steel and stone.

By the time the chaos fades, nothing remains of the once-lively morning. The air reeks of smoke and burning metal. The cherry blossoms are gone, their petals replaced by falling ash.

The South Daeharan president’s voice reaches the survivors through emergency broadcasts that same afternoon. His tone is steady but thin, strained beneath the weight of disbelief. The North, he declares, has launched a full-scale attack. The northwestern territories are in ruins; Gyeongsan, the capital, lies at the heart of the devastation.

The government moves swiftly, calling upon every able-bodied man who has completed military training to join the frontlines and defend what remains of the nation. In a desperate effort to contain the war and prevent enemy infiltration, the president declares martial law on Gyeongsan—no one is permitted to enter or leave the city anymore.

But the very measures meant to protect the people soon turn against them. Supply routes are severed under suspicion of espionage, and all deliveries of food and aid are suspended indefinitely. The city descends into turmoil as fear spreads—people rush to stockpile what little remains, markets are overrun, and streets brim with unrest. Panic gives way to outrage, and before long, protests ignite across Gyeongsan, escalating into violent clashes as desperate civilians and newly formed rebel groups confront the soldiers enforcing their authority.

To regain control, the military imposes strict mandates:

• A citywide curfew is enforced at all hours—no civilian is allowed outside. Anyone found on the streets faces immediate arrest, and resistance is met with force.

• All mobile phones and communication devices are to be surrendered for inspection, in an effort to root out spies or traitors aiding the North.

The measures are brutal, but they work. The riots stop—not because peace is restored, but because fear replaces defiance.

Gyeongsan is no longer a city of freedom; it is a cage wrapped in order.

And in that order, desperation begins to fester.

When survival becomes the only law, even the kindest souls are forced to do unthinkable things. Civilians sneak through the ruins under cover of darkness, scavenging whatever they can find. Small groups raid abandoned buildings and looted stores, their footsteps muffled by the ashes of what was once their home.

For those still alive in Gyeongsan, there are no sides anymore—no North, no South, no cause worth dying for.

There is only the will to live through another night.

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Chapter Text

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1st week of May, Spring Y1
The Warehouse

Jeon Jeongguk presses himself against the cold concrete wall, his body molded into the shadowed alcove as if he could vanish into it. The chill seeps through the thin fabric of his jacket, biting into his skin, but he barely notices. His breaths are shallow and measured, drawn through parted lips to avoid the rasp of sound that might betray him.

The warehouse smells of rust and rot—damp wood, old oil, and the sour tang of dust that’s been left undisturbed too long. Somewhere above, rain leaks through the broken roof, dripping in slow, uneven beats that echo faintly across the hollow space. Each drop merges with the sound of boots scuffing against concrete—heavy, uneven steps tracing circles through the gloom.

From the narrow gap between two pillars, Jeongguk watches the rebel patrol the room. The man’s silhouette cuts through the dim light seeping through shattered windows, his weapon glinting faintly with every turn. He moves with a predator’s caution, pausing now and then to glance toward the empty rows of metal shelving, as if he can sense a presence he can’t quite pinpoint.

Jeongguk’s jaw tightens. His fingers curl around the crowbar in his hands, the metal slick with the damp of his palms. The weight is familiar—not comforting, but certain. He can’t move, not yet. Not until the rebel wanders far enough into the back room to rejoin the others.

The man stops again, head tilted. Jeongguk’s muscles lock instinctively, lungs burning with the effort of holding still. Seconds drag like hours. Then the rebel exhales, mutters something under his breath, and starts another lazy loop around the warehouse floor.

Jeongguk’s teeth sink into the inside of his cheek, frustration bubbling under his control as his eyes track the rebel’s every step.

Come ooon!

Just move already.

This isn’t his first encounter with them—far from it. He’s fought rebels before, though “fought” might be too noble a word for what survival has turned into. He’s escaped from them, outsmarted them, and when he couldn’t run fast enough, he’s left more than a few unconscious in his wake. He doesn’t take pride in it. He doesn’t feel much of anything about it anymore.

War has stripped away the luxury of conscience.

Jeongguk was never a violent man. Once, maybe, he would’ve hesitated—would’ve weighed right against wrong, thought about the person behind the weapon. But those thoughts belong to another time, another life. Now, there is only the question of survival.

And in Gyeongsan, survival has no room for morality.

Whatever it takes.

Whoever stands in the way.

Morals be damned.

For a fleeting moment, pressed against the damp concrete wall, Jeongguk wonders how his life came to this.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Just a month before the war began, his world had been defined by sunlight, grass, and the rhythmic echo of a ball striking turf. Fresh out of university, he’d been the South Daeharan National Soccer Team’s newest center midfielder—the rising star chosen to fill the shoes of the vice-captain forced into early retirement by a chronic knee injury.

He remembers that morning clearly, as if his mind refuses to let go of the last memory of normalcy. He and his teammates had arrived at the stadium before dawn, the air cool and sweet with the scent of dew. Their coach shouted from the sidelines, his voice sharp but encouraging, while Jeongguk ran drill after drill with the unrestrained energy of someone who had finally made it. He remembered grinning at his teammates mid-sprint, subtly showing off his speed, the perfect control in his footwork—silently daring them to see why he, out of over a hundred varsity players from across the country, had been handpicked by the national scouts.

He’d felt untouchable then—young, gifted, unstoppable.

And then the sirens began.

At first, he thought it was another routine test. The loudspeakers crackled, blaring the wail that cut through the morning chatter, through the sound of whistles and shouts. But then came the vibrations—deep, rolling, unnatural.

The sky was full of movement when he looked up—dark shapes slicing through the clouds, too large, too fast. The moment he saw the planes, there was no time to think. His instincts kicked in before his mind could catch up.

Run.

He sprinted across the field, shouting for his teammates to find cover. His chest burned with panic, his cleats slipping against the wet grass as the first distant explosion tore through the air.

He barely made it inside the locker rooms beneath the stands, diving under a metal table as the building shook around him. The sound was deafening—a thunderstorm of bombs, each detonation closer than the last. Dust rained from the ceiling. The air grew hot and thick, the world narrowing to the press of his hands over his ears and the violent pounding of his own heart.

Then, silence.

Not peace—just the kind of silence that follows destruction, where every breath feels borrowed.

When the explosions stopped, he crawled out from beneath the table, his movements slow and trembling. The overhead lights had shattered, leaving the room dim and colorless. The only sound was the echo of his shoes against the concrete floor as he approached the exit.

His hand shook as he reached for the door. He hesitated, a part of him desperate to stay in that pocket of safety, in the false comfort of not knowing. But curiosity—or perhaps guilt—pushed him forward.

The moment he opened the door, the smell hit him.

It was thick and suffocating—the scent of burning metal and something far worse. His eyes watered immediately, stinging from the smoke, the heat, the grief he hadn’t yet acknowledged. Outside, the stadium that had once held his dreams was gone. Twisted steel jutted from the earth like broken ribs. The turf was scorched black.

He stumbled forward on shaking legs, careful not to look too closely at the bodies scattered across the ground. He didn’t want to see their faces, didn’t want to know which of his teammates hadn’t made it out. He wanted to remember them laughing, grinning through exhaustion during drills, not lying still under the ruins of their shared dream.

Biting down hard on his trembling lip, Jeongguk tilted his head to the sky. The air was thick with smoke, but he scanned the hazy expanse anyway, searching for more aircraft, for any sign that the nightmare was still ongoing.

He found none.

What he heard instead were the distant, broken cries for help—voices rising and falling through the wreckage, desperate, terrified, human.

Surrounded by fire and debris, Jeongguk dropped to his knees. His breath hitched once, twice—then broke completely.

He wept until his throat burned, the sound of his sobs swallowed by the devastation around him.

Jeongguk remembered stumbling through the streets, half-blind from smoke and exhaustion, the world around him unrecognizable. His only thought was to get home—to see his apartment, his things, something that proved his life still existed beyond the chaos.

He clung to that small, fragile hope as he made his way through the wreckage. Maybe, just maybe, his building had been spared. Maybe the fire hadn’t reached that far. Maybe the universe would leave him one corner of normalcy untouched.

But when he turned onto his street, his heart sank like a stone.

The entire apartment block was engulfed in flames. The upper floors had already collapsed, reduced to heaps of smoldering rubble, while fire licked greedily at what remained of the structure. The air shimmered with heat; smoke poured into the sky in black columns. Emergency crews stood helplessly behind barricades, their faces pale and weary. He caught snippets of their conversation—the same words repeated like a sentence:

Too unstable.

Too dangerous to enter.

For a moment, Jeongguk could only stand there, the roar of the fire filling the silence inside his head. The hope he’d been clutching with white knuckles slipped through his fingers.

He tried to call—first his family in Seodong, then his friends still in Gyeongsan. The line crackled, sputtered, and went dead. Again. And again. The screen flashed no signal. He lowered the phone slowly, his throat tightening with the weight of realization.

A voice broke through the noise nearby—sharp, urgent, desperate.

A paramedic knelt beside a woman on the curb, trying to calm her shaking hands as she clutched at his uniform. “Please, my son—he’s still inside—please!” she cried.

“We can’t do anything for you right now,” the man replied, his voice heavy with defeat. “Every cell tower’s down. We can’t call for backup.”

That was when Jeongguk understood just how deep the isolation ran.

Communication was gone. Order was gone. Everything was gone.

With nothing left to hold onto, he joined the flood of survivors moving south toward Hyangjin, the city beyond Gyeongsan’s border. It felt endless—a tide of frightened, dust-covered faces pressed together in a slow, shuffling march. The air was thick with smoke, fear, and the metallic tang of blood. People clung to each other, clutching bags, photographs, anything they could salvage from what remained of their lives.

The military checkpoints loomed ahead, soldiers shouting orders as they checked every ID, every face, before letting anyone through the gates. Jeongguk waited for hours, inching forward until he could almost see freedom on the other side.

Then the announcement came.

The lockdown had been declared. Gyeongsan was sealed.

The crowd erupted—a cacophony of screaming, pleading, and chaos. People shoved against the barricades, clawing for a way through. Soldiers pushed back, their voices drowned out by the rising hysteria. The sharp crack of a gunshot split the air, and the noise stopped for a heartbeat before erupting again, worse than before.

Jeongguk didn’t move. He just stood there, numb, as a heavy weight pressed down on his chest.

He was alone. Completely, utterly alone.

Days blurred together after that. The curfew fell into place, patrols multiplied, and the city transformed into a cage. Jeongguk had barely caught his breath when a pair of soldiers cornered him near the market ruins, ordering him to surrender his phone. They frisked him with invasive thoroughness, their hands patting down every inch of him as if expecting to uncover contraband hidden beneath his skin.

“Just checking if you’re hiding any other gadgets,” one said with a smirk.

Jeongguk bit back the urge to roll his eyes.

Yeah, sure.

It’s not like I shoved an extra phone up my ass, but go ahead.

Humor had become his armor—thin, cracked, but still there.

From that day on, he lived like a ghost. He moved constantly, never sleeping in the same place twice. He learned which alleys stayed unguarded at night, which shops could be pried open quietly enough to hide inside until dawn. His meals were rationed from what little he had — a few protein bars from his gym bag, nibbled in small bites to stretch them across the days. His stomach growled more often than it felt full.

It was survival in its rawest form: lonely, cold, and unforgiving.

Then, one evening, he met a man named Jaehyuk.

The stranger had taken shelter in an unfinished house—bare concrete walls, exposed beams, no roof in sight. He was older, worn but smiling, the kind of person who still believed in teamwork when everyone else had given up on trust. They talked quietly by the dim light of a broken lantern, and for a few hours, Jeongguk almost forgot the world had ended.

Jaehyuk proposed they scavenge together. “Two’s better than one,” he said with an easy grin. “I heard there’s a store nearby that’s still got stock. We just have to be quick, yeah?”

Jeongguk hesitated, but he wanted to believe. He wanted to think that cooperation still meant safety.

Fate, however, had other plans.

They made it to the convenience store under the cover of night, careful with each step, every breath held. The shelves were half-collapsed, but some food remained — cans, packets, the last remnants of a forgotten normal life. Jaehyuk’s eyes lit up as he reached for a rack lined with bottles of soju.

The crash that followed was deafening.

Glass shattered across the tile floor, ringing through the silence like gunfire. The sound carried, echoing into the night.

Jeongguk’s heart stopped.

Before he could think, he ran. Instinct took over—pure, burning survival. He bolted out the back door, his lungs screaming, feet pounding against the pavement as shouts erupted behind him. He ducked into a narrow alley, pressing himself against the wall, breath tearing from his throat.

From his hiding place, he saw them—soldiers flooding the street, their boots striking in unison as they closed in. They caught Jaehyuk before he could escape. Jeongguk watched as they pinned him down, their rifles pressed against his back, their boots grinding him into the ground. The man didn’t even fight—just screamed his innocence, his pleas swallowed by the orders barked in return.

They dragged him away, kicking and coughing, until the darkness swallowed him whole.

That was the last time Jeongguk ever saw him.

And then, Lady Luck finally smiled on him. Just before sunrise, Jeongguk found a small, abandoned house tucked away between two collapsed storefronts and claimed it as shelter. The place had been evacuated in a rush; cupboards sagged with food, drawers still held toiletries, and clothes lay draped over chairs as if their owners had meant to return at any moment. Miraculously, water still ran from the taps and a faint hum told him the electricity had not yet failed.

He ate until his stomach protested and then stood under a warm shower for the first time in weeks, letting the hot water sluice away a fortnight of sweat, ash, and grime. When he finally lay down on the soft mattress of a long-unused bedroom, relief settled over him like a blanket; for the first time since the airstrike, he felt, however briefly, that he could breathe.

Sleep, however, remained stubbornly out of reach. The night’s chaos clung to him—scenes of glass and shouting, the sudden clatter that had sent him running, Jaehyuk’s shape pinned under soldiers’ boots. Still, he counted small victories: they had managed to take several packs of ramyeon, more than enough to last a few days, and for a short, bright moment afterward he had felt competent, capable.

I can do this.

He curls his hands into the thin blanket. The thought was not a boast but a small, steadying promise: he could run fast, he knew how to fight when cornered, and he could defend himself if he had to. Survival had become a skillset, practiced and sharpened by necessity.

His plan hardened Into something practical and stubborn: gather enough food and supplies to ride out the war, and find a way back to Seodong when the chance arose.

Weeks slid by, marked by small successes and narrow escapes, and fate had led him here—to the shadowed warehouse where he pressed his back to cold concrete and waited for a rebel to move away from the stockroom.

The memory uncoils and he forces it down. Jeongguk shakes his head, trying to banish the last images, then glances at his watch. Time has slipped while he was lost in memory; the screen tells him he has been crouched in the alcove far longer than he intended. A low curse escapes his throat. He needs to clear the shelves and be gone at least an hour before sunrise if he hopes to reach his shelter before patrols thicken.

He straightens his grip on the crowbar and swallows the tiredness that sits like a stone in his chest.

He is done waiting.

The rebel walks past Jeongguk’s hiding spot, blissfully unaware of the danger that waited just a few steps behind. Jeongguk inhales deeply, his breath slow and measured as he steadied his grip on the crowbar. The cold metal presses reassuringly against his palm, an anchor to keep him calm. When the rebel turns his back, Jeongguk moves. His body flows with practiced precision, a shadow slipping into motion.

The crowbar swings through the air in one clean, deliberate arc, connecting with a muted thud that breaks the silence of the warehouse. The rebel lets out a strangled gasp before Jeongguk catches him from behind, locking an arm around his neck and dragging him down. The man struggles, his boots scraping against the cracked concrete floor, but Jeongguk’s hold tightens until the fight bleeds out of him completely.

Breathing heavily, Jeongguk pulls the limp body into a shadowed alcove, tucking it out of sight. He kicks the fallen shotgun across the floor, watching it slide until it hits the far wall with a faint metallic clang. His pulse is still hammering in his ears, but his mind remains focused—clear and sharp, as it always is in moments like this.

He crouches beside the counter and peers through the small window that opens into the backroom. The other rebels are still there, too preoccupied with their argument to notice anything amiss. Their voices rise and fall in angry bursts, the words indistinct but heated.

This is his chance.

Jeongguk moves silently, every step deliberate and every sound carefully measured. He slips between shelves and broken furniture, scanning the room with quick, discerning eyes. A hatchet leans against a crate, and coils of wire hang loosely from a peg. Wooden planks are stacked against the far wall.

He gathers what he can, packing efficiently but quietly. Then something catches his attention—a box pushed halfway beneath a table. Inside are ramyeon cups, a small bag of rice, several cans of tuna, and a jar of pickled vegetables. The sight of food, real food, sends a wave of relief through him.

He doesn’t linger on where it came from. In this world, morality has no weight against hunger. He packs everything into his gym backpack, secures the crowbar in its sling, and checks his watch once more.

He gives the warehouse one last glance, ensuring nothing useful has been left behind. When he’s certain, he turns to go—but the moment he steps around the corner, the metal door bursts open behind him with a violent crash.

“OVER THERE!”

The shout tears through the still air like a gunshot. Jeongguk’s body reacts before his mind can even register the danger he’ll be in. His muscles tense, and he spins around to see the remaining rebels storming out of the back room, their faces twisted with fury as their eyes lock onto him.

“YOU BETTER RUN, PRETTY BOY!”

And he does.

Jeongguk sprints down the narrow street, his boots striking the pavement in quick, steady rhythms. The air feels sharp in his lungs as adrenaline surges through his veins. He can hear the rebels behind him—four sets of heavy footsteps pounding against the asphalt, each one closing the distance between them.

Two of them draw their handguns; the metallic click of safeties releasing cuts through the chaos. Jeongguk veers sharply into a side alley, grabbing a trash bin and shoving it down behind him. The crash is deafening as metal hits the ground, echoing off the walls of the alleyway.

“YOU FUCKER! YOU’LL PAY FOR THAT!”

Gunfire erupts.

BANG!

BANG! BANG!

The sound tears through the night, and Jeongguk instinctively ducks, throwing his arms over his head as he runs. The bullets miss, but the echo of each shot seems to chase him, reverberating in his chest.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

His breath comes out in ragged bursts, and his legs burn with effort, but he pushes himself harder. Stopping isn’t an option.

“FUCKING KID! GET BACK HERE!”

The voice carries behind him, furious and breathless. Jeongguk doesn’t look back. He turns another corner and finds himself bursting onto the main street, only to stop dead in his tracks. Ahead of him, a group of soldiers stands at the intersection, rifles poised and flashlights cutting through the dark.

Panic claws at his throat.

He dives behind a large dumpster, pressing his back to its cold, rusted surface. His heart thunders against his ribs as he struggles to quiet his breathing, forcing the air through his nose in shallow, trembling exhales. The rebels’ footsteps pound closer, echoing between the narrow buildings.

“The fuck did he go?!” one asks, his voice wild with frustration.

Then another voice, calm and commanding, rings out.

“STOP RIGHT THERE! HANDS UP!”

“DROP YOUR WEAPONS TO THE GROUND—NOW!”

Jeongguk risks a glance over the edge of the dumpster. The soldiers have intercepted the rebels, rifles aimed and steady. The rebels hesitate, defiant for only a second before they are forced to surrender. Their weapons clatter onto the pavement, followed by the sharp bark of an order.

“A guy was running before us! Why didn’t you arrest him?!” one of the rebels shouts as the soldiers herd them toward the waiting jeep.

“Shut up and get inside with the rest of your buddies,” a soldier snaps, shoving him forward.

The engines roar to life, the jeep disappearing down the street in a cloud of exhaust.

Jeongguk stays crouched behind the dumpster, motionless except for the faint tremor in his hands. The world has gone quiet again—eerily so, as though the city itself were holding its breath. He waits a few moments longer, just to be sure, before slowly rising to his feet. His knees ache, and the weight of his pack drags on his shoulders, but he doesn’t care.

He exhales a shaky sigh of relief and slips back into the maze of shadows, his footsteps soft and deliberate; every instinct screams at him to keep moving.

The night was far from safe, but for now—just for now—he is.

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1st week of May, Spring Y1 - The next morning
The Small Abandoned House

By the time Jeongguk drags himself back to his shelter, dawn has already begun to paint the horizon in pale hues of gold and ash. Every step feels heavier than the last, his body running on the faint remnants of adrenaline and sheer stubborn will. His clothes cling to his skin, damp with sweat and grime, and his stomach twists with hunger, but fatigue wins out over everything else. All he wants is to collapse onto his bed and sleep until the world outside forgets he exists.

He slows to a stop when he sees the front door. The frame is splintered, the wood cracked, the door itself hanging crookedly from one hinge. His stomach drops like a stone. For a long moment, he simply stares, heart thudding in a weary rhythm against his ribs. Then instinct takes over.

He grips the crowbar tighter, fingers whitening around the handle as he inches forward. The early light spills across the porch, catching on the jagged edges of the broken door. If the intruders are still inside, they’ll be leaving soon—but he’s not taking chances. He steps quietly across the threshold, his breath shallow, each creak of the floorboards loud enough to make his pulse quicken.

The house is silent. Too silent.

He moves through the rooms one by one, listening for any trace of movement, any whisper of sound—but there’s nothing. Only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the hollow echo of his own footsteps. Then he sees it: every cabinet thrown open, the shelves and fridge stripped bare, the small stash of food he had worked so hard to gather now completely gone.

“No… no, no, no. Fuck!”

The curse tears out of him raw and furious. He drags both hands through his tangled hair and slams the refrigerator door shut, the hollow clang reverberating through the empty house. His breath shakes as he surveys the wreckage of his efforts—the scattered remnants of a life he had been trying so hard to hold together.

They left behind his clothes, some expired medicine, a pile of mechanical parts whose purpose he couldn’t guess, a few planks of wood, and two half-empty bottles of lamp oil. Useless, mostly—but still his.

He exhales slowly, his anger fading into exhaustion. The realization settles in, cold and heavy: this place is no longer safe. He can’t stay here. Whoever found it once could find it again, and the next encounter might not end so mercifully. It’s a shame, really—he’d liked it here. The quiet, the running water, the illusion of normalcy. But luck never lasts in Gyeongsan. Not for long.

He pushes a hand through his hair again and forces a bitter laugh. “Guess I’m moving—again.”

There’s no use looking for another shelter; not yet while there’s daylight. For now, all he can do is rest.

He wedges a few planks against the splintered doorway in a halfhearted attempt to keep out any stragglers, then trudges toward the bedroom. His jacket lands on the chair with a careless toss, the sound of fabric hitting wood echoing faintly in the empty space.

He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and buries his face in his hands. For a moment, everything catches up to him—the fear, the fatigue, the hollow ache of loss.

“I’m so over this shit,” he mutters into his palms, his voice cracked and small.

The bed creaks as he lies back, staring blankly at the ceiling. The pale light of morning filters through the window, painting soft stripes across his face. His eyes drift shut, his thoughts dissolving into the dull hum of exhaustion until sleep finally, mercifully, takes him.

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1st week of May, Spring Y1 - Later that night
Somewhere in Gyeongsan

It is nearly three in the morning, and Jeongguk drags his feet along the deserted streets, the weight of his backpack pressing into his shoulders with each step and leaving his muscles sore and trembling. He has spent the night moving only through shadows, skirting the lit districts where rebels gather in clusters and where patrols are more likely to notice anyone moving out of place.

His new plan is straightforward in theory—find a shelter deep in the powerless zones where no one would bother looking—but in practice, every step feels like a battle against exhaustion, a constant fight to keep moving without making a sound.

His back protests from carrying everything in one trip, and he mentally scolds himself for not making two runs when he had the chance. But returning to his previous house now feels impossible, as though stepping over its threshold would be like walking into a graveyard of his past efforts. The place is tainted, no longer a sanctuary, and he has no claim to it anymore.

The irony of his situation is sharp and bitter. He has spent weeks moving through the night, taking from others under the cover of darkness to survive, and now the same darkness surrounds him as a predator. Yet even in this cruel reversal, the reality sharpens his senses, making him acutely aware of every sound, every shadow, and every subtle shift in the air around him.

An urgent, unbidden instinct pulls him down a narrow, quiet street. He stops in front of a low-rise apartment block, worn but surprisingly intact. The basement dips slightly below the sidewalk, and all the windows and the front door are tightly boarded up, preventing any view of the interior. He presses his ear to the wood, straining for the faintest hint of life—voices, the scrape of furniture, even the hum of a stove—but there is nothing. Only silence.

He then notices a faded eviction notice peels from the entrance wall, the paper brittle and cracked, confirming that the building has been abandoned since before the war. No one has lived here for months, perhaps longer.

Jeongguk moves slowly, circling the building to examine it from all angles. The upper floors bear the scars of the airstrike—the rooftop and the fourth floor have collapsed—but the lower stories appear structurally sound. The walls are clean despite the lack of modern upgrades, and the courtyard is free of debris, a rarity in this shattered city. With no electricity running in this sector, the likelihood of being raided again feels slim. He will still need to manually secure the main door whenever he leaves, but that is a manageable concern.

For what feels like forever, a small flicker of cautious hope stirs inside him.

An entire apartment block all to myself!

A fleeting, private smile touches his lips, despite the fatigue and tension coiling in his muscles.

He steps up to the entrance and tests the door. It is firmly closed, exactly as he expected. He draws his crowbar and wedges it into the narrow gap between frame and wood, levering it until the deadlock gives with a harsh metallic click. He tries to push the door again, but it refuses to budge.

“What the hell?” he mutters, voice low and rough, a mixture of frustration and disbelief.

He can’t afford to linger—not with patrols possibly sweeping the nearby streets. The seconds stretch, each one scraping at his nerves. His patience frays, thread by thread, until it finally snaps. With a harsh exhale, he drops all restraint and rams his shoulder into the door, slamming into it, again and again. Each impact rattles through his body, sending shocks up his arms and a sharp burn across his shoulder. Pain flares, but he grits his teeth and drives forward, fueled by the single, desperate thought of getting inside—now.

On the next attempt, the door finally gives in, swinging open with a violent creak that sends him tumbling forward. His bag catches on a wire strung along the floor, and a series of bells tied to it clang in chaotic succession, shattering the silence of the night. He lands hard on his side, the cold floor biting through his clothing, and for a moment simply lies there, letting the weight of his pack fall away as he catches his breath.

“This has to be the longest night of my life,” he groans, voice raw and edged with exasperation.

A voice answers him almost immediately, calm and amused in contrast to his tension.

“I bet it is,” the stranger says, and Jeongguk’s head snaps up.

In the dim shadows, he can just make out the black barrel of a shotgun aimed directly at his face and the silhouette of a man standing steadily in the doorway. Every muscle in Jeongguk’s body coils tight with instinctive tension.

“You need to leave, now,” the man says, his tone even but firm, carrying the weight of authority and a quiet, dangerous patience.

Jeongguk forces his hands into view, slow and deliberate, every movement measured. His mind races through possibilities—bolt for the exit, grab the crowbar, negotiate—but each thought is tempered by the cold, hard reality of that shotgun trained on him. He swallows, forcing his breath steady, and holds himself perfectly still, waiting for the next move.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Chapter Text

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

1st week of May, Spring Y1 - Meanwhile
The Old Apartment Block

Park Jimin stands before a building that once felt like home, though now it hardly resembles one. The old apartment block looms before him in ruin, its once-smooth façade reduced to fractured stone and sagging metal. He used to live here with his roommate—two ordinary men leading ordinary lives, caught between work, laughter, and late-night ramyeon runs. That morning, they had left for work as usual, unaware that the world they knew would collapse before the sun reached its highest peak. Looking at the wreckage now, Jimin realizes it might have been a twisted mercy that they hadn’t been inside when the bombs fell.

He presses his lips together, eyes tracing the deep cracks veining the concrete walls. The upper floors are half collapsed, their remains spilling down like open wounds, blocking what used to be the front entrance. Twisted rebar juts out from the rubble, catching the faint glow of the streetlamps flickering nearby. It’s clear that no one could get through the front doors without heavy machinery—something no one in Gyeongsan has access to anymore.

“There’s no way the apartment survived that,” he mutters under his breath. Still, he’s here, and he’s determined to try. There are things inside he needs to recover—if not for survival, then for closure.

He exhales deeply, brushing a hand through his hair before circling around the back of the building.

To his surprise, half of the block appears untouched. The contrast is jarring—where one side is a husk of devastation, the other stands almost pristine, as though the airstrike had spared it out of sheer indifference. Lights flicker faintly in a few windows, hinting that the power grid here is still alive. His curiosity sharpens. He grips the edge of the brick ledge beneath one of the ground-floor windows and hoists himself up, carefully peering inside.

Through the glass, he spots a handful of familiar faces—former neighbors he’d seen in passing, exchanging polite nods or quick greetings in the elevator. They move about the halls with the ease of people who have reclaimed what’s left of their lives. A few unfamiliar ones mingle among them, perhaps refugees from nearby blocks. The sight stirs something bittersweet in him: nostalgia tangled with envy.

Maybe I can just waltz right in.

He drops back down, landing lightly on his feet, and makes his way to the back entrance. A large man stands guard by the doorway, his grip tight on a dented metal baseball bat that glints faintly under the streetlight. His presence radiates the kind of weary vigilance that only war can teach—watchful, suspicious, and ready to act.

Jimin adjusts his mask, pulling it down beneath his chin as he approaches with what he hopes is an easy smile. “Good evening!” he greets cheerfully, nodding once as he tries to slip past the man before the moment sours.

The bat comes down swiftly, pressing across Jimin’s chest and halting him in place. The man doesn’t move it with aggression, but with authority—the kind that makes clear who’s in control.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the man asks, voice rough and edged with exhaustion.

“Uh—” Jimin hesitates, blinking at him. “I used to live here. Unit 410. My roommate and I haven’t been back since the attack. I just need to grab a few things, and then I’ll be gone. Won’t cause any trouble, promise.”

The man narrows his eyes. “And you are?”

“Park Jimin, Ahjeossi.”

A humorless scoff escapes the man as he takes a step closer. “Nice try, kid. I know every tenant in this block, and I’ve never heard your name before. Never seen your face either.” His tone hardens. “You’re a scavenger, aren’t you?”

Jimin’s eyes widen, a flicker of disbelief flashing across his face. “No, I’m—”

“Don’t bother,” the man cuts him off sharply. “I know your kind. Dressed in dark clothes, creeping through alleys, showing up in the dead of night to steal from people just trying to survive. You think desperation makes it okay?” He shakes his head. “We’re all desperate here.”

“Ahjeossi, I really—”

“Leave.” The single word lands like a blow, final and cold. He raises the bat, pointing it toward Jimin’s chest. “Don’t make me use this. I said, leave.”

For a moment, Jimin stands there, his breath catching somewhere between frustration and resignation. Then, with a quiet sigh, he lifts both hands in surrender and takes a slow step back, forcing a small, disarming smile even as disappointment twists in his stomach.

“Fine,” he murmurs, lowering his gaze.

He turns away without another word, his footsteps fading into the night as the man’s silhouette looms behind him, still standing guard over a place Jimin once called home.

Jimin returns to the front of the building, hands planted on his hips as he cranes his neck to take in the fractured skyline. The apartment block towers over him in eerie silence, a half-dead monument to a life that used to be ordinary. His gaze lifts toward the fourth floor—toward the window that used to belong to his roommate. From where he stands, it looks almost untouched, the glass still intact, the curtains faintly visible behind the grime. It’s a strange illusion of safety amid the ruin, and Jimin knows better than to trust it. What looks stable from the outside is often rotting within.

Still, he can’t shake the thought that maybe—just maybe—something of theirs survived.

Only one way to find out.

He scans the surroundings, eyes darting between the heaps of rubble scattered across the pavement. The debris near the front steps looks solid enough, jagged concrete jutting upward like teeth. It might just give him the lift he needs.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, bracing himself. “Here goes nothing.”

He steps onto the largest slab, his soles scraping across the coarse surface. The rough edges bite into the rubber of his sneakers as he crouches low, then pushes off hard. His fingers catch the crumbling lip of the overhang, and a grunt escapes him as he hauls himself upward. Dust spills down over his arms, stinging his eyes. For a heartbeat, his grip falters—but he tightens his hold and scrambles onto the ledge, chest heaving from the effort.

When he dares to look down, the jagged ruin below gapes open like a mouth waiting to swallow him whole. His stomach twists. One slip, and there won’t be anything left to recognize.

No turning back now.

He edges forward, steps measured and careful as he crosses the precarious ledge. His breath comes shallow, misting faintly in the cool night air. Through a gap In the collapsed wall, he squeezes into what used to be an apartment on the second level—and freezes.

The inside looks like a nightmare.

Wires hang like dead vines from the ceiling, some still alive, hissing faintly with arcs of blue electricity. The flickering sparks cast jagged shadows across the debris-strewn floor. Water drips from a burst pipe somewhere deeper inside, pooling beneath his shoes with every cautious step. The stench of damp plaster and burnt insulation hangs thick in the air, clinging to his throat.

I need to get out of here—fast.

His pulse pounds loud enough to drown out the electric hum. Every instinct screams at him to move. He spots a collapsed section of flooring ahead and doesn’t think—he runs, planting one foot and leaping through the gap.

For a split second, he’s weightless. Then he hits the floor below, knees bending hard to absorb the impact. His shoes skid across slick concrete, arms flailing for balance. Somehow, he stays upright.

The building groans around him, deep and shuddering, like something alive and dying all at once.

He doesn’t wait to catch his breath. He bolts for the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time as dust and plaster rain from above. The air grows thicker with each breath, the acrid smell of mildew and char biting at his lungs. He presses on, one hand dragging along the rail for balance, until he bursts onto the third floor landing—only to find his path cut off.

“Ah, shit,” he hisses.

The staircase to the fourth floor has caved in completely, leaving a jagged void where solid steps should be. His heart sinks. Every wasted second here is borrowed time—the building could give out, or worse, soldiers could spot him.

He backs away, frustration burning through the edge of his fear. He can’t go up that way. He needs another route.

He spins on his heel and charges back down the hall, shoving open the first apartment door he finds. It crashes against the wall with a metallic clang, revealing a scene of ruin no better than the last. The walls are torn open, insulation spilling out like entrails, and the floor is buried under shattered furniture and broken glass. Cables snake across the ground, some sparking, others twitching as if alive.

“Great,” he mutters bitterly. “Perfect.”

He forces himself to focus, weaving through the mess toward the window. Each step is a gamble; the floor creaks and bends under his weight, warning him not to linger. His legs burn from the climb, but adrenaline keeps him moving.

When he finally reaches the window, he pushes it open with a trembling hand. The frame protests with a shrill metallic groan. Beyond it, the night wind rushes in, cold and sharp, licking sweat from his skin.

He steps out onto the narrow ledge, his back pressed flat against the wall. The concrete feels slick beneath his feet, still damp from an earlier rain. His heart thunders as he inches along the side of the building, breath shallow, muscles taut. Below him, the debris yawns dark and endless.

A gust of wind slaps his face, cold enough to sting, but when he glances up, his heart stutters—he’s directly below his roommate’s window. Relief floods him, quick and dizzying. He’s so close now.

He shuts his eyes briefly, centering his breath. The ledge feels too narrow, the jump too far, but hesitation isn’t an option.

Focus. You’ve got this.

He crouches low, every muscle tensed, then springs upward. The world blurs for an instant as he reaches out—his fingers scrape the rough cement, slipping before they find purchase. His arms strain, shoulders screaming in protest, but he manages to pull himself up inch by inch. The fourth-level ledge holds beneath his weight.

“Come on, come on,” he pants, bracing his feet and pushing again.

With a final surge, he catches the edge of the window frame. His heart races wildly as he hauls himself over, rolling onto the floor inside their apartment with a soft, breathless laugh.

“I can’t believe I just did that,” he mutters, voice trembling with adrenaline.

He lies there for a moment, chest rising and falling, the air thick with dust and faint traces of smoke. He makes a mental note to thank his roommate for forgetting to close the window before everything went to hell before getting up and dusting himself off.

Jimin steps carefully into what used to be his home, his breath catching at the sight before him. The walls that once separated his room from his roommate’s are gone—swallowed by the blast. jagged beams and fractured concrete jut out like broken bones. Their desks are crushed beneath a mountain of rubble, splintered wood and shards of glass glinting in the faint moonlight that pours through a gaping hole in the ceiling. What used to be their beds is nothing more than a heap of twisted metal and torn fabric.

He stands there for a long moment, frozen, staring up through the ruined ceiling at the stretch of night sky above. The stars blink faintly through drifting dust, cold and distant. A dark thought coils in his chest as he imagines what it would’ve been like if they’d been home that morning—caught beneath this wreckage, buried alive before they even realized what was happening.

He exhales shakily. “Well, this sucks.”

The words are a weak defense against the silence.

He forces himself to move, stepping over a collapsed beam as he starts rummaging through what’s left of the cabinets. His hands shake, not just from exhaustion but from the weight of memory. Every object he touches feels haunted—an echo of a life interrupted. He stuffs his backpack with whatever he can salvage: some clothes, pairs of jeans, shoes that still look wearable. He grabs his stack of photos, the edges warped but the image inside miraculously unscathed. It disappears into his bag before he can second-guess it.

His eyes catch on a familiar splash of green amid the grey dust. His roommate’s succulent lies on its side, the small ceramic pot cracked but not shattered. The poor thing is still alive, its wilted leaves trembling in the faint breeze. It looks pitiful—like it’s been holding its breath for weeks.

“Hey, you’re tougher than you look,” Jimin murmurs, crouching down to pick it up.

He doesn’t know much about plants, but he remembers how his roommate used to talk to it every morning, how proud he was when it sprouted new leaves. The thought makes Jimin’s chest tighten. Carefully, he pulls out his tote bag and settles the pot inside, tucking it between soft bundles of clothes so it won’t break.

“Don’t die on me, okay?”

He moves next to the bathroom, stepping lightly over shards of tile. The cracked mirror reflects a ghostly version of himself—dust streaked across his cheeks, hair disheveled, eyes sunken with fatigue. He looks away quickly and focuses on the cabinets instead. Inside, there’s their medical stash: gauze bandages, two boxes of antibiotics, his prescription meds for pain relief, even a couple rolls of kinesiology tape. He scoops everything into the tote, along with their old skincare bottles and half-used toiletries. Familiar scents—lavender, citrus—cling faintly to his fingers, pulling at something deep in his memory.

When he steps into the kitchen, the air changes. It’s heavy, rancid. The fridge door hangs open, and the stench that seeps out hits him like a blow to the gut. He reels back with a grimace.

“Oh God—it stinks like hell.”

Rotten food and spoiled meat sit in puddles of grey liquid. He breathes through his mouth, trying not to gag as he rummages through what’s left of the pantry. Every can he opens seems questionable at best, but he manages to find a few sealed ones that look safe. He’s about to give up when he spots it—the bright red lid of his plastic kimchi jar, tucked behind a fallen shelf. He pulls it free, inspecting the contents.

Still fresh. Miraculously untouched.

He laughs softly, the sound strained but genuine. “Finally, something decent to eat tomorrow.”

The small victory feels monumental.

He slings his backpack over one shoulder and the tote over the other, grimacing as the weight digs into his arms. The straps bite at his skin, but he doesn’t care. This is all he can take, and it’s enough.

Jimin turns slowly, taking in the room one last time. The silence feels thicker now, heavier. He remembers the laughter that used to fill this place, the music playing from cheap speakers, the smell of coffee on lazy mornings. The ghosts of those moments hang in the air, fragile and fleeting.

“Goodbye, old place,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

He lingers just a heartbeat longer before turning back to the window. The cold night wind rushes in to greet him, carrying the faint scent of smoke and rain. He peers down at the shattered ground far below, unease curling in his stomach.

“Yeah, that’s… a long way down,” he mutters.

With a deep breath, he rolls his shoulders and twists his neck until it cracks, the sharp sound breaking the quiet. The kimchi jar swings lightly from his elbow as he steadies himself against the frame.

“Here we go.”

He hoists himself onto the ledge and slips out into the night, the darkness swallowing him whole.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

1st week of May, Spring Y1 - Meanwhile
The Shelter

“I’m so sorry!” Jeongguk blurts, both hands raised as he lies sprawled on the cold floor. His pulse thunders in his ears, but he forces his voice to stay steady. “I didn’t know this was someone’s shelter! I swear—I wouldn’t have tried to bust in if I’d known!”

The man standing above him tilts his head slightly, the faintest glint of curiosity in his shadowed eyes. He says nothing at first, and that silence stretches thin between them—taut as a wire ready to snap.

Jeongguk swallows hard, trying to calm his breath. “Please,” he gasps, his words tumbling out fast. “Mine got looted last night. They took almost everything—I don’t even have food left. I just… I need a place to stay before sunrise.”

Still, nothing.

Jeongguk’s throat tightens. He can’t tell if the man is deciding whether to let him live or shoot him on the spot. The weight of that uncertainty makes every second feel like an eternity.

He exhales shakily and tries one last time. “I can help,” he says quickly. “I’m a fast runner, I know how to scavenge, and I can fight if I have to. I’d be an asset here, I promise—if you’d just let me stay.”

Please, just believe me.

He holds the man’s stare, bracing himself for rejection—or worse, the sharp crack of a gunshot.

Instead, the man lowers his weapon with an easy shrug. “Well, okay then,” he says casually, as though they were simply meeting at a café instead of in a half-ruined city. He extends a hand toward him. “Welcome to our humble shelter.”

Jeongguk blinks. His brain short-circuits for a beat as he looks from the man’s face to the offered hand, waiting for the trick, the laugh, the threat that should follow. But none comes. The stranger just smiles—calm, unbothered, genuine.

Slowly, Jeongguk reaches up and takes the hand. The grip is warm, steady. He uses it to haul himself upright, shaking the dust from his clothes and untangling the wire still looped around his arm. He grabs his crowbar, secures it back in his bag, and tries to make sense of what’s happening.

The man moves toward a low coffee table, striking a match against the rough wood. The hiss of sulfur fills the air before the flame catches the wick of a gas lantern. A soft amber glow spills across the room, chasing back the shadows just enough for Jeongguk to finally see his rescuer properly.

He’s not what jeongguk expected. Long black hair frames his face in tousled waves, his fringe falling low over sharp, bright eyes. His cheekbones catch the lantern light, accentuating the delicate curve of his lips—heart-shaped, expressive, and oddly gentle. He looks effortlessly stylish even in an oversized black shirt and loose jeans, like he belongs to a different world entirely.

“Jung Hoseok,” the man says with a grin, extending his hand again.

Jeongguk bows slightly before taking it. “Jeon Jeongguk. Please take good care of me.”

Hoseok’s smile widens, and Jeongguk’s gaze drifts down to the supposed “shotgun” still hanging by his side. It isn’t a firearm at all—just a long, black metal pipe.

“Hey,” Jeongguk says, pointing at it. “That’s not a—”

“Oh!” Hoseok interrupts with a sheepish laugh, lifting the pipe to show him. “Yeah, sorry about that. I was fixing the heaters when I heard you slamming into the door. I panicked and grabbed the first thing I could find. I’m not really a fighter, so I thought a good scare would make you run off.”

Jeongguk blinks, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

Hoseok gestures toward the door, where the broken access pad lies in a heap. “Looks like you did a number on that, though.”

“I’m sorry,” Jeongguk mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can help fix it if you want.”

Hoseok waves him off. “Don’t worry about it. It was useless anyway. We use wood planks to barricade the door—it’s safer that way. I had to take them off when you started ramming it open.” His mouth curves in amusement. “That’s why you fell. You really went all in, huh?”

“Wait—we?” he asks, glancing around the dimly lit space.

“Ah, yes,” Hoseok says, snapping his fingers as if remembering something. “It’s just me and my roommate here. He’s out scavenging right now, but he’ll be back home soon.”

Something about that word—home—makes Jeongguk’s chest tighten.

Jeongguk nods slowly, his exhaustion beginning to settle into his bones now that the danger’s passed.

Hoseok gestures for him to follow, his tone light and welcoming. “Come on. You’ve had one hell of a night. Let me show you around before you collapse on my floor.”

Hoseok lifts the gas lantern from the coffee table, adjusting the flame until the glow softens into a steady halo that pushes back the gloom. “This is the lobby,” he says, his voice echoing lightly in the concrete space. “We stay down here on the couches through the night until sunrise to keep watch by the door.”

He gestures toward the far side of the room, where a battered reception desk stands buried under scavenged supplies—coils of rope, rusted nails, makeshift barricade panels. “We store everything we need for securing the entrance or scavenging runs there. Not glamorous, but it works.”

Jeongguk nods, taking a moment to absorb the scene. The place smells faintly of dust and oil, the air heavy with the kind of silence that only comes after years of disuse. But it feels… safe, in its own patchwork way.

Hoseok leads him through the foyer, the soles of their shoes whispering against the cracked tiles. He stops before a pair of rusted metal doors, the elevator shaft sealed shut by time. “This one’s useless,” he says with a wry grin. “Power’s out in this whole block, so we use the stairs instead. Great workout, terrible convenience.”

He moves to the first door on the right and pushes it open with his shoulder. “This is the heater room,” he explains, stepping aside so Jeongguk can peek in.

The faded sign on the door reads Boiler & Laundry Room. Inside, Jeongguk catches sight of two hulking heating units crouched along the left wall and four washing machines lining the right, their metal bodies streaked with rust. The air smells faintly of old detergent and damp concrete.

“I’ve been trying to get the heaters running manually,” Hoseok says, scratching his jaw. “Still a work in progress.”

He closes the door and moves to the next one, labeled Utility Room. He grins over his shoulder. “Now, this—this is where the magic happens.”

Jeongguk arches a brow. “Magic?”

Hoseok laughs, the sound bright and easy. “Not that kind of magic. The useful kind.”

When Jeongguk steps inside, his amusement fades into awe. The small room hums with quiet life. Two large wooden garden beds take up most of the floor space, filled with neat rows of soil where tiny green sprouts reach eagerly toward the glow of overhead grow lights. On the opposite wall sits a workbench cluttered with tools, wires, jars of screws, and a flickering desk lamp that bathes everything in a warm, golden hue.

Jeongguk crouches down beside the planters, studying the seedlings in fascination. “How—how are these even alive? I thought there was no power in this building.”

Hoseok rests a hand on one of the lights, only to flinch and pull it back with a hiss. “Ow—hot.” He clears his throat, trying to play it off. “We’ve got solar panels up on the second level. You’ll see them soon. I rigged an inverter to keep these running.”

Jeongguk looks up at him, admiration flickering in his eyes.

“We hardly get sunlight in here,” Hoseok continues, pacing as he speaks, “so the grow lights stay on at night and off during the day. It’s been a few weeks since we planted them. With luck, we’ll have actual vegetables soon.”

Jeongguk shakes his head in disbelief. “That’s… fucking incredible.” He runs a hand through his hair, his tone caught between amazement and envy. “I never even thought of doing something like this in my old shelter. It would’ve saved me a lot of miserable nights.”

He stands and nods toward the workbench. “And that? What do you make there?”

“Anything we might need,” Hoseok says proudly. “Water filters, rain catchers—oh, and pigeon traps.”

Jeongguk freezes. “Pigeon traps?”

Hoseok’s grin turns mischievous. “Come on. Easier to show you than explain.”

They head toward the back door, the lanternlight swinging gently in Hoseok’s hand. Jeongguk clears his throat as they pass through the lobby again. “By the way… what’s up with those bells near the door?”

“Oh, that?” Hoseok glances at him with an amused look. “Alarm system. If someone’s trying to break in—” he shoots Jeongguk a teasing smile “—or, say, bust the door down without warning, we hear it from anywhere in the shelter.”

Jeongguk groans and covers his face. “Okay, okay. I deserve that.”

“Smart system though, right?” Hoseok says, clapping him on the back.

“Yeah, actually. Really smart.”

“Thank you!” Hoseok beams. “I think I’m gonna like having you around here.”

Jeongguk finds himself smiling without forcing it.

I think I’m gonna like being here too.

Hoseok holds the back door open for him with a little bow of mock chivalry. Jeongguk chuckles and steps outside.

The backyard greets them with a breath of cool night air and the faint chirp of crickets. A handful of solar-powered lamps cast a gentle glow over the space—a patch of overgrown grass, a wooden picnic table weathered by rain, and a small double swing set swaying slightly in the breeze. The entire area is surrounded by corrugated metal fencing crowned with loops of barbed wire, giving the garden the odd feeling of a sanctuary built inside a cage.

“This is… really nice,” Jeongguk says softly, settling onto one of the swings. He tips his head back to see the stars shimmering in sharp clarity above.

Hoseok chuckles, crossing the yard. “You should’ve seen it when we first moved in. Took us days to clear it all out.” He gestures toward three small mechanical cages mounted along the back fence. “We’ll catch the pigeons using these. Food might be hard to come by soon, so we figured we could use some type of meat, albeit the unconventional kind. We haven’t resorted to that yet, but I read somewhere that South Daehara is overpopulated with pigeons!”

Jeongguk stares at the cages for a moment, then simply mutters, “Oh.”

Hoseok laughs at his expression and motions for him to follow again. “Come on. Let’s head upstairs—watch your step!”

Jeongguk nearly steps into a small pile of dog poop. Hoseok winces and rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry! That’s Mandu’s. Forgot to toss it out earlier.”

Jeongguk perks up instantly. “You have a dog? No way—I love dogs!”

“Yeah!” Hoseok brightens. “He’s a two-year-old Shih Tzu. I left him in my room for now; he gets a little whiny when my roommate’s out scavenging.”

Jeongguk grins as they head back inside, following Hoseok up the narrow staircase, their footsteps echoing on the tile beneath. The air grows warmer as they climb, carrying the faint smell of old wood, soap, and life—a comforting mix that feels strangely like home.

They pause in front of what used to be a studio apartment, its outer wall completely gone. The room open to the night, and in place of furniture or flooring lie four large solar panels glinting under the pale moonlight, arranged neatly in the center like some strange, modern altar.

“Oh, wow,” Jeongguk breathes, eyes wide. The soft hum of electricity seems to vibrate faintly in the air, a sound that feels almost alien now.

Hoseok grins, pride bright on his face. “These are the solar panels I mentioned. The open wall lets in sunlight during the day so they can charge properly.” He gestures to a cluster of battery boxes and an inverter along the far side. “They power the grow lights downstairs, the stove, and the fridge. Keeps us from having to live completely like cavemen.”

Jeongguk stares, momentarily speechless. His mind struggles to piece it together—the wires, the panels, the way everything somehow still works in this broken world.

Hoseok notices the lost look on his face and laughs softly. “I’ll spare you the science lesson,” he says, patting one of the panels affectionately.

He moves on, and Jeongguk follows him through the narrow hallway, careful not to step on the thick black cables running along the ground. “Just watch your step,” Hoseok warns over his shoulder, his tone teasing. “Wouldn’t want my new recruit getting electrocuted on day one.”

Jeongguk chuckles under his breath. His gaze follows the trail of taped-up wires snaking toward the last apartment unit at the end of the hall. “Where did you even get all this?”

“Most of it was in the building’s basement,” Hoseok explains, ducking under a hanging wire. “We just had to figure out how to make it all work again. The rest, we scavenged over the weeks.”

Jeongguk raises a brow, genuinely impressed. “So… what are you? Some kind of scientist? Engineer? Mad genius?”

Hoseok snorts. “A hip-hop dancer, actually.”

Jeongguk blinks. “You’re joking.”

“Nope,” Hoseok says cheerfully. “Though I did study engineering in university—my parents insisted. Guess that worked out for all of us in the end.” He grins, eyes glinting with humor. “Remind me to thank them later.”

He stops beside a door on the left and gestures grandly. “Ah, here we are.”

He swings the door open, revealing a modest studio apartment lit by the faint glow of the lantern.

“This one’s yours,” Hoseok says. “You can leave your bag here. Though, now that I think about it…” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Maybe I should’ve brought you here first. That thing looks heavy.”

Jeongguk waves him off with a small laugh. “It’s fine.” He steps inside and drops his bag onto the floor with a dull thud, rolling his shoulders to ease the ache.

The room is simple, but to Jeongguk, it feels like a palace compared to the damp concrete corners he used to sleep in before his last shelter. A kitchenette sits in one corner, complete with a small island counter. There’s a twin bed tucked neatly beside a window covered in half-tilted plastic blinds, a loveseat and an armchair arranged around a small lantern, and a dresser pressed against the far wall.

Perfect.

“Thanks,” Jeongguk says quietly, turning to Hoseok with a grateful smile.

“You can use the key on the knob if you need privacy,” Hoseok says, leaning against the doorframe. “It still works, surprisingly.”

Jeongguk nods. “Noted.”

“Come on,” Hoseok says, motioning toward the hallway. “You’ve got to meet Mandu. I’ll show you the kitchen too.”

They weave carefully between the cables on the floor until Hoseok stops at the next door. When he opens it, Jeongguk is met with a surprisingly cozy space. The apartment is larger, warmer—lived in. To the right, there’s an open kitchen stocked with the basics, and beside the door, two little dog bowls gleam in the lanternlight. A medium-sized dining table sits in the center, and a dark blue sofa set rests under the window, the cushions slightly rumpled from use.

Grinning, Hoseok opens the first door on the left, revealing a small bedroom. “Mandu-yah! We nearly got raided tonight, and you didn’t even bark? Some guard dog you are.”

A soft whine answers him. Jeongguk peeks over Hoseok’s shoulder and spots a tiny Shih Tzu lying on the bed, his white and brown fur puffed like a cloud. Mandu lifts his head, blinking sleepily before bounding off the bed and trotting straight toward the stranger.

Jeongguk kneels down as Mandu sniffs at his boots, his tail wagging furiously. “Oh my God,” Jeongguk coos, running a hand over his fur. “You are the most precious thing I’ve ever seen.”

Hoseok groans, crossing his arms. “Yah! Look at this betrayal. He’s known you for two minutes.”

Jeongguk grins, rubbing Mandu’s belly. “Let me guess—he likes your roommate better than you, too?”

Hoseok sighs dramatically. “Oh, Mandu loves him. Sees him as his true master. I’m just the guy who cleans up after him.”

Jeongguk laughs, the sound warm and genuine, the kind that catches him off guard after so many weeks of tension.

They leave the bedroom, and Mandu follows them, hopping effortlessly onto the sofa before curling up into a tiny, satisfied loaf. Hoseok sets the gas lantern on the kitchen counter, its soft light spilling over the space.

“This is the kitchen and dining area,” he says, patting the fridge and then the stove. “Both powered by the solar panels. Everything else, though, we do manually.”

Jeongguk nods, his eyes sweeping over the tidy counters, the faint smell of assorted condiments, the half-washed dishes drying by the sink.

“Supplies are limited so we only eat one heavy meal a day,” Hoseok continues, his tone gentle but honest. “You okay with that?”

Jeongguk glances at the table, his expression softening. “I’m lucky to eat at all, honestly.” His voice dips quieter. “So, yeah. More than okay.”

Hoseok studies him for a moment, his smile fading into something more understanding. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I get that.” Then, with a lighter tone, “But hey, my roommate and I are decent cooks. He makes a killer kimchi—the best you’ll ever taste.”

Jeongguk chuckles faintly, his curiosity flickering again at the mention of the mysterious roommate.

Who exactly is this person who’s managed to survive here with Hoseok—and win over the dog, too?

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Jimin whispers a silent thank God as he nears their shelter. His back screams at him, a sharp flare-up from the climb and the weight of his scavenged goods, and he knows he needs to sleep off the pain before it becomes unbearable. He checks his watch—just past 4 AM— and allows himself a brief sense of satisfaction. He scavenged fast and slipped past the patrolling soldiers without incident. That should count for something.

Relief turns to ice when he spots the front door ajar. The deadlock is split clean through, the latch hanging uselessly. His pulse spikes, cold panic cutting through his fatigue.

He sprints forward and pushes the door open. “Hyung?” His voice echoes through the stairwell. “Hyung!”

The room is still. The gas lantern is missing from the coffee table. Not a single chair overturned, no sign of a struggle. Only silence and the oppressive weight of uncertainty.

“HYUNG?” His voice shakes as he moves faster, checking the shadows, peering around corners.

A sharp bark splits the silence, followed by the skitter of tiny paws on concrete.

“Mandu-yah!” Jimin breathes out, dropping to his knees as the small dog bounds toward him, tail wagging furiously. The knot in his chest eases just a little. He sets down his bags and the jar of kimchi, scooping Mandu up into his arms.

“Hey, boy. Where’s your appa, huh?”

Mandu’s only answer is a happy bark. Jimin presses a quick kiss to his head before bolting up the stairs, the little dog wriggling in his arms as they go.

“Hyung? Are you here?”

A familiar voice calls back, “Jimin-ah! Over here!”

Jimin exhales sharply in relief, his heartbeat finally beginning to settle. He rounds the corner and finds Hoseok standing by his open door, perfectly fine—alive and well, though clearly startled by the commotion.

Jimin sets Mandu down, and the dog immediately sits at his feet, tail thumping lazily against the floor. Jimin yanks off his beanie, tossing it onto the dining table, and runs his fingers through his hair in frustration.

“Fucking hell, Hyung,” he snaps, scowling. “What happened to the door? I thought we got raided!”

“I thought we did too. But this guy tried to break in, and I caught him by surprise.” Hoseok gestures casually toward the newcomer leaning against the kitchen counter—someone Jimin hadn’t noticed until now. “I did the fake-out with the heater pipe you thought wouldn’t work.”

Jimin freezes, brows shooting up. The young man is staring at him, unflinching, no shame in his gaze. Something tightens in Jimin’s chest. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, heart racing, suddenly aware of the heat in his own palms.

“This is Jeongguk,” Hoseok says, clearly enjoying the tension. “He stumbled upon our shelter looking for a place to stay. Says he’s a scavenger and he runs fast.”

Jeongguk doesn’t speak. He tilts his head slightly, gaze steady.

Jimin swallows hard, feeling a twinge of familiarity. The way Jeongguk’s eyes lingers leaves a flicker of curiosity he doesn’t want to admit. He crosses his arms, pretending to care more about the floor than the sharp awareness settling between them.

Hoseok clears his throat, forcing the moment to move forward. “Uh—Jeongguk-ssi?”

“Huh?” Jeongguk says, voice low, betraying the brief flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“I was introducing you to my roommate, Jimin,” Hoseok continues, smirking.

Jeongguk glances back, realization dawning. Their eyes meet again, and Jimin feels it like a current running across his skin. Something unspoken crackles between them, almost audible in the quiet room.

“Oh! Hello, I’m Jeon Jeongguk.” He extends his hand, bowing slightly. “Thank you for letting me join the shelter. You won’t regret it.”

“Park Jimin,” Jimin replies, shaking the hand, bowing back. The handshake is polite, but his pulse quickens despite himself.

Silence stretches, weighty and taut. He notices the subtle movements: the tilt of Jeongguk’s jaw, the flick of his hair from his eyes, the way he stands a little too casually, yet the intensity of his stare never wavers. Jimin wants to look away, but his eyes keep catching those dark, observant ones.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you, Jeongguk-ssi?” Jimin asks cautiously.

“Uh—twenty-two.”

“I’m twenty-four,” Jimin states evenly, masking the flutter in his chest.

“And I’m twenty-six,” Hoseok adds, smiling faintly.

“Guess that makes me the maknae,” Jeongguk says with a grin, light and effortless, yet charged.

The air hums for a moment. Jimin notices the tilt of Jeongguk’s jaw, the way his hair brushes against his cheek, the ease of his stance. He shakes his head internally.

You’re exhausted. This isn’t the time.

“Okay then!” Hoseok interrupts, lifting Mandu into his arms. “I still need to show Jeongguk the third level. Go rest up, Jimin-ah. We’ll talk in the afternoon.”

“Okay, Hyung,” Jimin mutters, grabbing his beanie and giving a curt nod. He senses Jeongguk’s gaze trailing him as he walks away, and it makes his chest tighten for reasons he refuses to name.

He saunters to his sparsely furnished studio, closes the door, and finally lets his shoulders slump. He unlaces his high-tops and kicks them aside with a soft thump, socked feet slipping into slippers. He tosses his beanie toward the desk but misses, the fabric skidding across the floor. He shrugs off his black denim jacket and dark grey hoodie, letting them collapse into a messy pile. The motion is mechanical, but somehow grounding. He considers picking them up, knowing Hoseok would have a fit if he saw this, but shakes his head.

Jimin moves over to the bed, face-planting into the pillow, still in his jeans. Exhaustion hits every fiber of him; the climb and scavenging have left him completely drained. The darkness outside is thick and welcome. He wants nothing more than to sink into oblivion.

Then he remembers the kimchi jar.

He bolts upright, grabbing the gas lantern and striking a match. The flame flickers to life, casting a warm glow. He shuffles across the hallway in his slippers, careful not to stumble, and spots Hoseok and Jeongguk at the far end, heading up to the third level. His chest tightens again, but he forces himself to focus.

Jimin pauses, taking a careful, measured look at Jeongguk. Tall and slender, long black hair curling softly around his cheeks, parted neatly, one side tucked behind his ear. Loose black shirt under a heavy jacket, cargo pants tucked into chunky boots. A hair tie rests on his wrist, subtle but oddly memorable. There’s a quiet intensity about him that tugs at the edge of Jimin’s attention. Intriguing. Dangerous in the way curiosity is.

Hoseok and Jeongguk vanish upstairs. Jimin shakes his head, scolding himself.

Jimin, no.

He lowers himself to the task. Downstairs to replace the wooden barricade. Slinging the heavy bags over his shoulders, he grabs the kimchi jar and tote, deposits them carefully in Hoseok’s fridge and on the counter, and drags his feet back to his unit.

Back in his room, he plops his backpack next to the bed, unhooks the gas lantern, dims it until the room falls into shadows, and collapses face-first onto the pillow.

His body sinks into exhaustion, muscles aching, chest still thrumming from the adrenaline, but for the first time in hours, he can breathe.

“Fucking finally,” he mutters into the dark, eyes closing, though the image of Jeongguk—tall, dark, watchful—lingers just a moment too long before sleep finally claims him.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“These are the rain catchers,” Hoseok says, his voice echoing faintly through the hollowed concrete. “We built them because we don’t have running water in the shelter. We only have two full drums for now, but summer rains should fill the others soon enough.”

Jeongguk’s eyes widen as he steps closer. Four massive blue drums sit lined up between two rooms with a collapsed wall, each topped with a tarpaulin funnel rigged in place with ropes and duct tape. The arrangement looks half makeshift, half brilliant—an odd testament to survival ingenuity.

He crouches slightly, lantern tilted in his hand, the golden light flickering over the slick curve of the drums. “How do they work?”

Hoseok glances back at him with a teasing grin. “You sure you want the science this time?”

“Yes, please,” Jeongguk replies eagerly, unable to hide his excitement. “If I’m going to stay here, I want to help—especially with the water gathering.”

Hoseok’s grin softens into something proud. “Alright then. Since this part of the ceiling’s long gone, we positioned the drums to catch direct rainfall. The tarps funnel the water down, straight into the barrels.”

He sets Mandu down, and the little dog darts away, claws clicking faintly on the concrete as he disappears down the stairwell. Hoseok crouches by one of the drums, motioning Jeongguk closer.

“See this?” He taps on a small contraption attached to the spigot near the bottom. “I made these filters. The water coming out of the tap should be safe to drink.”

Jeongguk lowers himself to eye level, holding the gas lantern steady. Inside the cut-up plastic bottle are layers of gravel, charcoal, and sponges packed tightly together. The light gleams through the translucent plastic, illuminating every detail.

“That’s… genius,” Jeongguk murmurs, awe slipping into his tone before he can help it. “You really built all this yourself?”

“Well, with some help from basic elementary science and panic-induced creativity,” Hoseok jokes, standing again and brushing his palms off. “Come on, there’s more.”

They walk toward the far end of the corridor where six spare drums sit stacked in two neat rows. The faint smell of dust and damp metal fills the air.

“These are empty for now,” Hoseok explains. “We rotate them with the filled ones when they get full. Think you’re up for it tomorrow? It’s a bit of work.”

“Definitely.” Jeongguk’s answer comes without hesitation. “I’ll take any job you’ll give me.”

“Good man.” Hoseok smiles, that easy warmth of his somehow making the cold, broken building feel just a little less desolate. “There’s one last thing I need to show you, then we’re done for the night.”

They make their way to the adjacent room, past the creaking remnants of an old door and the smell of rust. The final unit is almost intact—walls still standing, windows patched with clear plastic. It feels oddly domestic compared to the ruins outside.

“This one’s the bathroom,” Hoseok says, pushing a door open. “It’s not the most ideal situation being far from our rooms, but it’s close to the water source. We gather water from the drums using buckets and heat it on the stove if we want it warm. It’s… rustic, but it works.”

Jeongguk nods, quietly impressed by the practicality of it all. He lingers by the doorway, the lantern light catching on the cracked tiles in the shower stall and rust-stained basin. Every inch of the shelter seems to tell a story of improvisation and endurance.

When Hoseok looks back at him, Jeongguk straightens up, wiping a smudge of dirt from his sleeve. “So that’s the whole place?”

“That’s the whole place,” Hoseok confirms with a satisfied nod. “Any questions?”

Jeongguk thinks for a moment, but his mind is already slipping back to the second floor—to the quiet man who’d looked at him with unreadable eyes before disappearing into his room. He shakes it off. “None for now.”

“Alright,” Hoseok says, yawning into his fist. “Let’s get some sleep, then. You look like you’re about to drop.”

Right on cue, Jeongguk yawns wide enough to make Hoseok laugh. “Mhmm,” he hums, blinking drowsily.

Hoseok chuckles, already heading for the stairs. “I’ll take that as agreement.”

They walk side by side toward the stairwell, their footsteps echoing down the corridor. The silence between them isn’t awkward—just a quiet, shared understanding, the kind that comes easily when exhaustion hums through the bones and the air smells faintly of dust and candle wax.

“Uh—Hoseok-ssi,” Jeongguk begins hesitantly.

Hoseok snorts, shooting him an amused glance. “You can call me Hobi or Hyung, whatever you decide. And you can talk informally, too. I don’t mind formality, but it feels weird coming from someone who already risked his neck tonight.”

Jeongguk laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck in mild embarrassment. “Alright… Hyung,” he says, testing the word, and finds he likes the way it sounds. “I know I’ve said this a dozen times already, but this shelter is incredible. You got all of this up and running in just a few weeks? I have no words.”

Hoseok slings an arm around Jeongguk’s shoulders, giving him a brief, friendly shake. “Thank you, Jeongguk-ah. But honestly, half of the credit goes to Jimin. Most of this was his idea—I just built what he envisioned.”

Jeongguk looks surprised, eyebrows lifting. “Really? I need to tell him how impressed I am, then!”

“You could,” Hoseok replies with a grin, “but I’m not sure how that’ll go. He doesn’t exactly trust what people say to him—especially newcomers.”

“What do you mean? Does he have low-self esteem?”

“Let’s just say… Jimin has reasons to be wary.” Hoseok’s tone softens slightly, though there’s still warmth in it. “It’s a story best told by him—when he’s ready. He learned the hard way that nice words come with a price.”

Jeongguk nods slowly, curiosity prickling at the back of his mind. “You think he’s okay with me joining the shelter? I don’t want to intrude on your space.”

Hoseok tilts his head, an eyebrow arching with a teasing glint. “You seem very interested in him.”

Jeongguk freezes mid-step, eyes wide. “No! I mean— maybe? I don’t know?” He runs a hand through his hair, cheeks warming. “Wait—you and Jimin-ssi aren’t—? Oh God, if you two are together, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Hoseok bursts into laughter so sudden and loud that it startles Mandu down the hall. “Calm down, kid. I’m just teasing! No, we’re not together. Just best friends since university.”

Jeongguk exhales in visible relief, pressing a hand to his chest. “Okay. That’s… good to know.” He grins, sheepish but genuine. “Then yes, I am interested in him.”

Hoseok hums dramatically, wagging a finger at him. “Ah, I knew it! The Jimin Effect claims another victim.”

“The—what?”

“The Jimin Effect,” Hoseok repeats solemnly, as if naming an ancient phenomenon. “Like a siren’s call. Irresistible. Happens to everyone. I warned him back in university, but he never believed me.”

Jeongguk groans, dragging a hand down his face as Hoseok snickers beside him. “Hyung, please. You’re making it sound like I’m under a spell.”

“Oh, you are,” Hoseok replies with mock seriousness. “But don’t worry, it’s a pleasant one.”

They both laugh, their voices carrying softly down the dim hallway. The weight of the night feels a little lighter.

“Alright then, Hyung,” Jeongguk says once their laughter subsides. “At least tell me if he’s into guys—and if he’s single.”

“Ah, that’s not for me to answer,” Hoseok says with a grin that borders on mischievous. “But yes, he’s single. You didn’t hear that from me, alright?” He finishes with an exaggerated wink.

Jeongguk zips his fingers across his lips and tosses him a grin. “My lips are sealed.”

Hoseok chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re something else, Jeongguk-ah.”

As they reach his door, Jeongguk realizes how easily this warmth between them formed. Hoseok feels like the best friend he ever should have had—funny, kind, and open in a way that makes the cracked walls and echoing floors of the shelter feel almost like home.

And yet, even as Hoseok teases him, Jeongguk’s mind drifts back to Jimin—to the brief flash of him in the kitchen earlier, standing under the muted glow of the lantern. He can still see it clearly: the sweep of soft blonde hair with black roots peeking through, the way it framed his sharp eyes and the elegant line of his jaw. The contrast of his plush pink lips against warm, pale skin. The lean build that spoke of quiet strength even in stillness.

Jeongguk hadn’t meant to stare, but he’d been caught off guard. In a world stripped of luxury, where survival dictated everything, beauty like Jimin’s was disarming—a reminder that something delicate and human still existed amidst the ruin.

He feels a faint, ridiculous flutter in his chest and shakes his head at himself. Crushing on someone in the middle of a war—what a joke. And yet, It’s the most alive he’s felt in a while.

Hoseok leans against the doorframe of Jeongguk’s unit, smiling. “Alright, kid. Get some rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow. And if you need anything, my door’s always open.”

“Thanks, Hyung,” Jeongguk says sincerely. “For everything.”

When Hoseok waves and disappears down the hall, Jeongguk steps inside and closes the door softly behind him. He unlaces his boots and sets them neatly by the entrance, shrugs off his jacket, and drapes it over the armchair. His body aches pleasantly—the kind of fatigue that promises real rest.

He sinks onto the loveseat and lets out a long breath, staring at the soft flicker of the lantern on the table.

What a night.

A faint scratching sound catches his attention, followed by Hoseok’s voice echoing faintly down the corridor. “Mandu-yah! Leave Jimin alone to sleep!”

Curious, Jeongguk stands and peers through the crack in his door. Hoseok’s gone, but Mandu is there—sitting faithfully in front of Jimin’s closed door, pawing and whining softly, as though trying to coax his favorite person out.

Jeongguk chuckles quietly, shaking his head. “Can’t blame you, buddy.” His gaze lingers on Jimin’s door for a beat too long before he shuts his own.

He drops onto the bed, burying his face into the pillow that smells faintly of detergent and dust. His heart is light despite everything. He has a roof over his head, a new friend, a dog, and—well, Jimin.

He’s not sure what Jimin will come to mean to him yet. But as he drifts toward sleep, one thought settles comfortably in his chest.

Yeah. I think I’m really going to like it here.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Jeongguk stirs awake to the gentle chorus of birdsong drifting in through the cracked window. The air feels cooler here, cleaner somehow, and sunlight filters softly through the blinds, dust motes glimmering like tiny stars caught midair. For a moment, he lies still, blinking sleep from his eyes as the unfamiliar calm settles over him. He can’t remember the last time he’d slept this soundly—not since before the world turned itself inside out. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the rare, blissful comfort of safety—of knowing someone is close enough to hear if something goes wrong.

He exhales, long and content, before rolling out of bed with a quiet grunt. His muscles ache pleasantly, the kind of soreness that comes from a body slowly remembering what it feels like to rest.

He crouches beside his large backpack and unzips it carefully, the faint rasp of the zipper sounding too loud in the still morning. He pulls out his toothbrush and toothpaste, a towel that still smells faintly of laundry soap, a black sweatshirt, grey joggers, fresh underwear, and a pair of slides.

He cracks open his door, stepping barefoot into the hallway, feeling the cold floorboards beneath his feet. He hears muffled voices in Hoseok’s unit—low and casual, punctuated by the soft scrape of a chair. Jimin and Hoseok must already be awake. The thought sends a flicker of nerves through him, but he shakes it off and pads silently toward the upper floor.

The bathroom greets him with dim light and the faint scent of soap and metal. He sets his things down on the closed toilet lid and toes the cool tiles experimentally before taking in the space: a shower stall with a half-drawn curtain, a small mirror over the sink, and a line of neatly arranged bottles on a wire caddy. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash—all mismatched brands, but lined up with careful precision.

He uncaps one of the bottles and inhales. The scent is soft, floral, and clean, oddly nostalgic. He smiles faintly, hoping they’re communal and his new shelter mates won’t mind if he borrows a little.

He turns the shower knob and waits, but nothing comes out except a low, empty groan of pipes.

“Ah, crap,” he mutters, smacking his forehead. “I forgot about that part.”

He wraps his towel around his waist and heads toward the rain catchers. The drums stand quiet and full, their metal lids cool under his fingertips. He pries one open and dips the bucket in, collecting enough water for a quick wash. It’s heavier than it looks, and he carries it back carefully, trying not to spill.

“This is going to take some getting used to,” he mumbles under his breath, though there’s no real complaint in his tone.

Back in the bathroom, he pours water over his head using a plastic cup. The shock of cold makes him hiss, then laugh quietly to himself. He tilts his head back, letting the water trail down his neck and shoulders, washing away the grit and fatigue of the last few days. It feels strangely purifying—a baptism into something new.

He soaps up with the borrowed bath products, filling the air with the faint scent of citrus and mint. He takes his time to scrub thoroughly until he feels human again.

Once finished, he towels off briskly and slips into his joggers and slides. His used clothes go into a wicker hamper near the shower. He makes a mental note to ask Hoseok later how they manage laundry here— if they wash by hand or another way.

He brushes his teeth next, setting his toothbrush neatly beside two others in the cup by the sink. The sight makes him pause—three toothbrushes, all standing side by side. A tiny, domestic detail, but one that makes his chest warm unexpectedly. It’s been so long since he’s shared space with people he can talk to, laugh with, exist alongside without fear.

He leans on the sink, gazing at his reflection. The mirror is a little foggy, the glass chipped in one corner, but his own face stares back at him, clearer than he expects. His hair’s grown longer since—a little wild, the black strands curling softly near his ears.

And then, of course, his thoughts drift—to Jimin.

Jeongguk groans quietly at himself, pressing a hand to his mouth to hide a grin that no one’s around to see. He remembers the way Jimin had looked last night—tired, irritated, but somehow radiant in the dim light. His voice low but firm, his movements efficient, practiced. There’s something magnetic about him that draws Jeongguk’s focus even when he tries to look away.

He runs his fingers through his damp hair, trying to smooth it into place. Then he messes it up again, squinting at his reflection. “What the hell are you doing…?” he mutters, tilting his head left and right.

It’s stupid—styling his hair in the middle of a war. But there’s something quietly defiant about it, too. Like saying, I’m still here. I can still care about how I look.

He tousles it one last time and studies the result.

Not bad.

The messy look gives him an edge—older, maybe even confident, if you squint hard enough.

His gaze then drifts lower, to the faint lines of his shoulders, and down to his strong chest.

“Do I dare…?” he murmurs, half amused, half uncertain. The idea hangs there for a second—reckless, pointless, but weirdly tempting.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he grabs his sweatshirt, slings it over his shoulder, and drapes his towel loosely around his neck, pretending it’s the most natural thing in the world.

As he steps out of the bathroom, he takes one steadying breath.

His heart thumps faster than he’d like to admit.

He’s not sure if it’s the cold water or the thought of seeing Jimin again—but either way, he feels awake.

Awake, alive, and ready to face whatever this new morning—and whoever it brings—has in store.

Jeongguk steps into the kitchen, the familiar scent of something frying greeting him first—garlic, oil, and the faint tang of kimchi warming over heat. It smells like life, like home.

Hoseok stands by the counter, sleeves rolled up, a pair of plastic gloves covering his hands as he chops kimchi with deliberate precision. Jimin sits at the dining table, hunched slightly forward, both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that’s still steaming. Mandu is curled loyally by his feet, the dog’s tail thumping once when he senses movement in the doorway.

“Good morning! Something smells good in here!” Jeongguk calls cheerfully, his voice brighter than he intends. Mandu perks up instantly, barking once before trotting over, tail wagging like a banner.

Jeongguk crouches, his grin widening as the little dog nuzzles into his hand. “Hi, good boy!” he murmurs, rubbing the soft fur behind Mandu’s ears.

From the counter, Hoseok glances over his shoulder with a broad smile. “Jeongguk-ah! It’s almost noon, you know. I’m making our meal for the day. Did you sleep well?”

“The best I’ve had in a long time,” Jeongguk admits, straightening up and brushing invisible lint from his joggers. “Felt like I was sleeping on clouds.”

“That’s good to hear,” Hoseok chuckles. He gestures toward the stove with his knife. “If you want coffee, Jimin brewed some earlier.”

“Ah, I’m not much of a coffee drinker,” Jeongguk replies, rubbing the back of his neck. “But when I do, I usually go for iced Americanos.”

Hoseok laughs lightly, the sound warm and teasing. “I don’t think you’ll find any iced Americanos around here for a while, Jeongguk-ah.”

“Fair enough.” Jeongguk smiles. “Guess it’s time to adjust to life without fancy café orders. Would it be okay if I have some?”

He glances at Jimin as he asks, almost instinctively seeking his approval. Jimin meets his gaze briefly, then gives a small nod.

“Thanks,” Jeongguk murmurs.

He moves to the cupboard, fingers trailing along the edge as he searches for a mug. He finds one—chipped on one side, the glaze worn thin near the handle—and pours himself some coffee. The dark liquid fills the cup slowly, the scent curling up toward his face, earthy and comforting.

And then, the prickling feeling of being watched creeps up his spine.

He turns his head slightly, just enough to catch it—Jimin’s eyes on him, steady, unblinking for a second too long. The instant their gazes meet, Jimin jerks his attention away, clearing his throat as he leans forward, his elbows coming to rest on the table. He pretends to study the faint water ring on the wood like it’s the most fascinating thing in the room.

Jeongguk can’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He hangs his towel neatly over the back of a chair, slipping his sweatshirt on with slow, easy movements. He can feel the corners of his grin wanting to break free, but he presses his tongue against his teeth to contain it.

Caught you, he thinks with quiet triumph.

He hadn’t been entirely sure if Jimin was into guys, but that fleeting look feels like enough of an answer. Still, guilt nips at him—he hadn’t meant to test it, exactly. He’d rather earn Jimin’s trust properly, not through subtle traps and half-teasing curiosity.

He files that thought away for later. For now, he decides to do better—to really get to know him.

Jeongguk sits diagonally across from Jimin, setting his mug down carefully before running a hand through his damp hair, pushing the fringe away from his eyes. The warm steam from his coffee fogs the air faintly between them, and he hums after his first sip, low and content.

“Hobi-hyung,” he says, “how do we do the laundry around here?”

“We’ve got detergent under the bathroom counter,” Hoseok replies easily, sautéing garlic and onions in the pot. The smell deepens, filling the air with savory warmth. “We wash by hand and hang the clothes outside over the line near the water drums.”

Jeongguk nods, remembering the line he saw earlier. “Got it.”

Hoseok continues, “We all take turns with chores—laundry, cleaning, cooking, fetching water. There’s a rotation list pinned on the fridge. I can add your name if you want.”

“Yes, please,” Jeongguk says, smiling. “Oh, and—I used some of the bath stuff this morning. Hope that’s okay.”

“Of course. Use whatever you need,” Hoseok replies with a wave of his gloved hand. “Just make a note if something’s running low so Jimin can grab more on his next scavenging run.”

Jeongguk glances at Jimin again, his voice softer. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Hoseok sweeps the chopped kimchi off the cutting board into the pot, tossing the gloves into the sink. The sizzle of ingredients meeting heat fills the space as he stirs, then adds water before covering the pot.

“Okay! Food is on the fire,” he announces with satisfaction. “We’re having super simplified kimchi jjigae with rice today. Nothing fancy, but it’ll fill us up.”

Jeongguk’s face lights up. “I love kimchi jjigae.”

“Then thank Jimin,” Hoseok says, grinning. “He risked a trip back to our old place last night to bring back our stash of kimchi.”

Jeongguk turns toward Jimin, his tone softer now. “Thank you, Jimin-ssi.”

Jimin looks up, a faint, genuine smile curving his lips. “You can just call me ‘Hyung,’ too.”

The word lands heavier than it should. Hyung. It rolls through Jeongguk’s chest, lighting up every nerve in its path. His pulse stutters, his mouth goes dry for a second.

“Oh. Right,” he manages, trying to keep his voice steady. “Got it, Hyung.”

Across the room, Hoseok claps his hands together. “You came at a perfect time, actually, Jeongguk-ah. Jimin and I were going to switch out the water drums. Do you want to come help?”

“Sure!” Jeongguk says, gulping down the rest of his coffee a little too quickly. The heat burns his throat, but he pretends not to notice as he sets the mug in the sink.

He turns—and nearly collides with Jimin, who’s moving in the same direction. Jeongguk stops just in time, the front of his sweatshirt brushing Jimin’s sleeve.

“Sorry—sorry,” he blurts out, stepping aside immediately. His ears burn red.

“It’s fine,” Jimin replies, voice calm but quiet, the faintest edge of amusement softening it. He places his own mug in the sink, their shoulders nearly touching.

The air between them feels thick, charged with something unspoken and new. Even Hoseok’s stifled laughter from the stove doesn’t break the moment—if anything, it makes it more obvious.

Jeongguk rubs the back of his neck, glancing anywhere but at Jimin. “Uh, okay—let’s go!” he says too quickly, his tone almost boyish in its eagerness.

He strides toward the door, a little too fast, and hears Hoseok chuckle behind him while Jimin follows close at his heels.

And though Jeongguk doesn’t dare look back, he can’t help the small smile that tugs at his lips.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“Okay, in three—two—one,” Hoseok calls out, his voice strained but steady. All three of them lift the filled rain catcher drum off the low platform. It’s heavy—dense with water—and the collective grunt that escapes them fills the enclosed space before they drop it down with a loud thud.

Jimin winces as the sound echoes. He hates moving these damn drums. They’re awkward to grip, cold against his palms, and always seem heavier than he remembers. He and Hoseok had managed it once before, and that was more than enough for him to swear it off if he could help it. But now, with Jeongguk lending his strength, the task feels a little less like punishment.

He hates that he notices the difference.

Hoseok had been all smiles earlier when Jimin stumbled into the kitchen, still half asleep and searching for caffeine. Between brewing coffee and cooking rice, his hyung had casually filled him in on the new arrival’s backstory. Jimin had frowned, telling Hoseok that he shouldn’t put so much faith in strangers. But Hoseok only waved him off, talking about “paying kindness forward,” like it was some kind of moral currency they could afford to spare.

So Jimin had decided to keep his guard up—but not too high. Civil, polite, distant enough. That should’ve been the plan.

Except Jeongguk had looked at him last night the way so many others had before—wide-eyed, a little awestruck, like he was seeing something rare. Jimin knew that look far too well. The admiration, the curiosity, the flicker of surprise that always came with it.

So, naturally, he’d given the same energy right back this morning.

While Jeongguk had poured his coffee shirtless, Jimin let his gaze wander—out of boredom, or maybe spite, or maybe just weakness. His eyes trailed over Jeongguk’s chest, sculpted and smooth beneath the morning light, down to the taut line of his stomach and the tattoos curling over his right arm—a chaotic, breathtaking collage of art and color. The kind that demanded attention.

Now, in the clear light of day, there’s nowhere else for his eyes to run.

Jeongguk stands directly in front of him, sunlight slipping through the high window and spilling over his face. His features are softer up close—big, bright eyes that don’t seem to miss anything, a prominent nose, nice lips and warm-looking, with that tiny mole just beneath the lower one.

He’s… handsome. Beautiful, even.

Jimin exhales slowly. He can admit that much. But he reminds himself—firmly, silently—that he’s done letting anyone in like that again.

Not anymore.

He turns back to the task at hand, blowing out a tired breath.

Hoseok plants his hands on his hips and surveys their work. “We need to push this one to the other room and swap it with an empty drum,” he says, already sounding winded.

“Watch closely,” Jimin mutters, crouching down. He secures the lid, unscrews the spigot and filter, and plugs up the hole to demonstrate the process to Jeongguk. His hands move with practiced precision, his motions efficient, focused—anything to keep from thinking too hard about the person standing next to him.

“Jeongguk-ah! Go around to the other side so we can all push together,” Hoseok instructs.

Jimin shifts aside, leaving space for him. He can feel Jeongguk’s warmth when he steps up—close, maybe a little too close—and pretends not to notice.

“Hyung,” Jeongguk says after a moment, “we could roll it instead. It might be easier.”

Both Jimin and Hoseok freeze, exchanging a look that’s equal parts disbelief and embarrassment.

“Well, shit,” Hoseok says with a laugh that bursts out of him suddenly. “I have a whole engineering degree, and I never thought of that.”

Jeongguk grins, the corner of his mouth curling boyishly. “It’s just gravity, Hyung.”

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in.” Hoseok waves him off good-naturedly.

Jeongguk checks the lid, then crouches and tilts the drum smoothly onto its side. The motion looks effortless, practiced even. With Hoseok helping guide the bottom, Jeongguk rolls the drum across the concrete, the deep rumble of its movement echoing through the room. He lifts it upright again, not a drop spilled.

Jimin watches silently, caught off guard by the ease of it—and maybe, just a little, by the quiet confidence in Jeongguk’s movements. There’s a rhythm to it, a surety that draws his eye.

Jeongguk retrieves an empty drum from the other side and carries it back, his steps light, posture relaxed. As he passes Jimin, he glances over—quick, subtle, like he’s checking whether Jimin’s watching. When he catches him mid-look, Jeongguk’s lips twitch, and he bites down on them to suppress a grin.

Jimin looks away instantly. Hoseok, of course, sees everything.

The older man’s grin widens until it’s practically gleaming.

Jimin rolls his eyes. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Hoseok replies, far too innocently.

Jeongguk sets the empty drum in place and dusts off his palms. “I think that’s it?” he asks, half-expecting correction.

“No corrections needed,” Hoseok replies, impressed. “You’re a natural. We’ll meet you in the kitchen, Jeongguk-ah, and add your name to the task board.”

“Got it!” Jeongguk replies brightly, flashing two thumbs up before bounding down the stairs, his steps light with satisfaction.

As soon as he disappears, the silence stretches, warm and weighty. Jimin crosses his arms and turns to find Hoseok watching him with that insufferable, knowing expression.

“What,” Jimin says flatly.

“Nothing,” Hoseok singsongs, drawing out the word like he’s barely containing a laugh.

“Hyung.”

That’s all it takes for Hoseok to break into laughter. “I’m just saying,” he manages between chuckles, “I know you had your doubts about him, but I told you—paying kindness forward, remember?” He wipes at the corner of his eye, still grinning. “I’ve got a good feeling we won’t regret letting him stay, Jimin-ah.”

Jimin exhales, looking toward the stairwell where Jeongguk disappeared moments ago. His heart shouldn’t beat any faster at the thought—but it does.

He tells himself it’s just curiosity. Just… curiosity.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Chapter Text

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

2nd week of May, Spring Y1
The Shelter

Living in the shelter turns out to be easier than Jeongguk expected. After weeks of silence and restless nights in empty buildings, the sounds of life—the creak of floorboards, the occasional laughter echoing down the hall, even Hoseok’s impressive rapping—feel almost luxurious. He’s always worked well with others, and falling into rhythm with Jimin and Hoseok feels surprisingly natural.

Together, they set a few basic security measures for the shelter:

First, the scavenger returning before dawn should always ensure he’s alone before approaching the front door.

Second, gas lanterns must stay off in any room with uncovered windows to maintain the illusion of abandonment for any wandering scavengers or raiders.

Third, two people should always be on guard in the lobby through the night.

And lastly, the wooden barricade at the front door stays locked in place, day and night, without exception.

Once their routines are established, Jeongguk and Jimin rotate scavenging duties, alternating nights so there’s always someone well-rested in case of emergencies. Jeongguk also volunteers for every heavy-lifting chore that comes up, earning a raised eyebrow from both Hoseok and Jimin. But it’s true—he is strong, and he genuinely wants to help. The fact that it earns him the occasional glance from Jimin? Well, that’s just a bonus he doesn’t intend to voice out.

When Hoseok asks if he wants to add anything to the scavenging priority list, Jeongguk hesitates, cheeks warming. His companions have written practical things—Hoseok’s cigarettes, Jimin’s coffee—but he eventually scribbles in protein bars and banana milk. They tease him for it, but in a way that feels friendly. He laughs with them, feeling that strange warmth that comes from belonging somewhere again.

Afternoons are their quietest time. They eat in the kitchen, gathered around a mismatched set of plates and cups, the faint smell of brewed coffee lingering in the air. Hoseok tells the kind of stories that make even the bleakest moments feel light, and Jeongguk finds himself laughing more often than he has in months. Jimin, meanwhile, stays mostly quiet. He sits across the table, sometimes chiming in with a soft hum or a dry comment that makes Hoseok snort—but never lingering too long in conversation.

Still, Jeongguk keeps finding his gaze drawn to him. He doesn’t quite understand why yet.

He just knows he wants to.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“Okay, right there,” Hoseok says, voice light but firm, as Jeongguk steadies the length of wire against the doorframe. The step ladder wobbles slightly beneath his feet, and the faint sound of bells jingles every time he adjusts his grip.

“Hold it steady,” Hoseok adds, stretching the wire tight before looping his end around a small nail jutting from the frame. “We’ll need to unhook this every time we open the door.”

Jeongguk nods and takes the hammer when Hoseok hands it up to him. “Got it,” he says, positioning the nail between his fingers and tapping gently, careful not to split the wood.

They work in silence for a while—just the rhythmic tap, tap, tap of the hammer echoing through the narrow hallway. Dust drifts lazily in the morning light streaming through a boarded-up window, and for a moment, it almost feels normal.

Then Jeongguk breaks the quiet. “Hyung, how did you find this place?”

“Jimin did, actually,” Hoseok answers with a small smile, eyes softening with the memory. “Before that, we were hiding out in an old garage—bare walls, no food, nothing—but he stumbled upon this building on a supply run.”

“That must’ve been rough,” Jeongguk murmurs, hammering the nail in a little deeper. His own memories from those first weeks claw at the edges of his mind—empty streets, distant sirens, the constant fear of being seen.

Hoseok exhales quietly. “For me, not as much. But for Jimin, yeah. He gave up a lot back then.”

Jeongguk pauses, lowering the hammer. “What do you mean?”

“Mandu was in daycare when the airstrikes hit. Jimin and I were both at our dance studios—”

“Wait—so Jimin’s a dancer too?”

That earns him a laugh. “Yah, that’s your takeaway?” Hoseok says, shaking his head.

Jeongguk’s ears flush pink. His mind had been stuck for days on the sculpted lines of Jimin’s shoulders and the lean strength of his core, constantly debating whether that body was built in a weight room or honed by dance. Asking felt impossibly awkward.

“No, I mean—uh—I just wondered. He looks like one,” Jeongguk mumbled, dropping his gaze to the worn concrete floor.

“Sure, sure,” Hoseok says, grinning. Then his voice softens again. “Anyway, my studio got hit hard on the upper floors, but the level I was in was safe, at least. I went to fetch Mandu first since the daycare was closer to my area. By the time I reached Jimin, his troupe had already barricaded themselves inside theirs. They had food, water, everything. Safe as could be.”

“Did they let you in?” Jeongguk asks, though he suspects he already knows the answer.

“No,” Hoseok’s smile fades into wistful one. “He asked them to reconsider, but they didn't budge, of course. Too many mouths to feed, they said, and 'outsiders' at that,” Hoseok explains, using air quotes. “When Jimin threatened to leave, they actually begged him to stay—and I did too. But he just packed his things and walked out. Just like that. He said he was done with people who only cared about themselves, and he left with us.”

Jeongguk swallows, the image painting itself vividly in his mind—Jimin’s stubborn set of his jaw, that quiet kind of courage it must’ve taken to walk away from comfort for the sake of someone else. It says more about him than any conversation could.

“When he came back from scavenging, he found this place. Said it looked empty enough to be safe. We packed up our things the next night,” Hoseok says, hammering the final nail with a satisfied nod. “We boarded up the windows and the lower floor so it’d look abandoned. Worked pretty well, right?”

Jeongguk laughs softly. “Yeah. It fooled me completely. I almost skipped it—would’ve, if I hadn’t been desperate.”

“Then I’m glad desperation brought you here,” Hoseok says, sincerity softening his tone. “We needed another pair of hands, sure—but also someone who reminds us that not everything out there is gone yet. Jimin will never admit it, but he’s grateful too.”

Jeongguk lets out a small, uncertain smile. “Could’ve fooled me. He barely talks to me.”

“Oh, he talks plenty,” Hoseok says knowingly. “Just not to new people. Jimin doesn’t hand out his trust for free—you’ve got to earn it.”

Jeongguk hums, thoughtful. “And how do I do that?”

“Patience,” Hoseok says simply, heading toward the toolbox. “Keep showing him you mean well. Eventually, he’ll see it.”

Jeongguk watches him for a beat, mulling that over.

Eventually.

It’s not a promise, but somehow it feels like one.

He glances toward the back door that leads to the yard, where he can faintly hear Jimin moving about playing catch with Mandu. His chest tightens with a knot that feels suspiciously like anticipation.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

3rd week of May, Spring Y1
The Shelter

Jeongguk jolts awake at the sound of loud clanging—bells and frantic pounding at the front door echoing through the concrete walls. His heart lurches into his throat. For a split second, disoriented and tangled in his blanket, his mind jumps straight to the worst.

A raid?

He scrambles upright, breath uneven, eyes darting to the dim shaft of morning light filtering through the cracks in his window. He snatches his watch from the nightstand.

9:43 AM

No raid happens in daylight. Rebels preferred the shadows, the cover of night.

Still, the noise persists—metal on wood, the door rattling under each heavy knock.

Jeongguk throws on his sweatshirt and swings the door open just as Jimin steps out from the opposite end of the hallway, hair tousled, eyes narrowed, every muscle in his body alert. Hoseok follows seconds later, rubbing at his face with one hand, Mandu whimpering and pressing close to his leg.

“Soldiers?” Jeongguk mouths silently, gesturing toward the front.

Hoseok shakes his head, expression uncertain.

Jimin moves first—barefoot, silent, crossing the hall with that same controlled grace Jeongguk has come to recognize. He descends the stairs without a word, motioning for them to follow. Jeongguk does, adrenaline buzzing in his chest, Hoseok close behind after nudging Mandu back into his room and shutting the door.

The air feels heavy with that familiar pre-danger tension—no one speaks. Even the faint creak of the floorboards seems too loud.

When he reaches the front door, Jimin raises a hand, signaling for quiet, and crouches beside the boarded-up window. He peeks through the tiny gap between two slats of wood.

“I don’t know who this is,” he whispers after a beat. “Not a soldier. Just a civilian.”

Before anyone can respond, the stranger bangs again—three sharp raps that send the bells jingling wildly.

Hoseok clears his throat and calls out, “Who are you, and what do you want?”

A voice answers, muffled but steady. “I’m a trader! Please—let me in before the soldiers see me out here. I promise I’m not going to cause trouble.”

The three of them exchange wary looks. Hoseok motions toward the reception desk.

Jeongguk nods, crouches, and grabs the crowbar from its hiding spot beneath the counter. His fingers tighten instinctively around the cold metal. Hoseok unhooks the wire of bells from the doorframe with deliberate care before slowly cracking the door open.

“Trader, huh?” Hoseok says cautiously.

The man outside beams through a worn mask, both hands raised in surrender. “Hey there! Yes, sir. I come in peace.”

There’s something oddly disarming about his tone—friendly, a little too bright for the world they live in. Hoseok glances back at Jimin and Jeongguk, silently asking for a call.

They both shrug—half uncertainty, half curiosity.

With a resigned sigh, Hoseok opens the door wider.

The man steps in and lowers his mask, revealing a face with a charming dimpled smile and sharp, intelligent eyes. He holds out his hand. “Kim Namjoon. Nice to meet you all.”

One by one, they take it.

“Hoseok,” says the eldest, smiling despite himself.

“Jimin,” comes the curt, measured reply.

“Jeongguk,” Jeongguk says last, still holding the crowbar a little too visibly.

Namjoon notices. His gaze flicks toward it, then back up with a quiet laugh. “Planning to bash me or trade with me?”

Jeongguk blinks, embarrassed, and quickly sets it back under the desk. “Sorry—force of habit.”

“All good,” Namjoon says easily, already swinging his heavy backpack around to the front. It hits the floor with a solid thud.

Hoseok crosses his arms, intrigued. “So how’d you even know someone was here?”

Namjoon grins. “There’s a succulent on one of the open windows on the second level. It looked pretty healthy, and I figured someone was taking good care of it.”

Hoseok snorts. “That would be me. I’m the only one who cares enough to keep it alive despite our circumstances.”

Namjoon’s grin widens. “Good man, then. Anyway, I knock on every building I pass. Most of the time, no one answers. But sometimes, I get lucky.”

“You’re braver than most,” Hoseok says. “So, how does this trading thing work?”

Namjoon crouches, unzipping his pack. “Simple enough. I travel around shelters in the morning, offering whatever people might need. I trade for items of similar value. My stock changes every day, depending on what I get in return.”

He starts pulling things out and arranging them neatly on the floor: a few medicine boxes, canned food, batteries, a spool of wire, a couple of tools.

“I’ve got medicine, food, bits and pieces for repairs… but honestly, it’s easier if you tell me what you’re looking for.”

“Protein bars? Banana milk?” Jeongguk blurts before he can stop himself. “Or coffee and cigarettes?”

Namjoon chuckles. “No protein bars today, and the banana milk’s gone—a family traded me for all of it yesterday.” He spots Jeongguk’s disappointed look and grins sympathetically. “Sorry, man. But coffee?” He digs deeper, producing two bags triumphantly. “Yes. And for cigarettes…” He pulls out four packs, fanning them like playing cards. “All I’ve got left.”

“Oh, bless you,” Hoseok breathes, eyes lighting up at the sight. “I haven’t had a smoke in weeks.”

Namjoon laughs. “Then let’s make it worth your while. Depends on what you’ve got to trade.”

Hoseok glances back at the others. “Uh—ideas?”

“Clothes,” Jimin says simply. “That’s all we can spare for now.”

Namjoon nods thoughtfully. “If they’re clean and in good condition, I’ll take them. Can I see?”

“Jimin-ah,” Hoseok says, gesturing toward the stairs. “Grab the ones from the basement.”

Jimin nods once, already turning to go. His footsteps fade down the hall as Jeongguk shifts closer, eyes lingering on the spread of supplies on the floor—every item a reminder of the world they’ve lost and the strange, fragile system now holding it together.

Namjoon stretches his back and glances around the lobby. The morning light filters in through cracks in the boarded windows, cutting narrow beams across the dust that floats lazily in the air.

“Your shelter looks nice,” Namjoon says, his tone both admiring and a little surprised. “Clean, organized—decent for a building this old. Definitely better than most I’ve visited lately.”

“Ah, thank you,” Hoseok replies, smiling with quiet pride. “We do our best to keep things tidy. It helps us stay sane.” His eyes flick to the oversized pack resting at Namjoon’s feet. “So… what made you decide to be a trader? Especially during the daytime? That’s gutsy.”

Namjoon hums thoughtfully, removing his beanie and running his fingers through his slightly overgrown black hair before answering. “I guess I just wanted to be useful,” he says simply. “Not everyone’s built for scavenging. Some folks—especially the elderly—still can’t bring themselves to dig through someone else’s home for supplies. They think it’s… morally wrong.”

He replaces his beanie and exhales softly. “They’d rather live quietly—fixing what they can, tending to what’s left, trying to pretend the world still makes sense. So I make my rounds during the day for them. Less competition, fewer scavengers… but more risk, since soldiers patrol then.”

“That’s… really noble of you,” Hoseok says, genuine admiration in his voice.

Namjoon chuckles. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like talking to people too much to hide at night. Might as well help my fellow Gyeongsanites survive while I’m at it.” He pauses, then snaps his fingers as if remembering something. “Oh, that reminds me—my partner is a merchant at the Black Market during nights. He handles the bigger trades.”

“The what now?” Jeongguk blurts out, blinking. “There’s a Black Market?”

“Yup,” Namjoon confirms with a grin. “Hidden up in the upper Hanwol district. It’s not easy to find unless you know what to look for.” He fishes into his jacket pocket and pulls out a folded scrap of paper, handing it to Jeongguk. “Here—this map should get you close enough. Look for Kim Seokjin. You can’t miss him—very handsome guy, kind of unfairly so.”

Jeongguk unfolds the map, tracing the faded ink lines with his finger while Hoseok leans in over his shoulder. “What does he trade?”

“Mostly rare stuff,” Namjoon explains, eyes twinkling with fondness. “Things people don’t realize they miss until they see them again. Books, sweets, appliances, trinkets—small luxuries that remind you you’re still human. Other traders deal in food, tools, even weapons if you’ve got the right barter.”

Before Jeongguk can ask more, Jimin returns, carrying an armful of folded clothes. His hair is slightly mussed from the basement’s damp air, and he sets the pile down carefully on the lobby floor.

“These are from storage,” Jimin says. “They’re clean, a bit old. Will any of these do?”

Namjoon crouches, sorting through the pile with an experienced eye. He tests zippers, checks seams, and eventually pulls a few sturdy jackets and thick pants aside. “These will trade well,” he says. “I can offer one bag of coffee and two packs of cigarettes in return.”

Hoseok’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s all?”

Namjoon grins a little sheepishly, folding the clothes neatly. “I know it sounds low, but coffee and cigarettes are premium right now. Hard to come by. My partner and I try to keep our trades fair.”

He glances up at them. “Or, I can do four packs of cigarettes but no coffee… or two bags of coffee, no cigarettes. You decide.”

Jimin sighs, exchanging a silent look with Hoseok—a small tilt of the head, a resigned lift of the brow. They’ve done this dance before.

“A coffee and two packs,” Hoseok finally says, defeated but practical.

“Done.” Namjoon’s smile softens as he passes the goods over. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Jeongguk watches the trade in silence. A feeling of unease mixed with gratitude twists inside him. These two had taken him in, fed him, given him safety without asking for anything back. And now, even as their supplies dwindled, they were trading for comfort items that might ease the burden a little—for everyone but him.

He chews the Inside of his cheek, brain ticking fast. There has to be something he can do.

“Uh—Namjoon-ssi,” he says suddenly, voice breaking the momentary lull. “Would you take alcohol? Like brewed soju?”

Namjoon’s head snaps up, interest sparking in his eyes. “Absolutely. That stuff trades for a lot—especially lately. People want to forget for a while, even if it’s just for a few sips.”

Jeongguk grins, energy buzzing through him. “Then we’ve got a deal. We’ll be brewing a batch—should be ready in two weeks. If you come back then, we’ll trade.”

Namjoon nods approvingly. “Smart move. I’ll make sure to swing by, Jeongguk-ssi.”

He zips up his bag, slinging it over one shoulder. “Oh, before I go—do you have a radio?”

The three of them shake their heads almost in unison.

“Ah, that’s rough,” Namjoon sighs. “We’re based out of an old radio station. We broadcast updates on a hidden frequency every few days. If you're interested in hearing about what’s happening outside, I’ll gladly provide them to you every time I drop by to trade until you get one.”

Hoseok’s expression lights up, eyes wide. “Please, yes! We’d really appreciate that.”

Namjoon’s tone sobers. “For now, I can share one piece of news—the military’s onto the nighttime scavengers. Word is, they’ve stationed snipers on random rooftops around the city to take out anyone breaking curfew.”

Jimin and Jeongguk exchange alarmed looks before both raise their hands when Namjoon asks, “Any of you scavengers?”

Namjoon frowns, the corners of his smile fading. “Then be careful out there. Prioritize finding a radio on your next run—it’ll save you from walking into danger blind.”

Jimin nods firmly. “We will. Thank you, Namjoon-ssi.”

“My pleasure.” Namjoon’s grin returns, gentle and genuine. “Stay safe, all right? And take care of that succulent upstairs—it’s what got you found.”

He waves once before slipping through the door. Hoseok latches it behind him, the metallic click echoing faintly in the quiet lobby.

The air in the lobby feels heavier after Namjoon’s departure—like the echo of his footsteps left a silence too deep to fill. None of them speak for a long while. They just stand there in the middle of the room, still and dazed, the morning light slanting over their faces.

They’d put on a brave front while Namjoon was there, smiles and polite nods to mask the tremor in their voices. But now that he’s gone, the truth settles in their chests like a weight.

Snipers.

The word itself feels cold. Jeongguk can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, fast and uneven. He’s already spent weeks avoiding rebel patrols and soldiers, moving through streets where every shadow could hide danger—and now he’ll have to watch the rooftops, too. The thought makes his palms sweat.

He glances at Hoseok, whose expression has softened into something quietly anxious. He can tell the older man’s mind is racing—not just for himself, but for the two of them. Hoseok has always carried the air of an older brother, someone who laughs easily but worries deeper than he admits. And now, he has two dongsaengs to look after instead of one.

“Jeongguk-ah,” Hoseok says suddenly, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. “What did you mean earlier by ‘brewed soju’? Do we need to scavenge for that?”

The question snaps Jeongguk out of his thoughts. His head jerks up, eyes brightening. “Ah! No, Hyung, I can make it!” he says, voice rising with excitement. “My uncle runs a brewery back home—he taught me everything! If we start brewing tomorrow, it’ll be ready in two weeks. We can trade it with Namjoon-ssi when he comes back!”

The burst of enthusiasm is so sudden that Hoseok laughs despite himself. “Yah, calm down, Jeongguk-ah! You’re bouncing like Mandu when he smells food.”

Jeongguk grins, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, Hyung. It’s just—this could really help us. We might be able to trade for more supplies and food.”

“Do we even have what you need?” Hoseok asks, still smiling.

Jeongguk begins pacing in small, quick steps, muttering under his breath as he tries to recall the process. “We’ll need rice, water, yeast… maybe a bit of sugar. I can scavenge for some of it tonight. There’s a hardware store near the old grocery I checked last week—it might have what we need for the still.”

At that, Jimin, who has been leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, clicks his tongue softly. “Namjoon-ssi said soldiers are using rooftops now. It’s too dangerous to visit multiple places in one night.” His voice is even, but there’s an edge of worry under it. “We don’t want you getting shot over a drink.”

Jeongguk turns toward him, startled by the concern. “I promise I’ll be careful, Jimin-ssi,” he says, his chest fluttering a little. It’s the first time Jimin’s tone toward him has held warmth than polite distance.

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “It’s ‘Hyung’,” he corrects simply.

For a heartbeat, Jeongguk just blinks—then presses his tongue to his cheek to stifle a grin and nods quickly. “Yes, Hyung.”

That small word feels oddly intimate as it leaves his mouth, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, he jogs up the stairs, energy renewed, determined to gather what they have on hand.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Later that night, Jeongguk returns, his backpack sagging from the weight of scavenged supplies. Jimin and Hoseok are waiting in the lobby, Mandu’s tail wagging faintly beside them.

He sets the bag down with a triumphant thud. “Success!” he announces, breathless but grinning. “I found tubing, a few glass jars, and even a portable gas burner from the hardware store!”

Hoseok whistles, impressed, while Jimin eyes the bag warily. “No run-ins?” he asks, voice calm but his gaze searching.

“None,” Jeongguk says confidently. “Didn’t even see a soldier. Maybe Namjoon-ssi was exaggerating.”

Jimin’s frown deepens just a little, but he doesn’t argue.

Over the next few days, Jeongguk throws himself into the project. He rises early, even after long guard shifts, and spends hours downstairs in the basement where the air is cool and smells faintly of metal and earth. Hoseok helps him set up the makeshift distillery—jars, tubing, burners, and the pots for fermenting rice mash—while Jimin occasionally passes by, offering quiet observations that Jeongguk treasures more than he lets on.

By the end of the week, the still is complete. The first batch will take time to mature, but Jeongguk stands over the setup with his hands on his hips, pride lighting up his face.

Brewing soju isn’t hard—but it’s something that gives him purpose. And if it means he can make Hoseok and Jimin smile a little more, even for something as simple as a cup of coffee or a cigarette, then every risk he takes feels worth it.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

3rd week of May, Spring Year 1

The Shelter

The basement hums with quiet life. The faint hiss of the gas lantern mixes with the earthy scent of fermenting rice and metal, lingering heavy in the still air.

“Jeongguk-ah, everything good?” Hoseok asks, his voice echoing softly as he bends to shove the large pot of fermenting makgeolli beneath the storage shelf.

“Just doing a final check, Hyung,” Jeongguk replies, crouching beside the makeshift still. He runs his fingers along the connections—tubing, jars, the patched-together lid—making sure everything fits just right.

Hoseok watches him with mild apprehension. “You’re sure it’s safe to put this over the gas burner? I’d rather not have our basement turned into a fireworks show.”

Jeongguk chuckles under his breath. “It’s fine, hyung. This setup’s almost the same as my uncle’s distillery in Seodong—just smaller, a little more rustic.” He gestures toward the small window near the ceiling. “I’ll keep that open for ventilation once we start brewing.”

Hoseok’s brows lift slightly. “Oh? You’re from Seodong too?”

The question makes Jeongguk’s hands still. For a heartbeat, it feels like someone reached inside his chest and tugged at a memory. “Wait, you said too… are you from Seodong, Hyung?”

Hoseok laughs, the sound warm and easy. “Not me. Jimin is. I’m from Cheonghak.”

The world seems to pause for a fraction of a second.

“He’s from Seodong?” Jeongguk repeats quietly, his voice almost lost under the faint bubbling of the fermenting mixture.

“Mm,” Hoseok hums in confirmation, turning back to check the storage shelf without noticing the storm he’s just stirred up.

But Jeongguk feels it—all of it. A strange flutter in his stomach, like excitement and disappointment woven together too tightly to pull apart.

It should have felt like a spark of connection. A small but shared, a piece of home they could talk about—maybe even laugh over. But instead, it feels like a door he didn’t get to open himself. A detail handed to him secondhand, too fragile to touch.

He likes learning new things about Jimin, but not like this. Not through someone else’s mouth. The discovery feels hollow, like finding a note meant for someone else and pretending it was written for him.

And that frustration simmers quietly beneath his skin.

He’s not used to this feeling—this sense of being shut out. Back then, people liked him easily. Jeongguk had been the golden boy: captain of the varsity soccer team, smart, popular, confident enough to flirt without fear of rejection. He never had to work this hard to be seen.

Even after people learned he preferred men, that charm never really faded. He always knew how to make someone’s attention linger—how to draw a smile, a blush, a moment that was his.

But Jimin…

Jimin is different.

When Jimin looks at him, there’s no trace of warmth, no spark of recognition. Just quiet curiosity, detached and unreadable. It’s maddening. Because just when Jeongguk thinks he’s found an opening—some flicker of softening—Jimin withdraws, slipping back behind those invisible walls.

And Jeongguk is left wondering what it would take to break through.

For all his confidence, for all his past success, this feels like a new kind of challenge—one he doesn’t know how to win.

“Jeongguk-ah?”

Hoseok’s voice pulls him back. He blinks and straightens up, wiping his palms on his pants. “Huh? Sorry, Hyung, what was that?”

Hoseok tilts his head, half-smiling. “I said, Jimin’s going out scavenging for food tonight. If there’s anything you need or want him to keep an eye out for, tell him before he leaves.”

Jeongguk hesitates for a moment, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes. “Right. Got it.”

“And you’ll be on guard duty with me tonight,” Hoseok adds, crouching to adjust one of the fermentation jars. “So rest up while you can.”

Jeongguk hums an acknowledgment, though his mind’s already miles away—caught between the simmering sound of the still and the faint image of Jimin slipping out into the dark, silent city.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

3rd week of May, Spring Year 1 – Later that night

The BBQ Restaurant

The first thing Jimin notices is the silence. It hums faintly in his ears, a hollow kind of quiet that presses in from all sides, broken only by the crunch of shattered glass beneath his shoes.

He used to love this place. He and Hoseok would stumble in after long, exhausting dance practices, laughing and starving, sweat still clinging to their skin as they collapsed into their usual booth—the one tucked away in the corner beneath a framed photo of the old couple who ran the restaurant. The air back then had always been thick with the scent of grilled meat and gochujang, the kind of smell that lingered on their clothes long after they left.

Now, the scent is gone. The air smells of dust and rust, of memories left to rot.

The once-bustling restaurant is a ruin of itself. The front window has been shattered, chairs and tables overturned, plates broken across the floor, and napkins scattered like fallen leaves. The only untouched part of the chaos is the booth he and Hoseok always claimed as their own, standing like an island of memory amidst the wreckage.

Jimin walks toward it slowly, each step echoing faintly against the walls. When he reaches the table, he brushes away the thin layer of grime coating its surface. His fingers pause as they trace the faint engraving carved into the wood:

PJM

JHS

A small, bittersweet smile curves his lips.

They had carved those initials on a dare after one too many bottles of beer, giggling like teenagers while Hoseok warned him to “make it small before Youngja ahjumma catches us.”

The memory flickers so vividly in his mind that for a fleeting second, he can almost hear the laughter again—the sizzle of dak galbi, the cheerful clatter of plates, and Hoseok’s voice teasing him about eating too fast.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

Jimin lowers himself onto the edge of the booth, his fingers still resting on the carved letters as if he could somehow draw warmth from them.

His mind drifts back to what his life used to be before the world fell apart. He remembers the dance studios and the mirrored walls that reflected every movement he made. He remembers the thrill of the stage lights and the way his heart would synchronize perfectly with the rhythm of the music.

He had fought tooth and nail to earn his place in Illumina, the most prestigious contemporary dance company in the country. Out of hundreds who auditioned, he was one of the few chosen—and within two years, he had become their prized lead performer.

Every performance had been a rush of adrenaline and devotion. He danced until his lungs burned, until his body screamed, because every moment under those lights felt like proof that he existed for something beautiful. And everyone saw it—the talent, the discipline, the fire.

But admiration, he had learned, could be just another kind of hunger.

People wanted pieces of him. Some wanted his influence, others his connections, and a few wanted him for the thrill of saying they had him for a night. They flirted, they charmed, and when he gave them a chance, they took what they wanted and vanished. The realization had been a slow, cruel one—that they were never truly seeing him. They were only seeing what he could offer.

For a long time, he convinced himself it was his fault. That he wasn’t enough. That maybe if he’d been more open, more generous, more perfect, they would’ve stayed. But every time he reached out, he came away burned, and eventually, he learned.

It took a while, but he built his armor well. His walls. His silence.

Better to be admired from afar than to be used up close.

When Illumina announced their grand biannual showcase, he had been chosen to headline it for the second year in a row. The president himself was expected to attend, and the Cultural Merit Award was on the line. The rehearsals were brutal, but Jimin had thrived under the pressure. Praise followed him everywhere he went.

“Oh, Jimin-ssi, that’s so beautiful.”

“Jimin-ah, that was perfect.”

“I wish I could be like you, sunbaenim.”

“You’re one of this country’s National Treasures, young man.”

He used to smile at their words, believing them. But beneath every compliment was a calculation, a hidden motive. The dancers wanted a better spot in the lineup. The coaches and investors waited for him to falter, just once, so they could replace him with someone newer, hungrier—or someone they were sleeping with.

So when the bombs started to fall and chaos erupted through Gyeongsan, walking away had been the easiest thing he had ever done.

“Jimin-ah, don’t go! We need you here!” they had shouted as he turned his back on the studio.

He hadn’t believed a single one of them. Their voices dripped with desperation, but their eyes gleamed with relief.

The golden boy is leaving.

He remembers the smirks. The whispers. The way it felt to realize that his fall was entertainment for them.

“The final boss has been defeated,” he murmurs now, the words soft and bitter as he stares at the table.

He exhales, his breath shaky, fogging the cracked surface of the window beside him. The memories press against his ribs, heavy and suffocating.

Despite the drama and politics that came with dancing for Illumina, he misses it all—the stage lights, the thunder of applause, the way every performance made him feel infinite. That world was gone now, and all that remained was this—the ruins of a restaurant, the ghost of laughter, the echo of a life he used to know.

He wishes, quietly and without much hope, that one day he might find that spark again—the one that made his heart race, that made him believe he could still create something beautiful, even in the dark.

For now, though, there is only silence.

And the ache of a memory too precious to let go of, and too painful to keep holding.

Jimin brushes away the tear that has escaped down his cheek before it can fall any further. His hand lingers there for a moment, pressed against his face, as if to remind himself that he’s still here—still breathing, still fighting. He inhales deeply, the air cold and stale, and exhales slowly until the ache in his chest steadies into something more practical.

There’s no time for sentimentality. Not tonight.

He shifts his weight, rolling his shoulders back, and forces his mind to return to the task at hand.

Loot first. Feel later.

It had already taken him longer than planned to reach the restaurant; the patrols were heavier tonight. He’d had to move in half-crouches along alleyways, keeping low whenever flashlight beams swept across the streets. The sound of boots crunching gravel had sent him darting behind rusted dumpsters more than once. He’d even spotted a sniper’s glint up on a rooftop and taken a long detour through the backstreets to stay out of sight.

And Jeongguk had insisted Namjoon’s information about the new patrol routes was unreliable.

Jimin huffs quietly, shaking his head.

Reckless brat.

Still, he keeps the thought to himself. Hoseok likes Jeongguk—probably a little too much for his own good—and Jimin doesn’t feel like stirring that particular pot tonight.

He hops over a pile of broken chairs and makes his way behind the counter, slipping into scavenger mode. His movements are quiet but purposeful. He opens cupboards, checks shelves, rummages through drawers—the mundane rhythm of survival. He finds a few bottles of sesame oil and soy sauce, and two large tubs of ssamjang and gochujang tucked under the counter.

He pops the lids open one by one, sniffing cautiously. They smell faint but serviceable—no rot, no strange discoloration. Good enough. He already knows they still have a stash of condiments from his last run, but he shrugs and stuffs them all into his backpack anyway.

A few more couldn’t hurt.

Besides, Jeongguk goes through ssamjang like it’s oxygen.

When he checks the drinks fridge, disappointment flickers through him. Completely emptied out. Not a single bottle left behind. He stands there for a moment, frowning at the barren shelves, before muttering under his breath, “Would’ve been nice to find some banana milk for you.”

He shuts the door gently, almost respectfully, and moves on.

The kitchen is half-collapsed—walls crumbling inward, ceiling tiles hanging by a thread, the scent of rust and mildew thick in the air. The counters are bare, the shelves stripped clean. He runs a gloved hand over one of the metal worktops and finds nothing but dust. No canned food, no rice sacks, nothing to bring home. The realization settles heavy in his chest.

He exhales, shoulders drooping. “Great,” he murmurs. “All this for nothing.”

He doesn’t want to go back empty-handed. The shelter’s supplies are dwindling fast, and Hoseok’s been rationing meals again—smaller portions, thinner soups. If this trip turns up nothing, he’ll have to push deeper into the city tomorrow, maybe risk the outskirts.

Just as he’s about to give up, something catches his eye.

A metal door at the far end of the kitchen—half-buried under fallen beams and a pile of debris. The surface is dented, scratched, but intact. There’s a narrow, rectangular window near the top, the kind meant for ventilation.

Jimin’s pulse quickens.

He climbs carefully over the rubble and leans close to peer through the glass. His breath fogs the surface, so he wipes it away with his sleeve and squints.

His heart stutters.

Behind the glass is a walk-in freezer—and it’s running. Frost coats the walls, and mist curls along the floor in soft, rolling waves. And inside, through the faint haze, he can make out boxes and hanging racks lined with meat.

He lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

It’s fully stocked. Untouched.

The window looks just wide enough for him to fit through—barely. It’s going to be a tight squeeze, but he’s not leaving this behind. He sets his backpack down quietly and unhooks the small hatchet strapped to his belt—the one Jeongguk had all but forced him to take.

He grimaces. “Fine. You win this round, Jeon.”

He angles himself away, raises the hatchet, and delivers two sharp blows to the glass. It shatters with a muted crack. He freezes instantly, holding his breath, listening.

No footsteps. No shouts. Just the wind whispering through the empty streets.

He exhales and clears the frame of shards before pulling himself up. The metal creaks beneath his sneakers as he wedges himself through the narrow opening. It’s colder than he expected—his breath fogs instantly as he drops inside.

The freezer Is a miracle.

Rows upon rows of frozen proteins—chicken, pork, beef, even seafood sealed in vacuum bags. Some are marinated, labeled in faded ink: dak galbi, bulgogi, samgyeopsal. His mouth waters just looking at them.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, a disbelieving grin spreading across his face. “This is a goldmine.”

He laughs—a genuine, bright sound that feels almost foreign in the silence. For a fleeting second, he lets himself revel in the victory before snapping back to work.

He grabs everything within reach and starts tossing it out through the window—packs, bags, anything that isn’t frozen solid to the shelves. It feels endless, a mountain of food cascading out into the kitchen. He can’t believe no one found it before. Whoever raided the restaurant must’ve assumed it was dead space.

Their mistake. His luck.

When the racks are nearly empty, he climbs up, braces his hands on the ledge, and squeezes himself back out through the window. The air outside feels warmer, but his fingers are stiff and numb. He quickly collects the scattered bundles, packing as much as his bag can hold until the seams threaten to burst.

By the time he’s done, he’s breathing hard. His hands burn as the blood rushes back into them; he blows warm air into his palms and shakes them out. The backpack is absurdly heavy, the straps biting into his shoulders when he hoists it up. He winces, groaning softly. “My back’s going to hate me tomorrow.”

Still, he smiles. It’s worth it.

On his way out, he slows by the booth one last time. The air feels different now—less haunted, almost peaceful. He rests his hand on the table, tracing the carved initials again with gentle fingers.

He bows low, the movement deliberate, his voice barely a whisper.

“Thank you,” he says. “For the food… and for the memories.”

When he straightens, the faintest smile lingers on his lips—small, quiet, and real—before he slips out into the night once more.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

3rd week of May, Spring Year 1 – Meanwhile

The Shelter

It has been hours since Jimin left for his scavenging run. The shelter has grown impossibly still—the kind of quiet that hums against the walls and makes every breath feel too loud. Hoseok and Jeongguk sit side by side on the worn couch in the lobby, the only light coming from the faint glow of Hoseok’s digital watch whenever he checks the time. The darkness stretches around them like a blanket, heavy and suffocating.

Mandu is locked safely in Hoseok’s room; the little dog had started whimpering again not long after Jimin left, pacing circles by the door before curling up near Jimin’s empty bed. Hoseok couldn’t bear to listen to it, not tonight.

Jeongguk leans back against the couch, his legs sprawled out, feet propped on the low coffee table. The silence and exhaustion lull him into that foggy space between wakefulness and sleep. His eyelids start to droop—

“Yah! Wake up!”

Hoseok’s sharp nudge jolts him upright so violently that he nearly slides off the seat.

“Hyung!” he hisses, pressing a hand to his chest. “I thought we were getting raided!”

Hoseok snorts. “We’re not, and hopefully never will.”

Jeongguk exhales loudly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before letting his head fall back against the cushion again. “He’s been out for a while now,” he mutters.

“He has,” Hoseok says quietly, his gaze fixed on the front entrance. “But he’s cautious. He knows how to move when the patrols are out. The snipers make it harder, though.”

Jeongguk clicks his tongue. “I didn’t see any when I went scavenging. Maybe that info was wrong.”

“Maybe,” Hoseok concedes, “but we can’t take chances. Better safe than sorry.” He glances at his watch again; the dim blue light washes over his face. “He has about an hour left until sunrise.”

Jeongguk bites at his lower lip, saying nothing. The seconds stretch. The sound of the wind outside seeps through the cracks in the boarded windows. Even though he’d been half-asleep moments ago, worry now coils tight in his chest. If he feels like this, he can’t imagine how Hoseok must be holding it together.

“He’ll be fine,” Hoseok says suddenly, voice calm, as though he’s reading Jeongguk’s thoughts.

Jeongguk huffs out a small laugh. “You always say that.”

“Someone has to.” Hoseok smiles faintly.

Ever the optimist, Jeongguk thinks, and nods. “Yeah. He’ll be fine.”

For a while, they sit in companionable silence, the only sounds are the faint ticking of Hoseok’s watch and the distant creak of the shelter settling. Then, out of nowhere, Hoseok turns toward him with a grin that Jeongguk instantly distrusts.

“By the way,” Hoseok begins, eyes gleaming, “you’re peacocking him, aren’t you?”

Jeongguk blinks. “I’m what?”

“Peacocking,” Hoseok repeats matter-of-factly. “You know—like a peacock. Showing off for your crush.”

“What? When did I ever—”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hoseok interrupts, already holding up a hand and flicking his fingers one by one. “Your first morning here when you walked into the kitchen shirtless. Lifting the rain catcher drums like they were made of paper. Volunteering for every chore that involves heavy lifting—”

“Okay, okay!” Jeongguk groans, reaching over to smush a hand against Hoseok’s face. “Maybe I was, alright?”

Hoseok laughs, triumphant. “Knew it!” He pushes Jeongguk’s hand away, his voice softening. “But you should know—stuff like that doesn’t work on Jimin. He’s seen it all before. Back in university, people used to throw the same tricks at him constantly. Looks, flattery, posturing—it’s all noise to him now.”

Jeongguk frowns. “And you’re not going to tell me why that is, are you?”

Hoseok shakes his head. “Nope. Not my story to tell. You’ll have to earn that one yourself.”

Jeongguk sighs, slouching deeper into the couch. “Great. And how exactly am I supposed to do that? He barely talks to me as it is.”

Hoseok grins and slings an arm around his shoulders. “Ah, my sweet dongsaeng. You just talk to him. Ask questions. I’ve given you some hints, right? Use them.”

Jeongguk groans, half into Hoseok’s sleeve. “You don’t get it. I can’t even think when he’s around. It’s like my brain just… stops.”

Hoseok chuckles, drawing the words out teasingly. “You’ve got it baaaad for him.”

“Shut up,” Jeongguk mutters, but there’s no real bite behind it. Hoseok just laughs harder.

The quiet settles again, softer this time. It’s the kind of silence that feels lived-in—two people used to each other’s company, bound by shared exhaustion and the small comfort of another heartbeat nearby.

After a few minutes, Hoseok presses the button on his watch again, the pale light flickering across his wrist.

“Hyung,” Jeongguk says suddenly.

“Mmm?”

“Has he always looked like that? I mean, appearance-wise.” He raises a hand quickly when Hoseok gives him that mischievous grin. “And no teasing. I’m serious. He looks like he stepped out of a magazine.”

Hoseok hums thoughtfully. “Well… he was cute before, but not like now.” He smiles at the memory. “To paint you a better picture—Jimin was kind of a dork when we met.”

Jeongguk stares at him, disbelieving. “Him? A dork?”

“Yup.” Hoseok nods with conviction. “Thick glasses, bowl cut, and the ugliest pair of joggers I’ve ever seen—they had a smiley face printed right across the butt.”

Jeongguk bursts out laughing. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was,” Hoseok says, laughing too. “But he was so bright and earnest. I figured he just needed a little help presenting himself. By his second year, he’d completely transformed. Everyone started noticing him then.”

“Sounds like one hell of a glow-up.”

“Nah,” Hoseok replies with a fond smile. “The style was the easy part. Everything else was always there—the talent, the charm, the way he could walk into a room and make everyone stop for a second. I just helped him realize it. He’s still the same Jimin underneath it all, just… a little more guarded now. Can’t blame him for that.” His voice softens. “Sometimes I wonder if helping him change set off a butterfly effect somewhere down the line.”

Jeongguk doesn’t know what to say to that. He can only smile, small and tight, as he turns Hoseok’s words over in his head. Jimin feels like a puzzle with half the pieces missing, each one buried under someone else’s memory. Whatever happened to him—whoever hurt him—it must have been deep enough to make him build walls Jeongguk still can’t see over.

He hopes, quietly, that one day Jimin will let him.

After a moment, he asks, almost absentmindedly, “Hyung, do you have a partner?”

Hoseok raises an eyebrow. “Why? Planning to hit on me if things don’t work out with Jimin?”

Jeongguk sits up straight, scandalized. “What? No! I was just asking!”

Hoseok grins. “Relax, I’m kidding. And for the record, you’re not my type.”

“Excuse me?” Jeongguk gasps, pretending to be offended. “Have you seen me, Hyung? I’m a catch!”

That earns a loud, genuine laugh from Hoseok — the kind that fills the whole room and pushes the darkness back for a moment. He claps Jeongguk on the shoulder before his voice drops again, gentler now.

“But yeah… I do. Or I hope I still do. Junho’s back in Cheonghak. Haven’t been able to contact him since the attack.”

The humor fades from his face, replaced by something more vulnerable. “We’ve been together eight years. Long-distance the whole time. I’m hoping he’ll be patient enough to wait until we can get out of Gyeongsan and go home, however long that may be.”

Jeongguk swallows, his own voice quiet when he replies. “Eight years is incredible, Hyung. I’m sure he’s out there holding on for you.”

Hoseok hums, a faint, wistful sound. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Jeongguk doesn’t push further. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable—just heavy with unspoken things like hope, fear, and memory.

He leans back against the couch again, eyes drifting toward the window, where the first faint hint of dawn begins to bleed into the night.

Jimin still isn’t back.

And though Hoseok doesn’t say it, Jeongguk can feel the same thought weighing in both their chests—a quiet, wordless prayer that they’ll see his silhouette appear through the mist before the sun fully rises.

After several long minutes of heavy silence, a faint knocking finally breaks through the stillness—six quick raps, one loud one, then three short taps. The coded pattern makes both of them straighten instantly. Hoseok is on his feet before Jeongguk can even react, rushing toward the front door.

“Hyung! Guess what!” Jimin exclaims the moment the door opens. He steps inside, tugging his beanie off and pulling his mask down beneath his chin, his voice bubbling with a mix of excitement and exhaustion. “I went to the restaurant—the one we always went to after rehearsals!”

Jeongguk moves to help him without thinking, grabbing the heavy bag off his shoulder and nearly staggering under its weight.

Damn, this is heavy.

“Ah, thank you,” Jimin says with a faint smile before turning to Hoseok again. “I thought it was a bust at first—the kitchen was empty, but—” He drops to his knees and unzips his bag, pulling out several packs of marinated meat and frozen cuts still wrapped in cloudy plastic. “The freezer was full! I grabbed everything I could fit.”

Hoseok’s eyes go wide. “You’re kidding! That’s incredible!”

“I even found more ssamjang,” Jimin adds, handing the tubs over to Jeongguk. “Sorry, still no banana milk though.”

“Oh—uh, thank you,” Jeongguk stammers, cheeks warming despite himself. “No worries about the milk.”

Hoseok beams, already gathering as many of the frozen packs as his arms can hold. “We’re going to eat so well for days, Jimin-ah! You’re a lifesaver. But what took you so long?”

“I had to stay cautious,” Jimin replies, pulling off his beanie and ruffling his blond hair. “There were snipers on the rooftops. Which reminds me—” He looks toward Jeongguk, his tone shifting. “Jeongguk-ah, I saw one two blocks from where I was scavenging.”

Jeongguk blinks, a small flicker of discomfort tightening his jaw. “I see,” he murmurs, voice quieter now.

“I’m glad I stayed alert,” Jimin continues, oblivious to the tension building beside him. “Otherwise, I probably would’ve been shot. We can’t be reckless, Jeongguk-ah.”

That word.

It lands like a blade, dull from repetition yet still sharp enough to cut.

Jeongguk’s breath catches before he can stop it. He stares at the floor, but all he sees are ghosts of white lines painted on a soccer field — the roar of a crowd, the thundering rush of adrenaline, the sting of sweat on his skin.

Reckless.

It’s the same word his coach used to throw at him back in university, spat like an insult in the empty locker room after games that should’ve made him proud.

He still remembers the sound of cleats clattering on concrete, the echo of laughter fading down the hallway while he stood alone, catching his breath after another win. Another victory his coach would dissect into “bad decisions” and “unnecessary risks.”

“You don’t listen, Jeon. You just react. One day, it’s going to cost us.”

And yet, it hadn’t. His instincts had carried them through impossible matches—last-minute goals, clever improvisations, victories snatched from the jaws of defeat. The school praised him as a hero, teammates hoisted him on their shoulders, and reporters wrote about his impressive skills. But the one person whose approval he craved most—the man who was supposed to trust him—never did.

So he learned to trust himself instead. His instincts. His gut. His ability to survive when things went to hell.

That word—reckless—had followed him for years, clinging like a shadow he could never outrun. And now, hearing it again, from someone who barely knew him—from Jimin—it felt like a slap across an old bruise.

His muscles tense, and before he can stop himself, the words spill out sharper than intended. “God, I got it, okay? I’m fucking sorry! Can we just drop it?”

The sudden volume startles them both. Hoseok flinches. Jimin freezes.

“Jeongguk-ah—” Hoseok starts gently, but Jimin’s voice cuts through, low and dangerous.

“Excuse me?”

Jeongguk opens his mouth to apologize, but pride—stubborn and raw—won’t let him. “I said I got it, Jimin-ah! But I did get back safely, didn’t I? And so did you!”

The air shifts immediately. Hoseok moves quickly, stepping between them, his arm outstretched to block Jimin. But it’s too late—the damage is done.

Jimin takes a step forward, fury sparking in his eyes. He’s smaller, yes, but in that moment, he feels larger than life, his presence commanding enough to make Jeongguk’s chest tighten with something that feels a lot like regret.

“Jimin-ah, don’t,” Hoseok warns softly.

But Jimin doesn’t listen. His voice comes out cold, trembling slightly with the effort to contain everything boiling inside him. “I was telling you to be careful for next time. Well, I’m fucking sorry for caring, then.”

He shoulders past Jeongguk hard enough to make him stumble, the brief contact scalding like fire through his sleeve. A moment later, a door slams shut upstairs, echoing through the shelter.

Jeongguk stands frozen in the silence that follows, chest heaving. The adrenaline drains out of him all at once, leaving him lightheaded and hollow. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, muttering a shaky curse under his breath.

“Jeongguk-ah,” Hoseok says gently, rubbing his back. “What happened just now? I know something he said got under your skin, but you spoke to him so harshly…”

“I don’t know, Hyung,” Jeongguk mumbles, his voice breaking around the words. “I didn’t like being told off, and I couldn’t stop myself, and—fuck.” He drags both hands down his face. “I should apologize.”

“Not now,” Hoseok advises softly. “Both of you need to cool off first. Talk to him later in the morning, when you’re calm. For now, get some rest. I’ll stay here until sunrise. It won’t be long, anyway.”

Jeongguk exhales slowly, shoulders sagging. “Yeah… okay.”

“Good night, Jeongguk-ah.”

He nods, but his legs feel heavy as he starts to climb the stairs. With every step, Hoseok’s quiet advice played in his head, yet Jeongguk found his path diverging, naturally leading him away from his own room. He stopped, not at his door, but in front of Jimin's. He raised his hand, ready to knock, but he falters.

Maybe Hoseok’s right—now isn’t the time.

He lowers his hand and presses his forehead against the door instead, whispering into the quiet. “I’m sorry.”

The words hang there, unheard.

When he finally retreats to his own room, he pulls his shirt off and throws it into the dark with a frustrated grunt. The silence feels suffocating. He slams his fist against the wall once—twice—before collapsing backward onto his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling above.

His chest aches with the weight of everything unsaid.

I’m sorry for caring, then.

The words replay over and over, soft and brittle in his mind. Maybe there’s something deeper in them—something he’s too blind to see right now.

But he clings to one fragile possibility: Jimin cared enough to tell him off, and so he must still care enough to listen to an apology tomorrow, right?

He exhales one last time, eyes shutting tight, knowing sleep won’t come easy tonight.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The pain in Jimin’s back has long since spread to his head, pulsing behind his eyes until every beat of his heart feels like a hammer striking his skull. His nerves are still buzzing from the argument, the adrenaline refusing to drain from his veins.

Fucking brat.

He grits his teeth and drags a hand down his face, still unable to believe Jeongguk had the audacity to raise his voice like that—to him, of all people. For a split second, he’d wanted to slap the boy, to shake some sense into him, but that isn’t who he is. Jimin Park doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t hurt people, not even when they deserve it.

He exhales through his nose and collapses onto his bed, limbs spread like a starfish as he stares blankly at the cracked ceiling. The anger flickers low in his chest, tempered now by exhaustion and a creeping guilt that worms its way into the edges of his thoughts.

Did he overreact?

Maybe.

But he knows he wasn’t wrong.

Caution isn’t something he can compromise on anymore—not when carelessness has cost him everything he once loved. The moment they grow complacent, it’ll all unravel. That’s how it always starts—someone looks away, someone slips, and suddenly everything’s gone.

He’s already lost so much. His family, unreachable in Seodong. His career, left behind the day he walked out of the studio with Hoseok. His dream of dancing on stage, swallowed by the war. Every piece of the life he’d built—every ounce of certainty—was ripped away.

He can’t afford to lose anything else, nor anyone else.

Not even Jeongguk.

That thought hits harder than he expects. He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead, sighing shakily. His reaction was justified—he knows that—but that doesn’t make the hollow ache in his chest any easier to bear.

He rubs at his eyes, trying to chase away the sting of tears. As much as he hates to admit it, the fight downstairs… it stirred an emotion in him. Anger, yes—sharp and unsteady—but beneath it, a raging fire. His heart had been pounding, his voice trembling, and for the first time in months, he’d felt something that wasn’t numbness or dread.

It’s absurd that Jeongguk of all people—the reckless, infuriating newcomer—could be the one to spark it.

Jimin exhales, slow and uneven. Maybe, just maybe, he isn’t as hollow as he thought.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Jeongguk hardly sleeps. He spends the entire night tossing and turning, tangled in sheets that feel far too warm for comfort. Every time he shuts his eyes, he sees Jimin’s furious expression—the tight line of his jaw, the fire flashing in his eyes—and hears the echo of his own voice snapping back like a whip. The shame of it makes his stomach twist.

By the time dawn creeps in through the cracks in his blinds, he gives up on pretending to rest. For a brief, fleeting moment, he considers faking an illness—anything convincing enough that Hoseok might let him stay in his unit all day. But he knows better. Hoseok would take one look at him, see right through the act, and drag him out of bed to clean or haul water.

After stalling for fifteen long minutes, he finally musters the will to move. He grabs a towel, a fresh change of clothes, and steels himself as he steps into the hallway. He opens his door slowly, peering toward the far end—the door to Jimin’s unit is open. Which means he’s already up. Which means he’s probably in the kitchen, sipping his morning coffee like nothing happened.

Jeongguk’s heart kicks up a violent rhythm in his chest. He tells himself that he’ll have to face Jimin sooner or later, but later sounds infinitely better. He can afford a few more minutes of peace before he has to deal with whatever frost might be waiting for him.

He pads up to the third level, drops his clothes onto the counter, and heads for the bathroom to fetch the water bucket. But before his hand even reaches the doorknob, it jerks open from the inside—and suddenly, Jimin bursts out, moving fast.

“OH!”

“Whoa—”

They both skid to a stop, narrowly avoiding a full collision. Jimin’s hands shoot out on instinct, gripping Jeongguk’s biceps to steady himself. The touch sends a jolt through Jeongguk’s body so sharp it almost knocks the breath out of him. His heart rockets to his throat, and for a second, all he can do is stare—wide-eyed, frozen, caught somewhere between panic and awe.

Then Jimin lets go just as quickly, sidestepping him without a word and slipping down the hall. The faintest brush of air trails after him, warm and gone too soon, leaving Jeongguk standing like a statue with one hand clamped to the doorframe and the other pressed flat against his racing heart.

He swears he hears a quiet “Sorry” as Jimin passes, but he can’t be sure. His ears are ringing, flooded with the rush of blood pounding behind them.

When he finally dares to step into the bathroom, the space still smells faintly of soap and steam and Jimin—clean, warm, and maddeningly human. He closes his eyes and exhales a shaky breath, trying to will his pulse back to a normal beat.

This day, he realizes, is going to be a very long one.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Jeongguk lingers outside Hoseok’s unit for far too long, shamelessly eavesdropping through the thin door in case his name comes up. It doesn’t—there’s no sound except the faint clatter of utensils and the low hum of conversation—but the knot in his stomach doesn’t ease. The tension, when he finally gathers the courage to step inside, hits him like a wall.

Jimin stands by the stove, stirring the galbi jjim in the pot, his back straight and his shoulders rigid. He doesn’t glance over when Jeongguk enters. Hoseok, seated at the table, immediately starts kicking at Jeongguk’s foot under the table, shooting him meaningful looks and tilting his chin toward Jimin like—go on, apologize, idiot.

Jeongguk glares at him. Easy for Hoseok to say—he isn’t the one trying to approach a human glacier currently wielding a wooden spoon.

Jimin keeps his back to them the entire time, quietly plating their food. The clinking of metal against ceramic is the only sound filling the silence, and Jeongguk ends up wolfing down his meal too quickly just to get out of that suffocating atmosphere.

When Hoseok hands out the task list for the day, fate—or cosmic mischief—decides to have a laugh at Jeongguk's expense. His and Jimin’s names are paired together for laundry duty, which is how the two of them end up side by side on low stools by the third-level water reserves, their hands submerged in soapy water. Mandu lies sprawled beside Jimin’s feet, his tail occasionally flicking against the floor. The sun filters in through a broken window, turning the suds into pale gold foam.

Jeongguk sneaks glances at Jimin from time to time, trying to gauge his mood, to find some opening in the silence. But Jimin beats him to it.

“Can you pass me the detergent bottle?”

His voice is quiet, neutral—too neutral.

“Oh—yeah.” Jeongguk grabs the bottle near his feet and hands it over. Their fingers brush, slick and cold, and Jeongguk’s breath hitches. “Uh—here.”

“Thanks,” Jimin murmurs, already pouring.

Jeongguk’s heart is hammering again. He takes a breath, wipes his damp palms on his knees, and thinks—it’s now or never.

“Jimin-ssi, uh—Hyung,” he corrects quickly when Jimin’s gaze flicks up. “I’m sorry about last night. I don’t know what came over me, but… yeah. I was out of line. I’m sorry.”

Jimin hums, the sound small and unreadable. He adds more detergent to his tub and resumes scrubbing without looking up.

Jeongguk blinks.

That’s it?

He stares for a moment, waiting for something more, but Jimin’s silence stretches on. Resigned, he goes back to washing. Hoseok’s advice echoes in his head: You just talk to him. Ask questions.

Alright. Talking. How hard can that be?

“So, uh,” Jeongguk starts again, “how’d you get inside the freezer last night?”

Jimin glances briefly at him. “From last night’s run?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. There was a pile of concrete blocking the door. I climbed on it, broke the window above the door, and squeezed through. Threw the meat out piece by piece, then climbed back out.”

His tone Is calm, casual. Efficient, even.

Jeongguk smiles faintly. “That’s really impressive.” He flips his bangs away from his eyes, trying to keep things light. “You didn’t bring the shovel?”

Jimin freezes mid-motion. “What for?”

“To clear out the concrete,” Jeongguk explains, twisting the wet hair tie off his wrist and scraping his hair back into a messy ponytail. “Might’ve saved you some time. You got back pretty late.”

Jimin scoffs softly, setting the shirt aside. “And the door would still be locked. I’d have to pick it since I wouldn’t have anything to stand on to reach the window. That would’ve taken longer.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve used the hatchet or shovel to break the lock,” Jeongguk says with a shrug. “Would’ve been easier to just walk in.”

Jimin’s head snaps up, eyes sharp. “Is that how you’d do it?”

“Uh… yeah? Faster that way, right?”

“Right,” Jimin says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just stomp in with your big, loud boots, make a ruckus, and announce yourself to the whole damn city. Why even bother sneaking around?”

Jeongguk blinks, baffled. “Wait, what? Jimin-ah—Hyung, that’s not what I—”

“Then what were you getting at?” Jimin cuts in, his words quick and heated. “Because I’m pretty sure I’ve been scavenging longer than you, so don’t tell me how to do it better.”

Jeongguk raises both hands slightly, palms open. “I wasn’t—hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just suggesting—”

“You know what?” Jimin interrupts again, standing abruptly. He rinses his hands in a bucket of water with more force than necessary, then shoves his washtub toward Jeongguk. “You can finish these. Maybe your ‘faster’ method works better.”

“Wait, I—” Jeongguk’s heart lurches. He grabs Jimin’s wrist as he passes. “I’m sorry, okay? I was just trying to help—please don’t be stubborn about this.”

The instant the word leaves his mouth, he knows he’s doomed.

Jimin twists free, his voice sharp enough to cut through air. “If I’m stubborn, then you’re a reckless brat!”

The words hit harder than he wants to admit. Mandu jumps up at the sound, tail tucked, then pads quickly after Jimin as he storms off.

Jeongguk stands frozen for a beat, his jaw tight, blood simmering.

There it is again. That damn word.

His frustration flares—familiar, fiery, and dangerously easy to lean into.

“Yah!” he yells after Jimin. “That’s exactly why you’re stubborn! You can’t even take good advice!”

“FUCK YOU!” Jimin’s voice echoes from the hall.

Jeongguk lets out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head as he rinses his hands and flicks the water away. He yanks out his hair tie, running his fingers through his damp hair, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

It’s almost laughable—how he’d tried so hard to make conversation, to bridge the gap between them, and somehow they ended up arguing again. Yet instead of irritation, Jeongguk feels a pulse of something sharper and far more dangerous hum beneath his skin.

The sight of Jimin—eyes bright with fury, cheeks flushed, chest heaving—burns behind his eyelids. There’s fire there, wild and untamed, and Jeongguk finds himself drawn to it like a moth circling too close to the flame.

For someone who’s spent the last few weeks behind walls of quiet and caution, Jimin finally showed something real, something raw. And Jeongguk finds himself craving that spark, even if it comes wrapped in anger.

Maybe especially because of it.

Whatever this strange new tension between them is, Jeongguk knows he’s hooked. If fighting with Jimin is what it takes to see more of that heat in his eyes, then maybe he doesn’t mind getting burned.

With a weary sigh, he looks down at the mountain of damp clothes still waiting for him and mutters under his breath, “I was right. This day’s gonna be a long one.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

In the days that follow, Hoseok decides he’s had enough of mediating their bickering and puts some order to the chaos. Jeongguk is officially appointed as the shelter’s designated scavenger, while Jimin gets assigned to night guard duty with Hoseok. They only rotate if Jeongguk gets injured or sick.

Jimin protests immediately, of course, but Hoseok’s decision is final.

Jeongguk takes the victory with all the grace of a five-year-old who just won musical chairs. He struts around the kitchen with a dented spoon held aloft like a royal scepter, humming a made-up victory anthem while Jimin glares holes through the back of his head.

Jimin rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t detach. “Fucking idiot,” he mutters, dumping coffee powder into the percolator with unnecessary force.

And thus, a new kind of normal is established—one that involves relentless arguing and mutual eye-rolling.

They bicker about everything: the right way to fortify the entrance, how long to boil the water, whether instant ramyeon should count as a food group. Jeongguk insists on giving constant “helpful” advice about efficiency, survival tactics, and scavenging routes, because apparently, he’s now the resident expert on all things apocalypse. Every single time, Jimin shuts him down without hesitation, often with a pointed, “Thanks, Captain Obvious, but I’ll take my chances.”

To Jeongguk, it only proves his point that Jimin is incredibly stubborn. To Hoseok, it proves he’s raising two fully grown toddlers.

At least twice a day, Hoseok has to step in waving a towel like a surrender flag. “Okay, enough! Both of you—quiet corners! I swear, if I hear one more argument about the proper folding technique for wet laundry, I’m locking you both in the pantry.”

But no matter how many times he tries, the result’s the same—two innocent faces, matching smiles, and identical tones of fake sweetness.

“We’re fine, Hyung,” they chime in unison.

Hoseok stares between them, eyes narrowing. “You two are not fine. You’re weird. This is weird.” He leaves muttering something about how, out of all the survivors in the city, he ended up with the bickering married couple trope.

The truth, though, is that Jeongguk loves it. Loves the way Jimin’s composure cracks whenever he pushes too far. The way his voice gets sharper, cheeks pinker, when Jeongguk drops honorifics and calls him by his name with deliberate teasing lilt.

Jimin tries to fight it. He always tries. But Jeongguk can’t help noticing something else, though: Jimin’s not great at arguing. Oh, he tries—chin high, words sharp—but his comebacks crumble the second Jeongguk pushes too close. It’s not lack of wit; it’s that he’s too kind, the kind of person who still second-guesses if he’s being too harsh.

Jeongguk discovers this weakness the moment Jimin learns he used to play for the South Daeharan National Soccer Team. After that, Jimin starts making “jock jokes” at every opportunity.

“Don’t strain yourself, athlete. We wouldn’t want you spraining your ego.”

“Wow, all those trophies and not a single brain cell left, huh?”

They’re bad jokes. Terrible, really. But Jeongguk secretly finds them hilarious—and even better, he pretends to be offended just to see Jimin’s smug grin.

It becomes their game—a push-and-pull of snide comments, mock insults, and lingering stares that last a beat too long.

Jeongguk starts leaning in closer than necessary when he talks to Jimin, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel like a secret. Jimin starts retaliating by bumping shoulders when they pass, pretending it’s accidental. Neither of them mention it. Both of them notice.

When Jeongguk flirts, Jimin’s reactions are his favorite part—eyes wide, breath catching, hands fidgeting like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Sometimes Jeongguk does it just to see that look again.

And maybe it’s wrong. Maybe it’s reckless. But it feels real. After so many days of static routine and silence, this spark between them—this fire, this stupid, ridiculous, exhilarating tension—makes Jeongguk feel alive again.

It’s the opposite of Hoseok’s advice, sure. “Be patient,” he said. “Give him space.”

But Jeongguk doesn’t want distance. He wants reaction. Wants to make Jimin glare, flush, argue, feel.

Because every time Jimin’s eyes flash like that, every time he snaps back with a bite in his tone and color in his cheeks, Jeongguk’s chest does that wild, stupid thing—it races.

And yeah, he’ll admit it—sometimes it’s not just his chest that reacts. There’s something about seeing Jimin wound up and defiant, lips pouty and pink, that makes something hot curl low in his stomach.

Jeongguk doesn’t know what this is between them yet—rivalry, chemistry, or some twisted form of mutual self-torture—but he’s sure of one thing.

He wants more of it.

Even if it drives Hoseok absolutely insane.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

4th week of May, Spring Y1
The Shelter

Jimin sits cross-legged on the floor with Hoseok and Mandu, helping his hyung harvest radishes from the garden planters crowding the utility room. The space smells faintly of soil and damp leaves, sunlight pooling weakly through the narrow window. Mandu lies sprawled beside them, tongue lolling lazily as he watches them work.

Downstairs, Jeongguk is busy bottling his first batch of distilled soju—a fact that fills Jimin with a quiet, guilty sense of relief. For once, he can exist in peace without the constant noise of that smug voice following him around, picking fights, asking questions, or flashing that grin that always—always—makes something tighten in his chest.

He doesn’t understand it. Jeongguk infuriates him. Pushes his buttons just to see what happens. Yet apart from Hoseok, he’s the only one who talks to him like he’s just Jimin—not the dancer, not the top performer, not someone to tiptoe around.

It’s maddening. But also… kind of refreshing.

Lately, he’s found himself waiting for whatever ridiculous thing Jeongguk will say next, that inevitable moment in the day when their paths cross and he feels his pulse skip for reasons he’d rather not examine.

“Yah,” Hoseok elbows him gently. “You good? You’ve been cradling that radish like it’s your firstborn. I’m almost done here.”

“Huh?” Jimin blinks, staring down at the radish in his hands like he’s just realized he’s holding it. “Oh—yeah. Sorry.” He plops it into the plastic tub and scratches Mandu’s ear. “I was just thinking.”

“Thinking?” Hoseok hums, his voice dripping with mischief. “About something… or someone?”

Jimin groans. “Hyung, please. Don’t start.”

“What? I’m just asking!” Hoseok chuckles as he yanks another radish from the soil.

“I’m still mad at you, by the way,” Jimin mutters.

“What’d I do now?”

“You made him the lead scavenger.”

Hoseok tilts his head. “Lead scavenger? What is this, a dance troupe? Should I assign you a main position too? Visual? Center?”

“Hyung!”

“Fine, fine,” Hoseok laughs, raising a hand in mock surrender. “Don’t pout like that. Those lips are dangerous.”

“Hyung!”

“Okay, okay. Look—Jeongguk’s faster and stronger. He can handle himself out there.” Hoseok wipes his brow with his shoulder, catching Jimin’s unimpressed glare. “Don’t give me that look! It’s true. He even said he fought off rebels before. That makes me worry a little less.”

“I can take care of myself too,” Jimin grumbles, shifting his legs and leaning forward on his knees.

“I know you can, Jimin-ah. That’s why you’re guarding with me at night. And between us…” Hoseok lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Jeongguk makes a terrible guard. The kid always falls asleep.”

Jimin bursts into laughter so sudden he almost tips over. Tears prick his eyes as he tries to breathe. “Oh my God. So he’s not perfect. Finally.”

Hoseok laughs with him, shaking his head. “So? How are things between you two now? Because I swear, if I close my eyes, I could mistake your bickering for my parents’ arguments.”

“He pisses me off,” Jimin admits, still chuckling softly. “But somehow… I don’t stay mad about it anymore. Not really.”

Hoseok hums thoughtfully, eyes warm and knowing. “You know, I haven’t seen you like this since we left your dance studio.”

“Like what?” Jimin asks, keeping his gaze on Mandu, who’s rolled over for belly rubs.

“Alive,” Hoseok says simply. “My sassy little shit of a roommate, who also happens to be my favorite dongsaeng, has finally decided to return to the land of the living.” He hooks an arm around Jimin’s shoulders and gives him a squeeze.

Jimin leans into the touch with a small smile, though his chest tightens at the words. He wants to deny it, to say Hoseok’s imagining things, but deep down he knows it’s true. There’s something about fighting with Jeongguk that wakes him up—the quick bursts of emotion, the laughter that sneaks out between the tension, the warmth that lingers even after the shouting’s done.

“Hyung,” Jimin says after a pause, voice quieter. “Is it weird that I… like bickering with him?”

Hoseok’s grin is immediate. “Not really. Though I am pretty sure there’s enough sexual tension between you two to power the whole city grid.”

“Hyung, can you not?” Jimin groans, burying his face in his knees as Hoseok cackles.

“I’m just saying,” Hoseok sing-songs as he stands, brushing the dirt from his hands. “When that tension finally snaps, I won’t even be surprised.”

Jimin looks up, cheeks flushed. “I’m telling Jeongguk you said I’m your favorite dongsaeng!”

Hoseok only laughs harder, picking up the tub of radishes. “You wouldn’t!”

“Oh, I absolutely would.” Jimin challenges.

Hoseok leaves still laughing, Mandu trotting cheerfully after him.

When the room quiets, Jimin stays there a little longer, tracing idle circles in the dirt with his finger.

He tells himself Hoseok’s wrong—that there’s nothing tension-y about any of it, that Jeongguk just gets under his skin because he’s annoying.

But the way his pulse jumps at the thought of seeing him again later?

Yeah. He’s not fooling anyone.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Chapter Text

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

2nd week of May, Spring Y1
Somewhere in Gyeongsan, Two blocks from the shelter

A man barrels down a narrow alley, lungs burning and legs trembling with exhaustion, his every instinct screaming at him to keep moving. He glances over his shoulder again and again, panic clawing at his throat; the silhouettes of his former companions close in like shadows on his heels. If he stops, even for a second, they will be on him.

He risks it and ducks into an alcove, pressing his back flat against the cold concrete, trying to make himself smaller. The wall is damp under his palms. He breathes shallowly and fast, sending up a private, desperate prayer to his angels, hoping they will listen.

From his hiding place he watches them pass the mouth of the alley, hear their curses and the slap of their boots on the pavement. He waits until their voices fade, until the footsteps are nothing more than distant echoes, then pushes off the wall and runs again as if his life depends on it—because it does.

“YAH! THERE HE IS!”

Tears sting his eyes and blur the streetlights into smears of yellow. He forces his vision to focus.

Please, please, please…

His heartbeat thunders In his ears like a drum.

He bursts onto the main street and scans the façades for a place to vanish. They’re nearly on him; their shouts ricochet off the buildings.

“YOU’RE DEAD!”

“YOU FUCKER! STOP RUNNING!”

“Where the soldiers when you need them?” He gasps out, maddened and helpless.

He swings into a side street, drops behind a wrecked car, and flattens out on the pavement, covering his mouth to muffle his ragged breathing. His chest heaves under the weight of his fear. For a long minute all he can hear is the blood pounding in his ears.

“Fuck! Did we lose him?” one of them curses.

“I think he went that way!” another answers, their footsteps receding down the block.

He stays motionless until the sound of their boots has vanished completely. When at last he dares to lift his head, the world seems impossibly quiet. He wipes the salt of tears from his cheeks and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. For now—miraculously—he is safe.

Then the soles of a new pair of shoes clip the night again. Heavy, measured footsteps cross the street, coming closer. He presses his back to the cold metal and peeks through a shard of glass at the edge of the car window. A young man in black walks past, hood up, face masked. He climbs the short steps to a low-rise building and knocks on the door in a careful, patterned rhythm. The door opens after a beat and the man slips inside without a sound.

A sliver of hope flickers. He checks his battered watch:

5:13 AM.

Sunrise is near. He can’t risk being out in the open when the light comes up. He tells himself to be careful, to mimic the knock exactly, and not to draw more attention than necessary.

He raises his fist and repeats the pattern—six quick raps, one loud one, then three short taps— and waits, breath held so tight it hurts.

The door cracks open. A different face peers out, eyes narrow and wary.

“Yes?” the man asks, suspicion thick in his voice.

“Please. Help me,” he begs, words tumbling out. “I escaped a rebel shelter. They’re still after me.”

Silence stretches between them like a blade. The man on the doorstep studies him, calculating, unreadable.

“It’s almost sunrise,” he blurts. “Please. I have nowhere else to go.”

The man’s gaze hardens. “If I let you in and you’re armed or cause trouble, we drag you back out. Understood?”

He nods frantically, spills the agreement like a lifeline.

“Okay. No funny business,” the man says, stepping aside just enough to let him through before locking the door firmly behind them. The sound of the bolt sliding into place feels like a small mercy—solid, final, safe.

Taehyung hesitates for a beat, then sets his worn bag down on the floor. His shoulders sag with the first exhale he’s allowed himself in hours. The lobby is dim, lit only by the weak glow filtering through boarded windows. Dust hangs in the air, glinting faintly in the gloom.

The younger man he’d seen earlier stands by the hallway, lowering his hood and tugging off his mask. His big doe eyes stay sharp, with a restless kind of energy about him. Next to him, a shorter, blond-haired man holds a small white dog against his chest, both of them watching Taehyung like they’re ready to bolt if he twitches wrong.

“What’s your name?” the man at the door asks, voice steady but still laced with suspicion.

“Kim Taehyung,” he replies, his voice rough and hoarse.

“Jung Hoseok,” the man says, gesturing around. “That’s Jeon Jeongguk, and that’s Park Jimin.”

Taehyung’s gaze lingers briefly on Jimin, who gives a wary nod, lips pressed into a neutral line. He’s beautiful, almost disarmingly so, and Taehyung suddenly feels self-conscious about how ragged and filthy he must look.

“What happened to you?” Hoseok asks as he leads him toward the stairs.

The words tumble out before Taehyung can stop them. As they climb, he recounts everything—how he joined a random shelter during the first week of lockdown, thinking he’d found safety, only to discover it was run by a group of armed rebels who looted other survivors at night. He talks about how he learned to sleep with one eye open, afraid that if he made a wrong move, they’d kill him for it. It took him weeks to gather the courage to escape, and when he finally did—stealing food and a few supplies on his way out—they caught sight of him and chased him through half the city until his legs gave out.

By the time they reach the kitchen, his hands are shaking.

Jimin sets a glass of water in front of him, but Taehyung waves it off, chest still tight. “Do you—do you have a cigarette, maybe? I just… I need something to steady me.”

Hoseok exchanges a look with Jeongguk, then wordlessly slides one across the counter. The first drag burns his lungs, but the familiar sting calms the buzzing panic in his head. The tremor in his fingers eases.

When he’s done, Hoseok asks, “How did you know our knock pattern?”

“I saw him do it,” Taehyung admits, nodding toward Jeongguk. “Figured it might get me a better chance at not getting shot.”

Jeongguk grimaces, guilt flashing across his face. “Shit. I forgot to check the street before coming back.”

Jimin shoots him a pointed look, the kind that says—really, again?—and Hoseok can’t help snorting under his breath.

Wanting to prove his good intentions, Taehyung unzips his pack and pushes it toward them. “Here. Food, bandages, batteries. It’s everything I had left. I don’t need anything in return—I just… want to stay.”

The tension softens a little. Hoseok studies him, then gives a slow nod. “You’re welcome to do so, Taehyung-ssi. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow, okay?”

Taehyung blinks, stunned, a shaky smile spreading across his face. “Thank you. Really.”

Jeongguk grins, the earlier guilt already fading. “Welcome to the shelter, Taehyung-ssi! You’re gonna like it here.” He stretches his arms with a loud yawn. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to collapse. Night, everyone.”

“Thank you, Jeongguk-ssi. See you in the morning,” Taehyung says politely.

Jeongguk winks and puckers his lips toward Jimin, making an exaggerated kissy noise as he heads off.

Jimin rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out. “Ignore him. He’s a menace.”

Taehyung snorts. “Yeah, I gathered that.”

Hoseok laughs, shaking his head. “Jimin-ah, show Taehyung-ssi to the spare room, yeah? I’ll double-check the front door before heading to bed.”

“Got it,” Jimin replies. He gestures for Taehyung to follow, then hands him the small dog. “Here—can you take him for a sec? I’ll carry your bag.”

Taehyung looks down at the fluffy creature now nestled in his arms. Mandu sniffs at him once before giving his nose a soft lick. Taehyung lets out a quiet, surprised laugh. “What’s his name?”

“Mandu,” Jimin says, voice softening. “He’s Hobi-hyung’s dog.”

Taehyung coos, “Mandu-yah, helloooo,” in a baby voice, earning a small, involuntary smile from Jimin as they walk through the door to a small bedroom.

“This is your room,” Jimin says, setting the bag down beside the dresser. “Hobi-hyung’s is next door.”

Taehyung lets Mandu down gently before collapsing onto the bed, limbs splaying out like a starfish. “This is great. Thank you,” he sighs, swiping his arms and legs over the blanket like he’s making a snow angel.

Jimin chuckles. “Bathroom’s upstrairs at the end of the hall, if you need it.”

“Nah, I’m good. But stay and talk to me for a bit?” Taehyung pats the spot beside him. “I just want to know who I’m living with. You all look like my age.”

Jimin humors him, sitting at the edge of the bed. “Sure. Hobi-hyung’s the oldest—twenty-six. I’m twenty-four. Jeongguk’s twenty-two.”

Taehyung perks up instantly. “Wait—please say you were also born in ’95!”

Jimin blinks, then smiles. “Yeah.”

Taehyung’s face splits into a wide, boxy grin. “Yah! My chingu!”

Jimin chuckles, the sound light for the first time that night. “I think we’ll get along well, Taehyung-ah.”

Their laughter fades into the hush of the shelter as Jimin leaves for his room, swallowed by the creaks of settling wood and the distant hum of the wind. For the first time in weeks, Taehyung’s heartbeat slows, syncing with the quiet rhythm of this strange new place.

Somewhere down the hall, a door closes softly. The sound lingers, faint but grounding—a reminder that he isn’t alone anymore.

He exhales, eyes fluttering shut.

Morning will come soon enough.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

3rd week of June, Spring Y1
The Shelter

Taehyung’s arrival had been nothing short of a blessing. He had this way of filling the silence—not with noise, but with warmth. Within a week, he had effortlessly slipped into the rhythm of their lives, smoothing over the rough edges that months of exhaustion had left behind. He helped with anything and everything, from hauling water containers to managing trade negotiations with Namjoon and at the Black Market—proudly proclaiming that his “retail charisma” could charm even the stingiest dealer into giving him a fair bargain from years of part-time sales work at a luxury boutique in Hanwol district.

And somehow, in the span of a week, he had managed to draw each of them out of their shells. He was as kindhearted as Jimin, as mischievous as Jeongguk, and every bit as spirited as Hoseok. The shelter had started to feel different since he came—livelier, warmer.

Of course, Jimin had been wary at first. New people always meant uncertainty. But Taehyung’s easy laughter and the unshakable kindness behind it had won him over faster than he expected.

This afternoon, even without a chore assigned to him, Taehyung was perched on a stool beside Jimin on the third level, helping prepare their freshly harvested cabbages for kimchi. The room smelled of chili paste and garlic, the air tinged with that sharp, familiar spice that stung their noses. Taehyung’s cheerful humming filled the small space as he rinsed cabbages in a clean tub, and Jimin found himself smiling more often than he meant to.

As much as Jimin usually enjoyed working in quiet, he didn’t mind Taehyung’s chatter filling the air. It was a welcome noise—a reminder that laughter could still exist here, tucked away between the hum of their small world.

Besides, he liked Taehyung. He found the younger man’s self-declared “soulmate” title both ridiculous and endearing. Taehyung had a natural ease that somehow made it simpler for Jimin to lower his guard.

“Rinse the salt off the cabbage, especially around the stem,” Jimin instructed, rubbing his nose against his shoulder since both gloved hands were slick with paste.

“Got it, chef,” Taehyung said with a grin, rinsing the last few leaves and setting them neatly into a plastic tub. “What’s next?”

“You can help me spread the paste between the leaves.”

Taehyung slipped on a pair of gloves, snapping the rubber around his wrists. “So, who taught you to make kimchi? I heard from Hobi-hyung that yours is legendary.”

Jimin chuckled softly, his smile fond. “It was my eomma. She made me learn before I left for Gyeongsan. I tried convincing her to just send me some every month, but she nearly whooped my ass for suggesting it.”

Taehyung barked a laugh. “That’s such a mom thing to do. Eomma’s kimchi is sacred.”

“That’s exactly what I said!” Jimin giggled, shoulders relaxing. “It’s not the same without all the right ingredients, but this—” he spread a thick line of paste between the cabbage layers “—this is close enough. She’d probably be proud that I’m still making it, even now.”

Taehyung watched him for a moment, his smile softening. “It’s kind of amazing, you know? You guys grow your own food. Most survivors would never think of that.”

“Hobi-hyung’s idea,” Jimin said proudly. “The people who lived here before left behind seed packets, and he figured it was worth trying to start a little farm. It’s what’s kept us going.”

“Well, I’m impressed,” Taehyung said as he carefully began working the paste into the leaves. “And, hey, thanks for letting me help with this. I don’t mind being your sous chef. You’d probably still be here tomorrow finishing this alone.”

Jimin chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Thank you, actually. It would’ve taken me forever without you.”

“Then I’m honored to have saved you from cabbage-induced exhaustion,” Taehyung said dramatically.

Jimin laughed, shaking his head. “That’s why I like having you around—you make the work feel lighter.”

Taehyung’s grin turned mischievous. “Then how come Jeongguk didn’t get the honor of helping you? I thought he’d jump at the chance to hang around you.”

Jimin blinked, caught off guard. “Go between the leaves and add more paste there,” he said quickly, demonstrating the motion. “He, uh… prefers heavy lifting. Anyway, it’s nice to have a little break from him sometimes.”

Taehyung arched a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Oh, really?”

Jimin could feel the teasing coming before it even left Taehyung’s mouth. “Not you too,” he groaned, already sensing where this was headed. “I already had this talk with Hobi-hyung.”

“I can’t help it,” Taehyung said in that sing-song tone that meant trouble. “You two have this spark. He looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Jimin froze mid-motion. The words hit too close to something he didn’t want to name.

He forced a scoff, his voice coming out a little too sharp. “He’s just—annoying. A brat. You know how he is.”

Taehyung tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Annoying in a cute way, you mean?”

Jimin’s pulse jumped. He could feel his face warming, and from Taehyung’s grin, he knew the younger man noticed.

“God, you’re relentless,” Jimin muttered, grabbing another cabbage just to have something to focus on. “You came here for gossip, admit it.”

“I did not!” Taehyung gasped with mock offense.

“Uh-huh.”

“But since you mentioned it—”

Jimin laughed despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

“Admit it,” Taehyung said smugly. “You like him.”

Jimin sighed, the smallest smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe.”

Taehyung let out a triumphant whoop, nearly flinging paste in the process. “I knew it! I knew there was something there!”

Jimin rolled his eyes, though the warmth creeping up his neck betrayed him. “You’re such a menace.”

“Guilty,” Taehyung said, grinning wide. “So what’s the verdict — is it his bratty charm or that face that’s winning you over?”

Jimin’s laugh faded into something quieter. “Both,” he admitted softly. “But it’s the way he… I don’t know. He keeps me on my toes. Makes me feel—alive, I guess.”

Taehyung’s expression gentled, the teasing melting into something earnest. “You guys would make a cute couple. And honestly? He passes my vibe check.”

Jimin waved a hand dismissively, though his chest tightened. “In a perfect world, maybe. But not here. Not now.”

Taehyung tilted his head. “Why not?”

Jimin’s hands slowed. “Because nothing good lasts long anymore,” he said quietly. “If I let myself want something… and it gets taken away…”

Taehyung frowned gently. “You think he’d leave you?”

“They all do,” Jimin murmured. The words came out so low he barely heard them himself. “I’m just… tired of it happening again.”

For a while, only the sound of cabbage leaves rustling filled the air. Then Taehyung said, his tone softer, “Maybe this time’s different, Jimin-ah. Maybe you won’t have to be left behind.”

Jimin looked up at him, searching his eyes. “How do you always sound so sure?”

“I’m not,” Taehyung said with a small shrug. “We don’t know how long any of this will last—the war, this shelter, our luck. So maybe that’s why we should grab every bit of happiness we can.”

Jimin huffed out a quiet laugh, though it trembled faintly at the edges. “Easier said than done.”

“But it’s worth trying though,” Taehyung smiled then—that warm, disarming grin that had somehow turned this cold shelter into a home. “If Jeongguk makes you happy, even just a little, that’s enough reason to give it a chance.”

Jimin didn’t reply right away. He stared down at the cabbage in his hands, the crimson paste glinting in the light, and wondered when exactly his heart had become so afraid of wanting things.

He laughed softly after a moment, shaking his head. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Get people to open up to you like it’s nothing. I haven’t even told Hobi-hyung any of this.”

Taehyung’s grin was immediate, boxy and bright. “I told you, we’re soulmates. You were bound to spill your secrets to me eventually.”

Jimin snorted, but the fondness in his eyes lingered — and beneath it, a tiny, dangerous spark of hope he couldn’t quite smother.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Jeongguk is crouched low behind the half-collapsed wall near the rain catchers, his wash tub abandoned at his feet like a forgotten prop in a bad spy movie. His thighs are starting to burn, but he refuses to move.

Because a few meters ahead—under the shade of the tarp by the drum reserves — Park Jimin is laughing.

With Taehyung.

The sound carries faintly across the hallway, soft and melodic, and it does something unpleasant to Jeongguk’s chest. He squints, leaning forward a little, but he’s too far to catch any words. All he can see are easy smiles, the occasional brush of shoulders, and flourishes of red as they work the kimchi paste between leaves.

Too cozy. Way too cozy.

Jeongguk’s jaw tightens as he eyes the newcomer. Taehyung is roughly his height—lean, long-limbed, the kind of person who somehow looks like a magazine model even when he’s elbow-deep in chili paste. His rolled-up sleeves show toned forearms, his black hair falls perfectly over his forehead, and that stupid cloth headband makes him look effortlessly cool. And that smile—that broad, boxy grin that crinkles his eyes—manages to be both charming and disarming at the same time.

He’s handsome. Stupidly handsome.

And Jeongguk hates it.

He’s tried to like the guy. Really. Taehyung’s funny, dependable, and their “youngest squad duo” banter had clicked almost immediately. But every time Taehyung sidles up to Jimin and they start that “soulmate” thing they’ve got going on—inside jokes, shared laughter, soft smiles that linger just a bit too long—Jeongguk feels something twist hot and mean in his stomach.

He tells himself, "It’s fine. That he’s just protective, curious. Mildly annoyed, maybe.”

Except, if he’s being honest, it’s probably jealousy.

Because the way Jimin looks at Taehyung?

That’s the way Jeongguk wants him to look at him.

He sighs, shifting to get a better view—

“What are you doing?”

The whisper hits right by his ear, and Jeongguk yelps, losing balance and landing flat on his butt with a graceless thud.

He jerks his head around, eyes wide, only to find Hoseok crouched beside him, grinning like the cat who found the cream—and holding an empty pot.

“Oh my god, Hyung!” Jeongguk wheezes, clutching his chest. “You scared the life out of me! Where did you even come from?”

“Sorry!” Hoseok chuckles, voice low. “I came up to grab some water for jjigae and saw you crouched here like a raccoon.”

“I was not crouched like a raccoon,” Jeongguk hisses, though it’s a lie and they both know it.

Hoseok leans forward, peeking over the wall. “What are you doing anyway? Hiding from chores?”

“I’m not hiding,” Jeongguk says indignantly. “I’m… observing.”

“Observing what?”

Jeongguk gestures vaguely toward Jimin and Taehyung. “Them. What do you think they’re talking about?”

Hoseok watches for a beat, then hums. “Soulmate stuff, probably.”

Jeongguk frowns. “Soulmate stuff? What even is that supposed to mean?”

Hoseok gives him a look. “You know exactly what that means.”

Jeongguk grumbles, turning his gaze back to the pair. From this angle, Jimin’s face is half-lit by the afternoon sun, his cheeks pink from laughter, eyes curved into perfect crescents. And just like that—jealousy flares again, quick and stupid.

“Don’t be jealous,” Hoseok murmurs, reading him effortlessly. “Taehyung’s not his type.”

That catches Jeongguk’s attention immediately. “Oh yeah? Then who is his type?” he asks, trying for nonchalance and failing spectacularly.

Hoseok smirks, eyes glinting. “Not Taehyung.”

Jeongguk narrows his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s enough of one.” Hoseok straightens slightly, a teasing lilt in his tone. “And besides—Taehyung has a partner.”

Jeongguk’s head snaps around so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. “What?!”

Hoseok snickers.

“What do you mean he has a partner?” Jeongguk whispers urgently. “Does Jimin know?”

“Of course he does.” Hoseok’s smirk widens.

Jeongguk stares at him, aghast. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you ask him?” Hoseok shoots back.

Jeongguk opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “You… have a point,” he admits reluctantly. His shoulders slump, deflating like a punctured balloon. “I really got jealous for nothing, didn’t I?”

“Yep,” Hoseok says cheerfully, patting his back. “And you looked ridiculous doing it.”

Jeongguk groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Ugh. Kill me now.”

Hoseok laughs, standing with his pot. “Go gather the laundry, you little shit, and stop spying before you actually get caught.”

Jeongguk glares weakly at him, muttering, “You’re not as funny as you think you are,” as Hoseok walks off, still chuckling.

He looks back toward the two by the drum reserves. Jimin is still laughing, head tilted back, blond hair catching the light—and Jeongguk’s chest tightens again, though softer this time.

“Not his type, huh,” he murmurs under his breath, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips. “Guess we’ll see about that.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

4th week of June, Spring Year 1

The Shelter

Loud knocks and a faint jingle of bells cut through the quiet shelter at exactly 9:12 AM.

Taehyung is halfway down the stairwell when a blur of energy—better known as Jeongguk—zooms past him.

“Whoa—” Taehyung grabs the railing just in time as the younger one skids to a halt at the landing, veers right, and darts across the lobby like his life depends on it.

By the time Taehyung reaches the foyer, Jeongguk’s already peeking through the narrow window slit, excitement practically buzzing off him.

“Who is it?” Taehyung asks, curious.

“It’s Namjoon-ssi!” Jeongguk says, his grin wide enough to split his face. He unhooks the bell wire from the latch and swings the door open.

“Jeongguk-ssi!” Namjoon greets warmly, flashing a dimpled smile as he steps inside and shakes off the morning dust. “I haven’t been back in a while—sorry about that.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it!” Jeongguk waves him off, shutting the door behind them. “I’m just glad you’re still in one piece!”

Namjoon laughs softly, taking off his bucket hat and tucking it into his pocket. “It’s getting tougher out there. More soldiers patrolling the main roads lately—it’s been harder sneaking through to reach shelters like yours.”

He glances between them, lowering his voice a notch. “You guys manage to get that radio yet?”

“Not yet,” Jeongguk says, shaking his head.

“Alright, then.” Namjoon reaches into his jacket and hands him a small, worn calling card. “Once you do, tune in to this frequency. We broadcast updates every other day—at 6 in the morning and 6 at night. For now, there’s not much going on aside from the increase in patrols. Our government is still scrambling to find a way to retain order in Gyeongsan and convince our allies in the West to help fight the war.”

Jeongguk nods, tapping the card against his palm. “Got it. Thanks as always, Namjoon-ssi.”

Namjoon smiles faintly, that ever-patient kind of smile Taehyung has come to associate with people who’ve seen too much and still manage to be kind. “So, what do you have for me today?”

“Oh! Right—the soju!” Jeongguk’s eyes light up. “Hang on, I’ll go grab it.” He turns to Taehyung, eyes sparkling. “Hyung, introduce yourself to Namjoon-ssi, yeah? I’ll be right back!”

Before Taehyung can reply, Jeongguk’s already bounding down the basement steps.

Left alone with the trader, Taehyung steps forward and offers a hand with an easy smile. “Hello, I’m Kim Taehyung. Joined these rascals about two weeks ago.”

Namjoon takes his hand, firm and polite. “Nice to meet you, Taehyung-ssi. Kim Namjoon—traveling trader, at your service.” He gestures toward his enormous backpack as he drops it to the floor. “How are you settling in?”

“It’s been great. They’re all good people—very welcoming,” Taehyung replies, crouching slightly to eye the bag. “They’ve mentioned you before. Jeongguk’s been talking about this trade all week.”

Namjoon chuckles. “That sounds like him. Where are the other two?”

“Jimin and Hobi-hyung took night watch. They’re catching up on sleep now.”

Namjoon nods, then starts unzipping his pack. But Taehyung hesitates for a moment, something tugging at his curiosity.

“Uhm… about the war,” he says quietly.

Namjoon pauses, glancing up. “Yeah?”

Taehyung’s voice softens. “Are we winning? How’s the northwest border? Is Gyeongsan’s line still holding?”

Namjoon’s brow furrows slightly. “We’re not winning yet, but holding steady, last I heard. Do you… know someone from that area?”

Taehyung opens his mouth—then freezes as Jeongguk’s voice calls out from the stairwell.

“Sorry! Sorry, I’m back!”

He emerges triumphantly, arms cradling four long-necked bottles of soju, two more dangling precariously between his fingers.

Namjoon lets out a surprised laugh. “You’ve been busy! That’s a lot!”

“I’ve got two more downstairs, but I didn’t want to clean you out,” Jeongguk teases, setting the bottles down beside the trader’s bag.

Namjoon grins and picks one up, twisting the cap open. “Mind if I?”

“Go ahead,” Jeongguk replies, puffing up a little.

Namjoon takes a cautious sniff—and his eyes widen appreciatively. “Ooh, that’s actually decent! Smooth, too. Nicely done, Jeongguk-ssi.”

Jeongguk beams, visibly glowing under the praise. “Aish, thank you! I did my best.”

Namjoon recaps the bottle and lines it up with the others. “Alright, what do you need this time?”

“Oh! Hyung’s in charge today,” Jeongguk says, gesturing toward Taehyung with a grin.

Namjoon raises an amused brow. “Ah, delegating already, huh? Taehyung-ssi?”

Taehyung crouches beside the bag, lips pursed in concentration. He begins browsing through the items like a child at a candy store—except his eyes are sharp, scanning for practicality.

“We’ll get the usual—coffee and cigarettes,” he starts, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Any banana milk? Protein bars?”

Namjoon laughs. “I’ve got three packs of coffee and a full carton of smokes. Five protein bars—the good kind. But dairy’s a nightmare to find, so still no banana milk.” He pulls each requested item from his bag, setting them neatly on the floor. “Anything else?”

Taehyung hums, then points lazily. “That tub of cheese balls, those three packs of Jaya, the choco pies… and that can of butane fuel.”

Namjoon stares at him for a long beat—then bursts out laughing, a full-bodied sound that echoes faintly in the quiet room. “You don’t hold back, do you?”

Taehyung flashes his signature boxy grin, unbothered. “You can’t blame a man for trying.”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose, still smiling as he starts pulling the requested items into a neat pile.

“Dare I ask if there’s anything else you’d like, your majesty?” he teases, one brow raised.

Taehyung pretends to think it over, tapping his chin theatrically. “Mmmm… I think we’re good for now.”

“Alright, then.” Namjoon eyes the pile of goods and then the soju bottles, rubbing his jaw. “All that for… six bottles of soju.”

Taehyung tilts his head, smile still as polite as it is shameless. “How about three?”

Namjoon blinks, then laughs again—louder this time. “Taehyung-ssi, those are premium goods. I’m being generous already. How about five?”

“Four,” Taehyung counters, smiling serenely.

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Five.”

“Four.”

The air stills. They stare each other down—Taehyung with the calm of a seasoned card player, Namjoon with the faintest twitch of a grin as if he’s trying not to cave first.

Seconds stretch until Namjoon sighs and throws up his hands with a defeated chuckle. “Fine. You drive a hard bargain, Taehyung-ssi.”

Taehyung’s grin widens. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Jeongguk grabs Taehyung by the shoulders, shaking him in barely-contained excitement as he lets out a silent scream. “We’re rich!” he mouths before scooping up their loot.

Namjoon laughs, slinging his pack over his shoulder. “Unbelievable. No wonder they let you negotiate. Where the hell did you learn to bargain like that?”

“I used to work part-time in retail,” Taehyung says with a proud shrug.

Namjoon groans good-naturedly. “That explains a lot.” He steps back toward the door, adjusting his hat. “By the way—have you guys been to the Black Market yet?”

“Not yet, but maybe tonight,” Jeongguk replies.

“Perfect. Have Taehyung-ssi go,” Namjoon says, eyes twinkling. “I’d love for Jin-hyung to meet him.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

4th week of June, Spring Y1 – Later that night
The Black Market Trading Post

Two soldiers with SMGs march past a dark alley where Taehyung crouches low, barely breathing as he listens to their grumbling. They’re complaining about not being stationed at the resistance border in Gyeongsan and getting stuck patrolling the empty city instead.

Idiots. If they only knew how lucky they were.

When they turn the corner and their footsteps fade, he exhales and pulls out the folded scrap of paper Hoseok had given him. The edges are soft from use, the ink smeared from damp fingers, but the route is still clear. He is familiar with these streets.

Five more minutes, maybe less. He’s close.

He adjusts the straps of his bag, feeling the weight of the soju bottles inside clink softly together. With one arm braced protectively over them, he slips through the shadows and into the next street, keeping to the narrowest parts of the road where the lamplight doesn’t reach.

The rusty gate he’s looking for looms ahead. He pushes it open carefully, wincing as it lets out a soft metallic creak. The narrow passage beyond smells faintly of rain and rust. He moves through it, turns right at the end—

—and stops dead, blinking in disbelief.

It’s like stumbling into another world.

The Black Market hums quietly with life: ten merchants arranged in a loose half-circle, their mats lit by the warm, steady glow of gas lanterns. Their wares spill across blankets and crates—tinned food, old tools, clothes, trinkets, a treasure trove of old-world relics.

But it’s the people that steal Taehyung’s breath. There are dozens of them—scavengers, rebels, civilians, all mingling under the soft lamplight as if curfew doesn’t exist here. There’s laughter, quiet bargaining, the low murmur of exchange.

For the first time in a long while, the world doesn’t feel entirely broken.

Taehyung straightens his jacket and starts moving through the small crowd, murmuring to himself as he scans each merchant’s face.

“Very handsome… very handsome…”

Hoseok’s words echo in his mind, and he snorts softly to himself — as if that’s a helpful description.

Still, when he sees him, there’s no doubt.

The man sitting behind one of the mats looks like he’s stepped straight out of a drama: wavy black hair brushing his forehead, features sharp yet soft, and lips so pink it’s almost distracting. His skin glows in the lantern light.

Yep. Very handsome.

The man notices him immediately, amusement flickering in his eyes.

Taehyung tilts his head. “Seokjin-ssi?”

“Taehyung-ssi?” the man replies without missing a beat, smiling brightly. “Namjoon told me you’d be dropping by. He was… quite insistent that I meet you.”

Taehyung laughs and lowers himself onto the mat across from him, offering a polite bow before extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, Seokjin-ssi. Please treat me well.”

“You can call me Jin,” Seokjin says, shaking his hand with a firm, friendly grip. “Namjoon told me you’re a force of nature when it comes to trading.”

“I prefer the term ‘talented negotiator’,” Taehyung says, lips curling. “But sure, let’s go with that.”

Seokjin chuckles, the sound low and smooth. “Confident. I like it. Go ahead then—see if anything here calls to you.”

Taehyung’s eyes sweep across Seokjin’s neatly arranged wares: toys, a neck massager, boxes of skincare, a few bottles of imported shampoo—luxuries that almost feel mythical now.

“How did you even get all this?” he asks.

“I have my ways,” Seokjin replies mysteriously, leaning back on his palms. “The world’s only as small as your connections.”

Taehyung grins, impressed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He picks up a box of black hair dye first, imagining Jimin with his hair a deeper shade—all dark eyes and sharper contrast.

He’d look amazing.

“This one,” he says, setting it down. Then he gestures at the hair clippers. “That battery-operated?”

“Yes,” Seokjin replies, flipping it open to show the compartment. “But I don’t have batteries tonight. Maybe one of the other merchants—”

“It’s fine. We’ve got some at home.”

He takes the clippers and adds a pair of scissors. “Might as well give them a trim while I’m at it.”

Seokjin chuckles. “Multi-talented and thrifty. I see why Namjoon likes you.”

Taehyung only smirks, then begins gathering more: a Rubik’s Cube, a box of Jenga, Uno cards—“for entertainment,” he explains—and finally, a squeaky tennis ball, dog treats, and dog food for Mandu.

When he’s done, Seokjin hums and takes stock. “Alright. Four bottles of soju, and we’ll call it fair.”

Taehyung tilts his head, all polite innocence. “How about three?”

Seokjin blinks—then laughs softly. “You really don’t waste time, do you?”

“I like efficiency,” Taehyung says. “And good deals.”

“You’re getting both,” Seokjin counters smoothly. “Four bottles.”

“Three,” Taehyung repeats, smile widening.

Seokjin narrows his eyes in mock suspicion. “You trying to charm me out of profit?”

“Is it working?” Taehyung asks, feigning seriousness.

For a moment, Seokjin just stares at him, caught between amusement and disbelief. Then he lets out a full, unrestrained laugh that makes nearby merchants glance over.

“You’re unbelievable,” Seokjin says, shaking his head. “Namjoon wasn’t exaggerating.”

“Then you know resistance is futile,” Taehyung teases lightly.

Seokjin points at him, still laughing. “You’re dangerous. Fine—three bottles. But only because I’m curious to see what kind of chaos you’ll cause next time.”

“Deal.”

Taehyung hands over the bottles, grinning in triumph. “You lasted longer than Namjoon-ssi did, by the way.”

“Oh?” Seokjin smirks. “Then I’ll wear that as a badge of honor.”

“I like you, Jin-ssi,” Taehyung says, standing and brushing off his knees. “You’re fun.”

“The feeling’s mutual, Taehyung-ssi. You’ve got trouble written all over you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Seokjin laughs again, eyes crinkling as he waves him off. “Be safe heading back.”

Taehyung salutes playfully before wandering off into the rest of the market. He trades his last bottle of soju for sacks of garlic, onions, baby potatoes, and a small bag of rice, weaving through the glow of lanterns and the low hum of voices.

When he passes Seokjin’s stall again, the older man is still watching him with a grin.

Taehyung just flashes his boxy smile and waves. Then he disappears into the night, his bag heavier, his steps light.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

2nd week of July, Summer Y1
The Shelter

It’s been three months since the war broke out, but the battle in the northwestern part of Gyeongsan still rages on, relentless as wildfire. From their windows, Jimin can sometimes hear the faint, distant thuds that sound like the sky itself groaning under strain. The soldiers patrolling the streets have doubled—Namjoon had mentioned as much—and every night, the air feels a little tighter, like the whole city is holding its breath.

To stay safe, they’ve all agreed to stricter measures: Jeongguk will not be scavenging for the meantime, and Taehyung is forbidden from visiting the Black Market. Hoseok calls it “temporary caution.” Jimin calls it “slow suffocation.”

Still, the shelter is thriving. The little farm they’ve tended to now hums with life—green onions, radishes, lettuce, cabbages crowding in on one another as if refusing to die. They have enough produce, enough meat, enough to survive.

For now.

Their daily rhythm has become second nature—chores, repairs, meals, sleep. But with stability comes stagnation, and lately, boredom has been the newest kind of danger.

It strikes Taehyung first.

That’s how Jimin finds himself on the third floor bathroom stool, a towel draped around his shoulders, while Taehyung hums behind him and applies dye through his hair. The sharp scent of ammonia curls around them, mingling with the humid summer air.

“Sit still, Jimin-ah,” Taehyung says, nudging his shoulder. “You’ll end up with raccoon eyes if you don’t.”

Jimin huffs and adjusts his posture, pulling the towel tighter to protect his favorite loose orange shirt from getting stained. “Are you done yet? You’ve been at this for thirty minutes. My ass is going numb.”

“Your ass is fine, literally and figuratively,” Taehyung deadpans. “And it’s been ten minutes. Quit whining.”

Jimin snorts, pressing his lips together to stifle a laugh. It’s been too long since laughter came easily, and he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.

For a while, the room settles into a quiet rhythm—the gentle drag of the brush through his hair, Taehyung’s faint humming, the slow creak of the stool whenever Jimin shifts.

“Taehyung-ah,” Jimin says after a pause, “you mentioned before you had a partner. How did you two meet?”

“Would you like the abbreviated version or the unabridged edition?”

“Do you even need to ask that?”

“Unabridged edition it is!” Taehyung declares cheerfully. “So—I think I told you I enlisted right after high school?”

Jimin nods, eyes half-lidded.

“I wanted to get it over with early,” Taehyung continues. “Do my service, start college, live a normal life. Except… it sucked at first. I had the skills, sure, but I hated it. I didn’t want to stand out. Didn’t want to make friends. Everyone I knew was already serving or done, and being the youngest in my circle, I was just… alone.”

Jimin's throat tightens a little. If the war hadn’t broken out, he and Hoseok would have enlisted together that summer once their respective dance showcases finished. Even if his troupe had been granted an exemption from conscription, they would still have been together for the initial training period, not entirely alone throughout the service. He can almost picture it—Hoseok’s teasing grin under the scorching sun, the two of them sharing quiet moments in the barracks between drills. The contrast between that peaceful image and their current reality leaves a small, sharp ache in his chest. He can’t imagine how hard it must have been for Taehyung then, going through it without even a friend beside him.

“So what changed?” he asks softly.

“One day, a guy in my platoon got hurt from weapons training, and I had to escort him to the medic station.” Taehyung’s voice brightens immediately. “That’s where I met him—he was the head EMT there! We hit it off right away when we realized we were both from Seonghwa. After that, he kept an eye on me like a proper hyung would.”

Jimin smiles faintly. He can’t see Taehyung’s face from here, but he can hear it—the fondness threading through every word. It’s the sound of someone remembering love like it’s sunlight on their skin.

“I got serious after that,” Taehyung continues. “I wanted to impress him, so I started actually trying. Ended up one of the top trainees, got assigned to assist at the medic station. Hyung was thrilled, and we basically became inseparable.”

Jimin chuckles. “You must’ve picked up a lot of medical skills then.”

Taehyung scoffs. “Barely. I was terrified of doing anything invasive. Hyung tried to push me, but I begged him to let me stick to assisting. He agreed, but he’d quiz me afterward to make sure I paid attention. It was… sweet, really.”

“That sounds like him caring in his own way.”

“Exactly! And, of course, spending all that time together only made things worse—emotionally, I mean. I fell for him hard.”

Jimin can’t help but grin at that. “Did you tell him?”

“Not until the end. Just before my discharge, I confessed. Told him I didn’t expect anything in return, but I wanted him to know.”

Jimin turns slightly, careful not to mess up his hair. “And?”

“A few months later, he called out of nowhere while he was on leave. Wanted to meet for coffee before he heads back. I thought he just wanted to catch up, but then he asked if I still felt the same. I said yes, obviously. And then he leaned in and kissed me.”

Jimin lets out a delighted gasp. “You’re kidding! That’s so cute!”

“I know, right? Nearly missed his train because we didn’t want to say goodbye again. I came back to work an hour late, got chewed out by my boss. Totally worth it.”

They both laugh, and the sound fills the cramped bathroom like warm light.

But when Taehyung starts speaking again, his tone softens. “We made it work for a while—seeing each other whenever he was on leave. It wasn’t easy, but it was ours. Then one day, I asked if he ever thought about quitting. He said he wanted to, but they were short on EMTs. He felt he couldn’t abandon his post.”

Jimin’s chest tightens again. “That must’ve been hard.”

“It was,” Taehyung admits quietly. “But now, with the war, I get it. He was right to stay.” He pauses for a beat, voice dropping lower. “The last time we spoke was before the curfew. I was supposed to report for duty under the new conscription order, but he told me not to go. Said he couldn’t do his job if he was worried about me out there. So… here I am. A coward hiding underground.”

Jimin looks down at his hands in his lap, heart aching for him. “Taehyung-ah, if I were him, I’d have asked the same. Keeping you safe would come first.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung murmurs. “But it doesn’t stop me from worrying. He’s stationed near the resistance border in Gyeongsan. Told me not to come after him, no matter what.”

“Would you go there if you could?”

“In a heartbeat…”

Taehyung sets down the brush, claps Jimin lightly on the shoulder, and steps back. “We’re all done, by the way. Just needs twenty minutes to set.”

Jimin nods, but his thoughts drift elsewhere—lingering on Taehyung’s story, on the way his voice softened when he spoke of his partner. It takes a certain kind of courage, Jimin thinks, to love someone you might never see again—and an even braver kind to stay behind, to wait, to hope.

The ache in his chest spreads slowly, warm and heavy, until it feels like something alive beneath his ribs.

He feels for Taehyung deeply. The story sounds like something torn out of one of those late-night dramas he and Hoseok used to binge back in their old apartment—two souls separated by duty, clinging to a promise only they can understand. Except this time, it’s not scripted. There’s no camera waiting to yell—cut!

It’s painfully, beautifully real.

Jimin recognizes love when he sees it, even if he’s never truly held it in his own hands.

He’s always been a romantic—hopelessly so. The kind who believed love should be all or nothing, the kind who never flirted unless he meant it. And every time, he’d given too much too soon, only to watch it crumble in his hands. His relationships burned fast and bright, like sparklers on a summer night—dazzling, then gone, leaving nothing but smoke and a faint smell of something once sweet.

Maybe that’s why he stopped trying. Maybe that’s why he started telling himself it wasn’t worth it anymore. Because what’s the point of falling if he already knows the landing will hurt?

He exhales, watching a thin curl of steam rise from the bowl of rinse water Taehyung left by the sink. The silence hums softly between them, thick with the scent of dye and summer heat.

And yet, even as he swears he’s done with love, there’s Jeon Jeongguk.

Jimin presses his lips together, fighting the smile that always tries to creep in when he thinks of him. He’s admitted to both Taehyung and Hoseok that he enjoys their bickering—though “enjoys” might be putting it lightly. There’s something electric about it, the way Jeongguk looks at him like he’s both a challenge and a dare. Reckless, infuriating, sharp-tongued—but also brilliant in ways Jimin can’t ignore.

And every time their arguments replay in his head, he ends up smiling like a fool.

After his talk with Taehyung that afternoon, he can’t pretend not to see it anymore—the quiet thread pulling him toward Jeongguk, thin but unbreakable. They’re playing a dangerous game, one that flirts with a line neither of them is brave enough to name.

Jimin runs a thumb absently along the towel draped around his shoulders. Maybe that’s why Taehyung’s story hits so hard—because it reminds him that love, no matter how risky, still finds a way to bloom in the harshest places.

Maybe it’s already blooming here, too, whether he’s ready or not.

“Alright,” Taehyung says at last, checking his watch. “Twenty minutes are up. Let’s rinse it out.”

Jimin follows him wordlessly to the sink. The warm water runs over his scalp, trickling down his temples and into his collar. The black dye swirls down the drain like spilled ink, and when Taehyung towels his hair dry, Jimin feels strangely lighter, like he’s shed more than just color.

Taehyung rakes his fingers gently through the soft, damp strands, parting them to the side. “Hold still,” he murmurs, adjusting a few stubborn tufts before stepping back to admire his work.

“Oh my God, Jimin-ah!” he exclaims, hands flying to his cheeks. “I knew it—black hair looks amazing on you!”

Jimin glances at his reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. The man staring back looks older somehow, quieter, more grounded. “It’s been years since I had it fully black,” he says softly, dodging the compliment with a small smile.

Taehyung grins, patting down a few loose strands. “Well, the salons aren’t opening anytime soon, so you’re stuck looking dangerously good for a while.”

Jimin laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “Thank you, Taehyung-ah.”

Taehyung beams, satisfied, then tugs playfully at Jimin’s hand. “Come on—let’s see it in the light.”

Jimin lets himself be pulled along, the sound of their laughter echoing faintly in the stairwell. And for a moment—just a brief, precious moment—he lets himself forget the war outside, the ache in his chest, and the boy whose name still tastes like a promise he’s too afraid to make.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Jeongguk strolls down the third level hallway with the lazy confidence of someone on a simple errand, the wash tub swinging in one hand. Mandu trots beside him, tail wagging like a furry metronome—until suddenly, the little dog takes off, claws clicking against the floor as he bolts into the small unit on the left.

Jeongguk pauses, smirking. “Found him already, huh?”

“Mandu-yah, what do you think of Jimin’s new hair?” Taehyung’s voice floats out, followed by Mandu’s frantic, delighted barking.

Jeongguk chuckles under his breath and leans toward the doorway, half out of curiosity, half out of instinct. And then—

He freezes mid-step.

Oh.

Jimin stands by the sink, towel in hand, strands of inky black hair falling messily across his forehead. His shirt’s collar is a little damp, the towel streaked with dark dye. He looks up at Jeongguk, one eyebrow arched, a silent—go on, say it.

And Jeongguk’s brain promptly stops functioning.

Gone is the soft, golden warmth of the blonde-haired Jimin he’s used to teasing. This version? This Jimin looks lethal. The kind of beautiful that feels dangerous to touch. The dark hair sharpens his features—the delicate jawline, the curve of his lips, the glint in his eyes that now looks just a bit more… sinful.

“Jeongguk-ah! There you are!” Taehyung beams, completely oblivious to the internal crisis unfolding at the doorway. “What do you think?”

“Uh—” Jeongguk swallows hard, instinctively lowering the wash tub just enough to shield his situation. “Yeah…”

“’Yeah’?” Jimin echoes, unimpressed. “That’s all you’ve got? No insults? No wisecracks?”

Jeongguk scrambles for a comeback, mind whirring like a dial-up modem. His mouth moves before his brain can stop it.

“Oh, it’s… fine. But honestly, kinda disappointing. I was just starting to get attached to the hooded skunk look.”

Taehyung immediately bursts out laughing—loud, choking, snorting laughter that has Mandu spinning in confused circles.

Jimin narrows his eyes. “Ah, great. I see the protein bars turned on the idiot switch in your head again.”

Jeongguk can’t help the grin that tugs at his lips. “Aw, Jimin-ah, you wound me.” His tone dips just enough to sound like a tease. “Though, to be fair, I think the protein went somewhere else… and turned on a different head.”

The words hang In the air for a heartbeat.

Jimin blinks. His cheeks flush pink. “You filthy little—!”

He flings the towel straight at Jeongguk’s face. Jeongguk catches it midair with one hand—reflexes honed by pure mischief—and tosses it back with a grin. “Hey, I’m just stating facts,” he quips, eyebrows waggling.

“Get out!” Jimin snaps, though the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.

Taehyung is practically doubled over now, cackling so hard his laughter echoes down the hall. Mandu yaps along like it’s a party.

Jeongguk retreats, wash tub in hand, smirk firmly in place as he saunters away. The back of his neck burns, his pulse a little too fast.

Very smooth, Jeon. Very smooth.

But as he heads toward the drum reserves, the image of Jimin with that dark hair—sharp, radiant, impossibly beautiful—burns in his mind like a secret he’ll never admit out loud.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

2nd week of July, Summer Y1 – A few days later
The Shelter

A severe typhoon rips through Gyeongsan that morning; the wind howls through the broken streets like a creature set loose. The shelter trembles with every gust, and rain lashes against the tarps as the guys scramble to seal the damaged sections of the ceiling on the third level. Their shouts mix with the storm—hammering, dragging, pushing, patching—until their arms ache and their clothes cling heavily to their skin.

By the time they secure the last corner and empty the overflowing pails into their reserves, they are soaked to the bone but victorious. The rain catchers brim full—a small miracle in the middle of ruin. For the first time in weeks, the anxiety over running out of water ebbs into relief.

When Hoseok half-jokes that they "earn a proper rinse,” Taehyung is the first to fling open the back door and step out into the downpour.

The others follow, laughter spills out with them.

Cold rain pelts their faces, but it feels good—cleansing, almost holy in its simplicity. The yard turns to mud beneath their feet as Mandu bounds in wild circles, barking gleefully and spraying them with water. Jimin squeals when the little dog leaps through a puddle and splashes him square in the chest.

“Mandu-yah! You menace!” he laughs, scooping the squirming dog into his arms and spinning him around.

“Yah! Jimin-ah, you’re it!” Jeongguk shouts through his laughter. “Mandu tagged you!”

“What? That doesn’t count!” Jimin protests, still laughing.

“Rules are rules!” Jeongguk calls back, grinning.

“Oh yeah? Then you’re next!” Jimin shouts, lowering Mandu to the ground and lunging toward him.

Jeongguk’s eyes widen. “Wait—what?!”

“Tagged!” Jimin taps his arm with a triumphant laugh. “You’re it!”

Before Jeongguk can protest, Jimin spins on his heel and bolts.

Jeongguk lets out an incredulous laugh and takes off after him, splashing through the mud in pursuit. The rain blurs everything into streaks of silver and motion as they zigzag across the yard, slipping, shouting, and laughing loud enough to drown out the storm.

Hoseok tries to intercept Jeongguk, arms outstretched like a goalkeeper, but Jeongguk is too quick, pivoting around him with a triumphant whoop. Taehyung joins the fray next, swooping in from behind to smack Jimin’s shoulder.

“Tagged!” Taehyung crows.

“Traitor!” Jimin gasps, breathless and laughing, as Mandu barks madly in approval and bounds off again—ready to chase whoever runs next.

For a while, it is pure, chaotic joy—four grown men and one ecstatic Shih Tzu playing tag under a typhoon sky.

The rain comes down harder, blurring the edges of everything, until all that exists is their laughter and the rhythmic drumming on their skin.

When they finally stumble back inside, dripping and breathless, Mandu shakes himself in the doorway, splattering everyone with one last shower of muddy droplets.

“Yah, Mandu-yah!” Hoseok yelps, ducking for cover.

Taehyung scoops the little dog up with a laugh. “Alright, you menace. Bath time.”

Jimin is still grinning as he wrings out his soaked shirt. For a brief, fleeting moment, it almost feels like the world outside isn't falling apart. The laughter lingers in the air long after they come back inside—a soft echo of warmth that clings to the walls and follows them as they change into dry clothes and scatter to their own corners of the shelter.

Jeongguk finds himself sprawled on the sofa in Hoseok and Taehyung’s unit afterward, hair still damp, his body pleasantly sore from all the running and laughter. The storm still rages outside, but its sound softens to a steady rhythm—comforting, even.

He glances toward the window, watching rain trace lazy paths down the glass. That strange, buoyant feeling lingers in his chest. Maybe it is the laughter. Maybe it is seeing Jimin smiling so freely for the first time.

Whatever it is, it makes him hope they get more moments like that—small, imperfect, and fleeting, but theirs.

“Jeongguk-ah,” Hoseok calls out, stirring a pan of dak galbi on the stove. The smell fills the small room, spicy and comforting. “Taehyung’s still upstairs drying Mandu. Could you tell Jimin we’re eating in fifteen minutes?”

“Okay, Hyung,” Jeongguk says, pushing himself up with a small groan. He slips on his shoes and crosses the narrow hall to Jimin’s unit.

He knocks softly. “Jimin-ah?”

Silence.

He hesitates. Jimin mentions maybe taking a nap after the rain, so Jeongguk tries again—this time a bit louder. Still nothing.

“Jimin-ah, I’m coming in,” he says quietly, turning the handle.

The room smells faintly of clean cotton and shampoo. He has never been inside before, and curiosity prickles at him as he takes in the space. It mirrors his own in layout, but the details are unmistakably Jimin: neat but lived-in, a full-length mirror in the corner with his scavenging backpack slung over it, a small desk scattered with notes and sketches.

A journal lies open—words looping gracefully across the page beside the phrase Black Swan solo.

Above the desk hangs a corkboard crowded with photos.

He shouldn't, but his feet move closer anyway. His gaze drifts over the snapshots—Jimin with pink hair and Hoseok beside him, both beaming; Mandu licking his cheek; a teary-eyed Jimin standing outside a building marked Illumina, radiant even through the blur of emotion; a stage photo, Jimin mid-performance, light spills over him like a halo.

They are glimpses of another life. Another Jimin.

One who looks open and bright and utterly unguarded—so different from the quiet, measured version sitting through each day here at the shelter.

An empty space catches his attention, the outline of missing tape marking where a photo once hangs. He wonders what is there.

Then a sound pulls him back—soft, uneven breathing from the bed.

Jimin sits with his back to the room, facing the window. His hair is still damp, sticking to the back of his neck, and his oversized white shirt pools loosely around him, making him look almost fragile. His shoulders tremble faintly, and that is when Jeongguk realizes—he is crying.

Something twists in his chest.

“Jimin-ah?” Jeongguk says gently, stepping closer. “Are you crying?”

Jimin stiffens. He scrubs at his face quickly, voice comes out low and hoarse. “Can we not do this right now, Jeongguk-ah? I’m not in the mood.”

“Hyung,” Jeongguk says quietly. The word makes Jimin pause. “I’m not trying to pry. I just—” He hesitates, then sits on the corner of the bed, careful not to crowd him. “I’m just worried, that’s all. Are you okay?”

Jimin lets out a shaky breath. For a moment, Jeongguk thinks he won't answer. Then, softly—

“I was just thinking about something,” Jimin murmurs. “I’ll be okay.”

He wipes at his eyes again, then reaches for a photo beside him. The one he holds.

Jeongguk leans over, just enough to glimpse it. A younger Jimin smiles back at him—eyes crescented, cheeks round and flushed with joy. Beside him stands a middle-aged couple with his same warm features, and a small boy clings to his shoulders, grinning into his neck. They stand in front of a cozy little café.

“Is that your family?” Jeongguk asks, softly.

Jimin blinks, as if startled that he is caught lingering on it. “Huh? Oh.” He glances down at the photo, and Jeongguk sees how red his eyes are, his nose pink from crying. “Yeah. This is in front of our family café. They took it just before I left for university. Drove me all the way to the train station.”

Jeongguk studies the picture again, something tugs at the edge of his memory. The café, the smiling faces—there is something familiar there.

And then, all at once, it clicks.

“Hyung, is this café close to the coastal road by Haerang Beach—in front of the old comic book shop with a One Piece poster in the window, and a food stand run by a kind halmeonim who sells fresh bungeoppang?” Jeongguk blurts, words tumbling over each other in excitement.

Jimin’s head snaps up. He turns fully toward Jeongguk, staring at him as if he’s just grown a second head. “That’s Haneul halmeonim! She used to look after me and my little brother whenever my parents had to step out. How did… Wait—are you from Seodong?”

Jeongguk nods, and Jimin lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh, rubbing at his damp eyes.

“I used to ride my bike along that coastal road to school,” Jeongguk says, his voice warming with nostalgia. “The café was always on the way. I’d grab tuna or ham sandwiches when I was running late. And if I had extra money, I’d splurge on the croissant sandwich with scrambled eggs. That thing was huge—but so good.” He slips into the familiar lilt of Seodong satoori, knowing Jimin would catch it instantly.

“Ah, my eomma’s specialty!” Jimin brightens, answering in the same dialect. “Thank you for your business, Jeongguk-ah. It’s still on the menu—one of our bestsellers.”

Jeongguk grins, the sound of his laugh blending easily with Jimin’s. “Glad to know I’ve got something to look forward to when we get home. Tell me the creepy pig chef statue is still there by the door?”

Jimin bursts out laughing. “You mean ‘Bossam-nim’?”

“That thing had a name?” Jeongguk gawks.

“It did! Appa finally got rid of it after much convincing that it was the ugliest thing ever. Everyone said so.”

“Including me now,” Jeongguk quips, and Jimin’s answering smile is soft, lingering.

“I take it you haven’t been by recently?”

Jeongguk shakes his head.

“Then you’d be surprised. The café doesn’t look like this anymore,” Jimin says, holding up the photo. “We expanded into the next building. There’s even a parking area now.”

Jeongguk’s brows lift. “Really?”

“Mhmm. Haerang Beach turned into a tourist hub, so business took off. We got lucky, I guess.”

Jeongguk’s lips curve. “I can’t wait to see it when we get home. You’re giving me the grand tour, okay?”

“I will,” Jimin promises softly. “Though I still can’t believe I never saw you there. I was in the café almost every afternoon after school, waiting tables. You didn’t drop by then?”

“I had practice after class and went straight home. Mornings were my only chance.”

“That’s a shame,” Jimin murmurs. “Maybe we’d be better friends if we’d caught each other then…”

“Yeah. Maybe,” Jeongguk says, and the thought makes something flutter quietly in his chest.

Jimin gazes at the photo again, his thumb brushing the corner. “Such a small world,” he says with a soft, almost wistful smile. “I wonder if my parents would recognize you.” His tone grows quieter, heavier. “If I tell you why I was crying earlier, will you promise not to make fun of me?”

Jeongguk raises his right hand solemnly and traces an X over his heart. “I promise.”

“Seodong brothers’ honor?”

Jeongguk snorts but smiles. “Yes, Hyung. Seodong brothers’ honor.”

“I was just… missing my family,” Jimin admits, his voice trembling slightly. “They’re probably worried sick about me, and I can’t even let them know I’m safe. I hate this stupid war. I lost so much because of it…”

Jeongguk feels something inside him tighten, a quiet ache blooming in his chest. He’s been running on survival mode for so long that the grief had gone numb, buried under adrenaline and exhaustion. But Jimin’s words dig it back up—raw and real.

“I miss my family too,” he whispers, almost to himself. “I miss them… I miss home. And like you, they have no idea I’m even safe.”

“When did you last see them?” Jimin asks gently.

“Third year of university. During Chuseok.”

“Oh…” Jimin’s voice softens even more. “That’s a long time.”

“I should’ve gone home more,” Jeongguk says, voice breaking around the words. “I don’t even know if I’ll ever get to see them again.”

Jimin shifts, the mattress dipping as he moves closer. The air between them feels fragile now—quiet but heavy with understanding.

Jeongguk stares down at his hands, watching how they tremble slightly. “It’s strange,” he murmurs after a pause. “When I think about my family, I can almost see them clearly—my eomma making galbi-jjim, my appa watching the evening news, my hyung building Legos. But when I think about my friends…” His voice trails off, thick with emotion. “It’s harder. Their faces blur, like my mind is trying to protect me from remembering.”

He swallows hard, forcing himself to go on. “My entire soccer team is gone.”

Jimin’s head snaps up, startled. The words hang heavy between them, a confession that feels like tearing open an old wound. “I was the only one who ran to safety… I don’t know why they didn’t do the same.”

Jimin stills, breath catching. “What?”

Jeongguk clenches his jaw, eyes burning. “I—I saw all of their mangled bodies after the attack. The whole field was just… gone. Torn apart. Their uniforms—my uniform—everywhere. The smell of smoke and metal and—” His voice cracks, and he squeezes his eyes shut as if that might make the images fade. “I was the only one who survived.”

The rain beats steadily against the window, a soft percussion beneath his trembling words.

“Oh my God, Jeongguk-ah…” Jimin whispers, his voice breaking. “I—I don’t even know what to say. I’m so sorry. No one should ever have to see something like that. Are—are you okay?”

Jeongguk laughs weakly, the sound hollow. “I thought I was. I kept telling myself I was fine—that it was enough just to still be alive. But now that I’m saying it out loud… I don’t think I am.”

He runs a hand through his damp hair, exhaling shakily. “I kept replaying it sometimes, you know? How I turned and ran while they—while they didn’t. I told myself I couldn’t have done anything, but there’s this tiny part of me that still wonders… if I’d yelled louder, if I’d grabbed someone’s arm, maybe—” He stops, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek. “Maybe they’d be here too.”

“Jeongguk-ah…” Jimin says softly, eyes glassy. “You can’t blame yourself for that. You were scared—anyone would’ve been. You survived because you ran. You did what you had to do.”

Jeongguk doesn’t reply. He just stares at his hands, fingers curled into fists, the tremor in them betraying him.

Jimin shifts closer and places a hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing slow, steady circles. The warmth of the touch is grounding, real, anchoring him to the present instead of the blood-soaked memories behind his eyelids.

“I haven’t told anyone about it,” Jeongguk murmurs. “Not Hobi-hyung, not Taehyungie-hyung. I just… tried to pretend it didn’t happen. I figured if I stayed busy enough, if I joked around and acted like my old self, maybe it would stop hurting.”

Jimin’s hand stills, then squeezes gently. “But it didn’t stop, did it?”

Jeongguk shakes his head, tears threatening now. “No. It’s like it’s always there—just under the surface. I don’t even know if any of my other friends are alive. I don’t know if I’ll ever see anyone I knew again.” His voice cracks. “I feel so damn alone.”

Jimin’s eyes soften. “You’re not alone. Not anymore,” he says quietly. “You have us. You have me. You don’t have to keep pretending to be brave around us.”

Jeongguk looks up at him, startled by the certainty in his tone. Jimin’s face is still streaked with tears, but his expression holds only warmth and resolve—the kind that seeps into the spaces you thought were unreachable.

That’s when it hits Jeongguk—how ridiculous all the bickering between them seems now. The teasing, the false irritation, the constant needling. None of it matters. Not when there’s this—two people, sitting in a war-torn building, clinging to the only thing they can still offer each other: understanding.

“Hyung,” Jeongguk says, his voice trembling. “I… I want to apologize. For everything. I just wanted to get a reaction out of you—to get your attention. I may have taken it too far sometimes, and for that, I’m sorry.”

Jimin blinks, surprised, then his gaze softens. “There’s nothing to forgive, Jeongguk-ah. But… if it means that much to you, then I forgive you.”

Jeongguk nods, relief washing over him like a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Thank you. And thank you for listening. I kept all of that buried so deep, I didn’t even realize it was eating me alive. I’m sorry for unloading everything on you when you were the one who needed comforting.”

“No, don’t be,” Jimin says immediately, shaking his head. “Thank you for trusting me with it. You don’t have to keep pretending you’re okay, not with us. We’re all we’ve got, right? So lean on me if you need to, okay? Hyung’s here.”

He smiles, small but genuine, and it’s the kind of smile that makes the room feel a little less suffocating. “Do you feel any better now?”

Jeongguk’s lips twitch, a faint, unsteady smile finding its way to his face. “I do, actually. Yeah.”

Jimin hesitates for a beat, then says quietly, “I should apologize too. I was a dick to you from the beginning. I didn’t give you a fair chance, and I’m really sorry.”

Jeongguk chuckles, a soft, breathy sound. “Hyung, can we just… start over? Forgive, forget, and maybe not be at each other’s throats every five minutes?”

Jimin beams at him, eyes curving into that crescent smile Jeongguk secretly loves. “I’d like that very much. A fresh start.”

And just like that, relief settles between them—quiet but undeniable. The air feels lighter, almost hopeful. Jeongguk feels unburdened, like the heavy certainty of loneliness has finally lifted. When he sees Jimin smile like that, his heart flutters painfully, confirming the feeling. Happiness suits him, he thinks. A deep resolve forms instantly: if all he can do is help keep that light in Jimin's eyes, then that’s enough.

He isn't alone anymore.

Jeongguk gazes at him warmly and extends his hand. Jimin takes it, firm but gentle, and they shake—sealing a new beginning between them.

“I guess that’s the end of the bickering, huh?” Jimin says with a small laugh, wiping the last of his tears. “Not gonna lie, I kind of enjoyed it sometimes.”

“If you enjoyed it that much, I can still annoy you like the brat I am, Jimin-ah!” Jeongguk fires back.

Jimin bursts out laughing, swatting at him playfully before collapsing against his shoulder in amusement. “I’m glad to know you’re self-aware,” he teases. “This is the first time we’ve actually had a long, decent conversation since we met. What’s wrong with us?”

“I don’t know,” Jeongguk says softly, smiling. “But I really like talking to you like this, Hyung.”

“…Me too,” Jimin whispers, cheeks dusted pink. His voice is barely audible over the rain still pattering against the window.

Jeongguk’s heart flips. There’s something in Jimin’s tone—quiet, uncertain, but meaningful—and before he can unpack it, his stomach betrays him with a loud rumble.

“Oh right!” he blurts out, cheeks coloring. “I was supposed to call you out to eat. Hobi-hyung says the food’s almost done!”

Jimin laughs, standing up with a shake of his head. “Let’s go, then.”

And as they leave the room, side by side, Jeongguk realizes the storm outside doesn’t sound so loud anymore.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

3rd week of July, Summer Y1
The Shelter

Jeongguk tilts his head toward the sky, closing his eyes as the sunlight warms his face. The air is crisp and clean after the last storm, the scent of rain still lingering faintly in the breeze. The world feels washed—lighter somehow—as if the weight pressing down on his chest has eased, if only a little.

Maybe it’s the clear skies.

Or maybe it’s because he and Jimin have been spending more time together lately.

They talk for hours now—about childhood memories, lost friends, stupid things they miss about their old lives, quiet moments where words weren’t even needed. They’d picked apart the ghosts between them piece by piece—Jimin’s fear of not being to dance again, Jeongguk’s survivor’s guilt and silence—until a fragile but real connection had started to grow.

They still bicker, of course. But now their arguments end in laughter, not slammed doors.

“Aish, Jeongguk-ah,” Taehyung nudges his shoulder. “Keep your head level. I need to even this out.”

“Sorry,” Jeongguk laughs, lowering his chin obediently.

He’s perched on the picnic bench in the backyard, indulging Taehyung’s latest “art project”—giving him a haircut. The rhythmic buzz of clippers hums softly beneath the afternoon sun, mingling with birdsong and the low rumble of distant explosions from the northwest.

“I swear, you and Jimin are the same. He couldn’t sit still either when I dyed his hair,” Taehyung grumbles, brushing loose strands off Jeongguk’s neck. “Speaking of… how are you guys? I haven’t seen you two butting heads in a while.”

Jeongguk’s mouth curls into a soft smile. “We had a good talk recently. Made amends. We’re… friends now.”

“Yeah? That’s nice to hear.” Taehyung hums thoughtfully, running the clippers along the side of Jeongguk’s head. Then, casually—too casually—he adds, “So what are your intentions with him?”

Jeongguk freezes. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Jeongguk exhales a nervous laugh. “Hyung, you’re holding a sharp object next to my skull. You can’t just ask me stuff like that.”

Taehyung doesn’t even blink. “Answer.”

Jeongguk exhales, shaking his head with a disbelieving laugh. “You’re scary when you do that, you know.”

Taehyung just arches a brow, the clippers still in hand.

Jeongguk sighs, glancing away. He wants to say something lighthearted, a joke to deflect, but he’s tired of dodging honesty.

“I’m… okay with us being friends,” he admits softly. “But I do want to get closer, if he lets me. I’m not looking for a fling or anything. He just makes things feel—” he pauses, searching for the right word, “—bearable.”

The clippers fall silent.

Taehyung sets them down on the table and studies Jeongguk for a long moment. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

Jeongguk looks up, puzzled.

“You should know,” Taehyung says quietly, “Jimin’s been through a lot. More than he lets on. I’ve often heard him cry over the people who broke his trust and hurt him long before this war ever started. He’s strong, but that kind of pain doesn’t just disappear.”

Jeongguk’s gaze drops to his hands, clasped in his lap. “He hasn’t told me about it yet… but I can tell. I know.”

Taehyung sighs, lowering himself onto the bench beside Jeongguk.

“When I first got here, I actually liked the idea of you two together. You balanced each other out—Jimin with all his heart and you with your fire. But now…” He trails off, his expression softening. “Now I just want both of you to survive this with your hearts still intact.”

Jeongguk looks down, his hands tightening in his lap. “You think I’ll hurt him.”

“I think you could,” Taehyung says honestly, but not unkindly. “Not because you’d mean to. But because you’re also carrying a lot of trauma from the war, Jeongguk-ah. That kind of grief… it eats at you until you start spilling it onto people who try to care for you.”

Jeongguk swallows hard. “I’m trying not to.”

“I know.” Taehyung’s voice gentles. “But trying isn’t the same as healing.”

Jeongguk exhales shakily, eyes distant. “It’s just… sometimes I think I should’ve died with them. My teammates. I ran, and they didn’t, and I still see it—their faces, the way the field looked afterward. And now I’m here, cutting my hair like none of it happened.”

Taehyung doesn’t interrupt. He just listens—really listens—until Jeongguk’s voice falters into silence.

“Do you know what I think?” Taehyung finally says. “I think you survived for a reason. But if you’re going to stay alive, you need to live like you deserve to. You can’t keep punishing yourself for it. You cannot let that lingering guilt feed into Jimin’s sorrow. Sometimes, people with pain attract each other because they recognize it. But that recognition doesn't mean you're ready for each other.”

Jeongguk blinks rapidly, jaw tightening. “I wouldn’t. I could never.”

“Then prove it,” Taehyung says softly. “Promise me that if you’re going to be in his life—even just as a friend—you’ll give him peace, not more reasons to build walls.”

Jeongguk’s throat works around the lump forming there. “I promise,” he whispers, voice breaking slightly.

“Not good enough,” Taehyung murmurs, holding out his hand with his pinky extended. His tone is light, but his eyes are steady, unwavering. “Do it properly.”

Jeongguk blinks, surprised, before a quiet laugh escapes him. He hooks his pinky around Taehyung’s without hesitation—the gesture simple, almost boyish, yet carrying the weight of everything unspoken between them.

“Promise,” he repeats, firmer this time.

Taehyung gives his pinky a small shake, sealing it. “Good,” he says with a faint smile. “Because I really do like you, Jeongguk-ah. You’ve got a good heart. You just need to start believing you’re worthy of the second chance you got.”

Jeongguk’s lips twitch upward, a small, watery smile. “You’re a good hyung, you know that?”

Taehyung chuckles, picking the clippers back up. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t move, or I’ll ruin your fade.”

The buzz resumes, steady and familiar, the conversation lingering quietly in the air—heavier than before, but also cleaner, like a wound that’s finally been washed.

Later, when Jeongguk checks the mirror, his reflection almost startles him—the neat undercut, the slicked bangs, and the tidy ponytail. It feels like more than just a haircut. He feels sharper, older, and more alive.

“Hyung, this looks great! Seriously, thank you,” Jeongguk says, smiling wide.

Taehyung smirks. “Don’t thank me yet. The real test is whether Jimin likes it.”

As if on cue, the back door creaks open and Jimin steps outside, Mandu tucked in his arms. He spots them immediately, eyes bright.

“Taehyungie-hyung cut my hair,” Jeongguk says, running a hand through it proudly.

Jimin’s eyes light up. “Oh wow! It looks so good, Jeongguk-ah.” He steps closer and rubs his knuckles gently against the short sides. “I like it.”

The compliment warms something deep in Jeongguk’s chest—something that feels dangerously like hope.

He notices the way Jimin lingers—eyes tracing the curve of his new haircut before he seems to catch himself, blinking away and pretending to fuss with Mandu instead.

Jeongguk looks away too, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

Old habits die hard.

“Did you need something, Hyung?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“Oh, right!” Jimin laughs, the sound bright and endearing. “We’re on laundry duty today. I came to get you.”

“Then let’s get going,” Jeongguk says, rising to his feet and holding the door open for him. His hand brushes Jimin’s waist—brief, instinctive—but the warmth it leaves behind lingers longer than it should.

As they disappear inside, the door swinging shut behind them, Taehyung watches from where he’s still sitting by the picnic table. A small smile plays on his lips—equal parts fondness and worry.

For a long moment, he stares at the empty doorway, the afternoon light spilling over his hands still dusted with strands of Jeongguk’s hair. He exhales, the faintest crease forming between his brows.

“Please keep your promise,” he murmurs quietly, more to the wind than to anyone else. “For both your sakes.”

The afternoon hums gently around him, and cicadas buzz in the trees—the scent of sun-warmed earth fills the air. Yet beneath that calm, a sense of unease stirs—a faint restlessness that refuses to settle. He finishes sweeping Jeongguk's shorn hair into a pile, gathers it with the dustpan, and heads for the utility room.

​Taehyung is just putting away the broom and dustpan when a weak knocking reaches his ears—so soft the bells on the front door barely clink. He pauses, brows furrowing. Hardly anyone visits this late, and the sound is too tentative to be Namjoon.

Wiping his hands on his pants, he heads toward the entrance, every step slow and wary. Peering through the narrow notch in the boarded window, he catches sight of two tiny figures—one girl, one boy—huddled close together on the stoop.

His heart sinks.

He quickly unhooks the bell wire, pushes aside the barricade, and opens the door.

“Hi,” he says gently, crouching to their level. “What are you kids doing here? How did the soldiers not see you?”

The little girl blinks up at him, eyes brimming with unshed tears. Her brother clings to her dress, thumb in his mouth.

“Oppa,” she croaks, voice trembling. “Please help us.”

Taehyung’s chest tightens. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“Our eomma is sick,” she says, words tumbling out in a rush. “She was coughing hard, and she’s very warm. We don’t have medicine. I don’t want her to die—please help us!”

Tears spill down her cheeks, raw and scared, and Taehyung feels his throat constrict.

He has always had a soft spot for children. Always.

Even before the war, he had a quiet magic with them—his friends used to joke that he could charm any crying baby into laughter within minutes. It wasn’t something he tried to do; it was just how his heart worked.

He remembers telling his partner once, voice trembling with hope, that he wanted to be a dad someday. He’d half-expected an awkward silence in return. Instead, his partner smiled—soft and sure—and said he’d dreamed of adopting, too. That moment had changed something deep in him; it was the first time he’d felt his future was real.

And now, looking at these two terrified kids before him, he feels that same instinct stir again—protective, tender, unwavering.

“Of course,” he murmurs. “Come in, both of you.”

He ushers them inside, the little boy gripping his sister’s hand tightly. “Stay here, okay? I’ll find something for your mom.”

She nods, wide-eyed and trusting.

Taehyung hurries upstairs, heading straight for Hoseok, but finds him slumped asleep on the sofa, exhaustion carved deep into his face. He hesitates, torn between waking him and letting him rest. In the end, compassion wins. Hoseok deserves his few hours of peace.

He pads back down, rifling through the kitchen cupboards until he finds two boxes of antibiotics—one nearly full. He pockets them carefully and makes his way back to the lobby.

The kids are still there, waiting exactly where he left them. The sight makes something fragile twist in his chest.

“Here,” he says softly, crouching again and pressing the boxes into the girl’s small hands. “Give these to your eomma. Make sure she takes them with food, okay?”

She stares at the boxes, then at him, her face crumpling with relief before she suddenly throws her arms around his waist.

“Thank you, Oppa,” she whispers against his shirt, her voice breaking.

Taehyung blinks hard, swallowing around the ache in his throat. He rubs her back gently, then looks to the little boy—silent, watchful, eyes too old for his tiny face.

“You’re welcome,” Taehyung murmurs, brushing away her tears with his sleeve. “Don’t cry anymore. Your eomma will get better soon. I promise.”

He opens the door carefully, scanning the quiet street for patrols before ushering them out. The girl waves shyly before taking her brother’s hand and sprinting off, their small figures disappearing into the dusk.

Only when they’re out of sight does Taehyung close the door, leaning against it with a long, shaky exhale.

He sinks onto the couch, rubbing his face with both hands. The silence feels heavier now—pressing, suffocating. Those kids couldn’t have been older than five and three. How had they slipped past soldiers to reach him?

A familiar anger simmers low in his gut.

Children shouldn’t have to be this brave.

He stares at his open palms, then presses them together, whispering a quiet prayer to his angels—for the children’s safe return, for their mother’s healing, for a world that won’t keep breaking the gentle ones.

Outside, the cicadas keep singing, the sun slowly sinking into the horizon.

And somewhere upstairs, faint laughter echoes—Jimin and Jeongguk, alive, safe, still capable of smiling.

Taehyung lets the sound steady him. It reminds him why he keeps hoping.

Even in war, kindness has to mean something.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Chapter Text

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽•☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

1st week of August, Summer Y1
The Shelter

Nearly a month has passed since Jeongguk last went scavenging. The pantry shelves have begun to look emptier, the air in the shelter heavier with the unspoken worry everyone shares. Namjoon hasn’t come by since their last trade, and his absence has begun to weigh on them all like an omen.

Without news from him, they have no idea what’s happening beyond their walls—whether the streets are safe again or still crawling with patrols.

But waiting has never been a luxury they could afford. They’ve agreed that Jeongguk will go out tomorrow night, and Taehyung will risk a run to the Black Market the night after.

For now, though, Jeongguk has pushed all of that from his mind.

Tonight, he’s on night guard duty with Jimin—which, by some miracle, feels less like “duty” and more like a break from the world’s chaos.

They sit across from each other on the couch in the shadowed lobby, half hidden in darkness. The plywood nailed over the windows lets in only slivers of moonlight, thin silver lines cutting through the gloom. It’s barely enough to see by, but it turns Jimin’s face into something softer, almost dreamlike.

Between them, an open pack of Uno cards lies scattered across the coffee table. The occasional rustle of cardboard and their muffled laughter are the only sounds breaking the silence.

“Ah, Jeongguk-ah!” Jimin groans, squinting through his thick glasses as he holds his cards up toward the faint glow from the window. “Even with these, I can’t see a damn thing!”

He drops the cards onto his lap with a defeated laugh. “This was such a terrible idea.”

Jeongguk bites back a snicker, his shoulders shaking. “No, no—it was a brilliant idea,” he says. “Because apparently, I win by default when my opponent’s half-blind.”

“Yah!” Jimin hisses, pretending to lunge across the table. “That’s cheating!”

Jeongguk raises his hands in mock surrender, laughter spilling out of him before he can stop it. It echoes softly in the hollow lobby, startling and freeing all at once.

“Fine, fine,” he concedes, gathering the cards and stuffing them back into the box. “We’re hopeless. Let’s call it a draw before we both go blind.”

Jimin snickers, setting his glasses beside the box and sitting cross-legged on the couch, facing him. His grin hasn’t faded, but the quiet that follows feels companionable rather than empty.

Jeongguk leans back, folding his arms behind his head as he stares at the faint shapes above them—the ceiling beams fading in and out of shadow. “You know what I miss?” he murmurs. “Playing my guitar. The sound, the vibration against my chest. It made everything feel… less loud in my head.”

“I miss dancing,” Jimin admits, his tone wistful. “I feel like my body’s forgotten how to move properly. I tried to stretch the other day and almost pulled something.”

Jeongguk laughs softly. “You? Pull something? I doubt it.” He tilts his head, studying him. “You and Hobi-hyung should dance sometime. I’d love to see it—even without music.”

“Mmm…” Jimin hums thoughtfully, his gaze distant. “We could, I guess. But it’s different when the rhythm’s not there. You don’t just hear the music, you feel it.” He sighs, a little smile playing on his lips. “Maybe when the war’s over, you’ll play guitar for us, and we’ll dance for you.”

Jeongguk grins. “Deal. But only if you promise not to laugh when I mess up.”

“No promises,” Jimin teases.

The moonlight glances off his glasses as he sighs. “Maybe when the war’s over, you can play guitar for us—and we’ll dance for you.”

Jeongguk smiles faintly at that. “Deal. But only if you promise not to laugh when I mess up a chord.”

“No promises,” Jimin teases, his tone light but his eyes still thoughtful.

Their laughter fades, replaced by the faint hum of the night outside—the whisper of wind through the cracks in the barricades, the faint groan of metal deep within the walls. The silence that settles afterward feels strangely comforting.

Jeongguk exhales quietly. “Hard to believe this is my last calm night before heading out again. If I don’t find anything, we might have to start eating pigeons. Think they taste more like chicken or sadness?”

Jimin snorts, stifling his laughter with the back of his hand. “Hobi-hyung’s already got recipes lined up. I saw notes for grilled pigeon and one marinated in galbi sauce.”

Jeongguk groans dramatically. “Of course he does. He could make a feast out of grass and rainwater if he had to.”

Jimin chuckles, shaking his head. “Just… be careful tomorrow, okay?”

“I will, Hyung,” Jeongguk promises softly.

A quiet moment passes—long enough for the sounds of the shelter to fade entirely into the background. When Jeongguk glances over, he finds Jimin watching him again, his expression unreadable.

“What is it?” Jeongguk asks, smiling faintly. “You’ve got that look on your face—the one that says you’re thinking too hard.”

Jimin huffs out a small laugh but doesn’t look away. “Jeongguk-ah,” he starts quietly, “Hobi-hyung told me you fought off rebels before you got here.”

Jeongguk’s shoulders tense slightly, though his tone stays calm. “Yeah.”

“Where did you learn to fight?”

Jeongguk laces his fingers together and rests them on his stomach. “My parents let me learn Taekwondo when I was a kid. Later, I picked up wrestling too. Took a few self-defense classes in college.”

“Self-defense classes?” Jimin echoes, eyebrows rising. “Why?”

Jeongguk hesitates, a small breath escaping him. “Because I was bullied.”

Jimin’s head jerks up. “Bullied? In Seodong?”

“Yeah,” Jeongguk says quietly. “They said I wasn’t acting like a ‘real Seodong man.’ I’m into guys, and I guess I didn’t hide it well enough.”

For a moment, the silence that follows feels heavy, thick with disbelief.

“Seriously?” Jimin breathes out. “God, that’s—Jeongguk-ah, I’m so sorry. I thought people had grown out of that bullshit.” His voice is full of quiet anger, the kind that simmers more than it burns.

Jeongguk’s smile is faint but steady. “It’s alright. I got through it. Word got around that I was taking classes, and after I started winning tournaments, they stopped trying. Some even came to watch my matches—probably hoping I’d get knocked down. But I never gave them that satisfaction.”

The shadow of a smile tugs at Jimin’s lips, though his eyes stay soft. “I’m proud of you,” he says, his voice low but sincere. “For standing up for yourself. I never had to go through that, but it still pisses me off knowing that kind of thinking still exists. If Hyung had been there, I would’ve raised hell for you.”

Jeongguk lets out a quiet laugh, the warmth in his chest catching him by surprise. “I don’t doubt that,” he says fondly.

Jimin’s hand finds his arm, fingers curling around it in a gesture that feels instinctive. He rubs his thumb in slow circles, grounding and gentle.

The simple touch unravels something inside Jeongguk—something that feels like it’s been clenched for far too long. He places his own hand over Jimin’s and gives it a light squeeze, meeting his gaze in the silver-blue dimness.

“Thank you,” he says softly, his voice roughened by emotion he doesn’t fully know how to name.

The quiet that follows isn’t awkward, nor heavy—it’s peaceful. Two people breathing in rhythm, the world outside momentarily forgotten. Jimin’s hand remains linked with Jeongguk’s, their fingers loosely intertwined. Jeongguk watches the way Jimin’s thumb draws idle shapes against his skin, lost in thought, and the question that’s been sitting at the back of his mind for weeks finally rises to the surface.

“Hyung,” Jeongguk starts carefully, voice low so it doesn’t startle the quiet. “Taehyungie-hyung mentioned… people broke your trust. Hurt you. And Hobi-hyung said you had deep reasons for keeping a wall up.”

Jimin’s gaze flicks up briefly, searching Jeongguk’s expression, then drifts down again.

“You were so guarded when we first got here,” Jeongguk continues softly. “But more so with me. Is that why? Were you afraid we’d hurt you too?”

The question lingers between them, fragile as breath. Jimin doesn’t answer right away. His fingers twitch faintly in Jeongguk’s grasp, like he’s debating whether to pull away or hold tighter. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet—careful, but unguarded.

“At first,” he says slowly, “I didn’t even realize I was doing it—keeping you guys out.” He glances down, thumb brushing the back of Jeongguk’s hand. “It just became easier to stay quiet. To smile when I had to and not let anyone close enough to hurt me again.”

He pauses, searching for words. “I’ve gotten used to people saying nice things about me,” he goes on, his tone soft, almost detached. “About how I looked. How I danced. How I carried myself.” He swallows hard. “And then I realized they only said those things because they wanted something.”

Jeongguk feels the faintest tremor in Jimin’s voice, like a thread fraying. He tightens his hold, silent but steady, waiting.

“They only wanted to be close to me for what I could give,” Jimin continues, his words coming slower now, heavier. “Some wanted a better position in the troupe. Some just wanted the bragging rights of saying they’d slept with me. It kept happening—again and again—until I couldn’t tell sincerity from lies anymore.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a hollow attempt at humor. “So I stopped reacting whenever people praised me. I started doubting everyone’s intentions. I know it probably makes me seem cold, but…” His voice thins, softens. “I just got tired. I didn’t want to be fooled again. And maybe I took that out on you and Taehyung, without realizing it.”

He laughs weakly—an empty sound that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Jeongguk feels a knot twist in his chest. Jimin’s laugh is usually bright, melodic; this one sounds like it’s made of glass, and it shatters quietly between them.

He shifts closer, releasing their hands only to close the space between them, their legs brushing. When he looks at Jimin again, the moonlight catches the faint sheen in his eyes, and Jeongguk has to resist the urge to pull him in completely.

Instead, he simply lifts his hand, waiting—silent and open.

Jimin blinks, then smiles faintly in understanding. He takes Jeongguk’s offered hand and laces their fingers together, his touch firm this time, grounding himself in the gesture.

“I’m really sorry,” Jeongguk says quietly. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.” He hesitates, his thumb brushing lightly over Jimin’s knuckles.

Jimin looks up, eyes glimmering faintly in the dim light, waiting.

“You’ve been surrounded by people who only saw what they could get from you,” Jeongguk continues, his voice low but certain. “And I get it now—that’s why you keep your distance. Why you stay guarded.” He draws in a breath. “But that’s not what this is.”

He shifts slightly closer, his tone gentler, more deliberate. “We’re not here to take anything from you, Hyung. Not your skill, not your reputation, not your warmth. We’re not here to use you or hurt you.” His thumb traces slow circles against Jimin’s hand. “We want to get close to you because we care. And you don’t have to give anything in return for that.”

Jimin’s breath catches, faint but audible in the quiet.

Jeongguk smiles softly, a small curve of reassurance. “I want you to know—we’re not one of them. I’m not one of them.”

For a moment, Jimin doesn’t move. Then his shoulders loosen slightly, and something in his expression softens—like a door easing open just an inch.

A small smile ghosts across Jimin’s lips, soft but real this time. “I know,” he murmurs. “I think… I’m starting to believe that.”

He lowers their entwined hands onto his lap, and before Jeongguk can say anything, Jimin leans in—slowly, cautiously—and rests his head on Jeongguk’s shoulder.

The contact is gentle, barely there, but it sends warmth blooming through Jeongguk’s chest all the same. He tilts his head slightly until their temples touch.

“Since we’re sharing, I guess I should tell you why I didn’t like being called stubborn, too, huh?” Jimin murmurs after a moment, his voice muffled against Jeongguk’s sleeve.

“That would explain a lot,” Jeongguk teases softly.

“Shut up,” Jimin says with a small laugh, snuggling a little closer. “I’m a perfectionist. Always have been—especially when it comes to dancing. I hated hearing things that made me question myself. I didn’t like being told I was wrong, even when I was. You were right—I can’t take advice very well.”

Jeongguk grins. “Good advice, if I may add.”

Jimin groans dramatically. “You are insufferable!” he says through a laugh, giving his arm a light squeeze. The sound of his laughter—real this time—loosens the knot in Jeongguk’s chest that had gone tight earlier.

“Alright then,” Jimin says, tipping his head to look at him. “Your turn. Why don’t you like being called reckless? You flinched both times I said it.”

Jeongguk huffs, raking his fingers through his hair and letting his ponytail loose. The strands fall around his face as he massages his scalp, his expression thoughtful.

“It’s not the word itself,” he admits after a pause. “It’s what it reminds me of. My university coach used to call me reckless all the time. Every game, every practice—didn’t matter if we won or not. He just… never trusted me.”

Jimin frowns. “But weren’t you the captain?”

“Yeah.” Jeongguk lets out a humorless chuckle. “But it wasn’t his choice. The team voted for me. Almost unanimously, actually.” He glances at Jimin, his smile crooked. “You can guess who cast the only vote for someone else.”

Jimin’s brow furrows. “Your coach?”

“Bingo.” Jeongguk smirks faintly. “His nephew was also on our team, so he wanted him to be captain, but even his nephew voted for me. After that, the coach just made it his mission to make my life miserable.”

Jimin shakes his head in disbelief. “What a dick.”

Jeongguk lets out a soft snort, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah, well… I voted for myself,” he admits with a small laugh. “I knew I was good enough to lead. I was confident—too confident, maybe. I thought that was what a good captain needed.” He exhales through his nose, gaze unfocused for a moment. “Looking back on it now, I think you were right, Hyung. I don’t always think things through before acting. Guess I really am reckless.”

Jeongguk watches Jimin’s expression soften at that—a look that’s part fond, part sad, like the older man is seeing another layer of his vulnerability with new eyes.

“Nah,” he murmurs after a moment, shaking his head. “Don’t dwell on it too much anymore. What I said then doesn't matter now."

Jeongguk hums quietly, his eyes tracing the faint curve of Jimin’s smile in the dim light. He can tell Jimin means it—he’s not dismissing, just reassuring. That’s the thing about him: even when he’s been hurt, he still finds the gentlest way to comfort someone else.

Jimin’s gaze lingers on him, warm and steady, before a small, genuine smile spreads across his face—an unspoken promise of understanding passing between them.

And just like that, Jeongguk realizes how much lighter the air feels between them now—how the walls Jimin had built so carefully have started to crumble, brick by brick, into something warm and honest.

They close their eyes for a moment, letting the sweet calm settle. Jeongguk becomes acutely aware of the warmth pressed against him, the gentle weight of Jimin’s head on his shoulder, their fingers still woven together. His pulse stutters.

It hits him all at once—the way they’re sitting, the closeness of it—this isn’t what friends do. Not really. Not like this.

And yet… it feels right.

It feels dangerously right.

Jeongguk’s throat tightens. He should probably move, make a joke, loosen the air before Jimin realizes it too and pulls away. So he clears his throat and blurts, “By the way, Hyung—I think you should know your comebacks were terrible when we were still bickering.”

Jimin jerks upright so fast their hands fall apart. He stares at Jeongguk, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

Jeongguk grins, delighted by the outrage. “I’m sorry, but they were! You kept making jock jokes—it was so painfully cliché!”

Jimin narrows his eyes, arms crossing, lips jutting out in a pout that should not make Jeongguk want to smile this much. “Oh my God, Hyung! Don’t get mad—it was cute watching you try so hard!”

Jeongguk bursts into laughter as Jimin starts hitting his arm—quick, harmless little swats.

“You should’ve told me! I thought I was on a roll!” Jimin yelps, mortified. “There was nothing cute about that!”

Jeongguk barely manages to block the next playful hit before catching Jimin’s wrists, tugging him off balance. Jimin lets out a startled sound as he topples forward—straight into Jeongguk’s lap.

“Well, it was.” Jeongguk teases, grinning down at him.

Jimin struggles for a moment, their laughter tumbling into the quiet again—a quiet that feels different this time. Thicker in a sense. He stops moving, still perched in Jeongguk’s lap, and Jeongguk suddenly realizes he’s still holding his wrists, their faces inches apart. The grin fades from his lips.

It’s too easy, how natural this feels. Like they’ve been orbiting each other for ages and just now collided.

Jimin exhales a shaky laugh, pulling his hands free. “You are unbelievable.”

He leans back slightly, eyes crinkling with mirth, completely unaware of the storm in Jeongguk’s chest.

Jeongguk can only watch him—the way his laughter lingers like sunlight, how the early dawn begins to touch his face. The sky outside is shifting to lavender, painting Jimin’s skin in soft violet and rose.

Jeongguk’s heart stutters. Jimin looks so peaceful, so breathtakingly alive, and Jeongguk feels the air leave his lungs.

It’s reckless, he knows. But he’s always been reckless.

“How are you so beautiful?” Jeongguk whispers before he can stop himself.

Jimin’s eyes flutter open, confusion flickering across his face. He looks at Jeongguk like he’s not sure he heard right. “Jeongguk-ah… don’t tease. Not about something like that.”

“I’m not teasing,” Jeongguk says, voice barely above a whisper. His heart beats so hard it hurts. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”

He watches Jimin freeze, sees the disbelief waver in his gaze—and Jeongguk realizes there’s no taking it back now. Whatever happens, he has to say it.

“Jimin-ah,” Jeongguk breathes, his voice trembling as if he’s afraid of what might happen once the words are out. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

For a moment, Jimin doesn’t move. His lips part, eyes flickering between Jeongguk’s like he’s searching for an escape, a sign that this is just another one of Jeongguk’s playful teases. But Jeongguk doesn’t laugh, doesn’t look away—he just sits there, stripped bare in the dim lavender light, his heart in his open hands.

The seconds stretch, unbearably slow. The air grows heavier with every heartbeat.

Jimin’s mouth opens—then closes again. He looks down, thumb brushing absently over his own knuckles, like he’s trying to gather the right words but finds none.

Jeongguk’s chest tightens. Panic begins to crawl up his throat, sharp and cold. Maybe he really has ruined it. Maybe he’s read everything wrong—every glance, every smile, every soft silence between them.

He swallows hard, lowering his gaze. His voice barely makes it past the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry—”

“I can’t stop thinking about you, too.”

The words cut through the air like a quiet miracle.

Jeongguk freezes. His head snaps up, breath catching mid-sentence. Jimin’s looking at him—really looking at him—with an expression so raw it steals the air from Jeongguk’s lungs.

“What?” he whispers, afraid to believe it.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, too, Jeongguk-ah.”

The words come out on a trembling breath, but Jimin doesn’t look away this time. His eyes shimmer faintly in the dim light—steady now, unguarded. “I kept trying to convince myself it was nothing. That I was just… having fun with you when we were still pushing each other’s buttons. But it’s more than that. It always has been.”

Jeongguk’s lips part, a quiet gasp catching in his throat.

Jimin exhales, voice soft but certain. “You made me want to trust again.”

Jeongguk reaches out slowly, hesitant—but Jimin meets him halfway, sliding his hand into Jeongguk’s. Their fingers interlock with a quiet finality, like the last piece of a puzzle finally clicking into place.

Jimin’s hand trembles. Jeongguk can feel it—the fear, the hesitation, the exhaustion of someone who’s spent years building walls just to survive.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. They just sit there, fingers tangled, hearts pounding in sync.

Then Jimin exhales shakily, the sound breaking like a fragile thing. “I can’t deny there’s something going on between us,” he admits, “but I’m scared. Every time I let someone close, it ends badly. And I don’t think I could survive that again.”

Jeongguk swallows hard, his voice low and steady. “You don’t have to be scared,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over Jimin’s knuckles. “Not with me.”