4.6 | Dark Ages ✓

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HE DROWNS IN the aftermath.

Everyday, there is recovery and rehabilitation. Helicopters circle the vicinity, leaving traces of Antigen V in the air. Slowly but surely, Generation F fades away. Corpses of the undead litter the streets, their degenerate faces twisted into something akin to peace. These are peaceful deaths after a lifetime of carnage. And yet, how apt that they should go gentle into the good night, not with a bang but a whimper.

Everyday, there is renewal and revival. Survivors emerge from their hiding places, pale-faced and grim, with the realization that this is over. A window opens; a dark house is lit again; a person or two on the once-empty streets. He receives a taciturn nod from one of his neighbours the first time. Then a "hello" in passing. And, finally, a smile that says, "I've survived. I'm glad you have, too."

Everyday, there is revolution and reunion. A month after the final jump, Seokjin returns to the house. They are now what they were meant to be—a family, three brothers who had survived the Dark Ages. Seokjin has opened a centre for trauma victims, while Namjoon has been a part of the war rebuilding efforts. And somewhere, out there, the other men he'd saved have found their places in this new world. Jungkook has been reunited with his family. Yoongi has been promoted to Head of Defence. Hoseok has returned to his lab to continue with his old research. And Jimin is the world's hero.

Everyday, the world moves on and Taehyung does not.

He watches everything unfold like an audience at a brilliant show, seeing it all but never quite living. It's in the days after that he comes to realize just how much she meant to him. It's more than dependence, more than need, more than love. He existed for her; he had been defined by her. He was a time-traveller because she'd created the Cypher. A survivor because she had saved him. A man who found redemption because she loved him.

The Dark Ages isn't over.

For him, it's barely begun.

He's standing alone on the bridge in the same spot where everything changed. There are no zombies left to kill, so he no longer needs his gun. But the demons are everywhere—survivor's guilt, loneliness, heartbreak—and those he can't slay. He looks down at the Cypher in his hands. Moonlight glints off the glass and his fingers twitch closer to the buttons by the side.

Jump.

His memories of her beckon, like a siren to a sailor. He remembers everything about her. Everything. Her fingers gliding across his shoulders, her lips pressed to his neck, her eyes bright with affection as she looked at him. The dimple on one cheek whenever she smiled, the sunlight threading through her hair, the cadence of her voice when she said, "I love you." Her scent, her warmth, her taste. Her, her, her.

I want more time with you. Even if it's only for a second, it will be enough.

But on the heels of that thought comes another: Will it? The answer comes to him as swiftly as the question does. It won't. A second, a day, a year—it won't ever be enough. Nothing will ever be enough.

Then, of course, there is the matter of how time-travel works. It will never fast-forward to the future; it only rewinds to the past. And the past is always linear. No alternate timelines; no parallel universes. He can spend a lifetime with her and the endgame would always be the same—with a gun in his hands and a bullet in her heart.

With that realization, his chest tightens to the point where it feels like he might suffocate. He looks down at the water mere feet below him. Moonlight gleams off the calm waves and his feet shift forward. She beckons, like Lorelei to a ship doomed to wreck.

If I can't have more time with you here, can I have forever with you wherever you are?

His breath catches in his throat; his chest constricts further. It feels like suffocating. Drowning. An echo of a memory rises. Dark water. Cold on his skin. Pulling him down and under. His lungs are on fire. The air is thin. His feet inch forward, closer to the edge.

Jump.

He lifts one foot off the edge, just as another memory takes over. Her warm body next to his. Legs intertwined; one arm wrapped around her waist. Sad eyes, a small smile, a rush of words against his skin.

I didn't save you so that you could throw your life away, Taehyung.

Her words are a sharp, cold slap of reality. He blinks, and draws in a ragged breath. Looking down at his feet, he sees them halfway off the edge, and stumbles back. Sweat prickles down his spine, and he rakes a shaking hand through his hair.

What have I done? A strangled sound escapes his throat. What did I almost do?

He recoils from the railing as if from an open flame. Cold wind nips at his cheeks and he shudders, wrapping his coat tightly around himself. Late nights and heartbreak are bringing him to ruination. Self-destruction. If she could see him now, what he's become, would she think saving him worth her life? White hot guilt stabs at him. He shivers again, and quickly retraces his steps back to the house.

Back on the familiar street, he casts a swift glance around. Curtains are drawn; houses are lit. Two along his row, three on the one opposite. This town is once more lit with the life it used to have. Distantly, he wonders if anyone knows he's a dead man walking. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and pushes the gate open.

Then he stops.

To his surprise, his brothers are out on the front porch. Sitting on the bottom step, mere feet away from her grave, they're sharing a bottle between them. He blinks at them, and they at him, and he can practically feel their struggle not to bombard him with questions.

"Where were you?" Seokjin asks at last.

He gulps. "I—" —almost killed myself tonight. The words chill him to the bone, and he swallows them down. "—I went out for a walk. It's safe now, and I thought I'd need some fresh air."

"Oh, good." Seokjiin nods in evident relief.

But Namjoon's eyes narrow; his stare turns calculating. Taehyung meets his gaze as squarely as he can. It lasts a few seconds, until he slowly looks away, a fresh wave of humiliation surging through him.

"We've cleared out the labs," Namjoon says, unexpectedly. "And...we found something."

His eyes widen as he watches Namjoon fish a book out of his jacket. No bigger than an average-sized book, it's a nondescript brown and worn at the edges. He reaches out for it, and as his fingers curl around the old spine, he suddenly freezes.

There, in her elegant penmanship, is her name.

"We didn't read it," Namjoon adds quickly, misinterpreting his reaction for anger. "We just thought you might want to. We know you've been..."

When Namjoon trails off, he swallows again and clutches the book tightly to his chest. "Thank you."

"That's what we're here for."

They climb to their feet and begin to head back to the house, but Seokjin stops to cast one last worried glance at him. "You'll...you'll be alright on your own?"

"Yes."

He doesn't miss the look of shared concern his brothers exchange. A part of him is annoyed at being treated like fragile glass, but the other part of him acknowledges that he is fragile glass. Footsteps recede and the front door shuts, but the lights remain on.

Alone now, he settles down on the patch of dirt by her grave. His chest tightens with pain as fresh as though it had all happened yesterday. The rose plant is still there. One of the buds has begun to bloom, its first petals in the midst unfurling. It's turned up, skywards, as though waiting...

Waiting.

Waiting for the sun, the rain, and everything that is to come.

He stares at it for a moment longer, then turns his attention back to the book in his hands. Gently, he brushes a finger across the curves and loops of her name, etching her handwriting into his memory. Then he takes a deep breath and opens the book.

Surviving the Dark Ages begins here.

It doesn't ever end.