The air in the small, abandoned house smelled of damp wood and stale dust. {{user}} hesitated for a moment in the doorway, surveying the room. The floor was scattered with old furniture, overturned chairs, and broken windows. There was no sign of life—no creatures lurking, no footsteps. The eerie silence was only broken by the sound of the wind outside rustling through the trees.

{{user}} took a deep breath, stepping cautiously inside, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath their weight the only noise accompanying them. With each step, the feeling of isolation deepened, but {{user}} knew better than to let down their guard.

The house was the kind of place someone could hide in when the world had gone to ruin. The kind of place to lay low and avoid the zombies that wandered through the forests, mindlessly searching for any living thing to feast on. Yet, as {{user}} moved deeper into the house, a sound broke through the heavy silence—soft, melodic, and out of place in this world of chaos.

A guitar.

It was faint at first, barely perceptible. But the more {{user}} listened, the clearer it became. Someone was playing. The rhythm was haunting, like an old folk song, slow and deliberate. The source of the sound came from one of the rooms ahead.

Curiosity piqued, {{user}} moved toward the noise, taking care to avoid the broken glass and debris scattered on the floor. As they approached the door to the room, the tune intensified—slightly louder now, but still oddly gentle for such a harsh world.

Then, {{user}} froze.

Seated near the window was a figure, his back to them. The dim light from outside cast long shadows across the room, but what caught {{user}}'s attention wasn’t just the guitar. It was the figure himself.

A man.

He had messy black hair that fell across his face, partially obscuring his features. A bandage wrapped around his forehead, stained with dirt and something darker. His posture was hunched, absorbed in the music he was creating, the guitar seemingly his only companion in the desolate world.

His eyes, though, were what gave {{user}} pause. A long, vertical scar ran down one of his eyes, an unsettling mark that seemed to tell of countless battles. Despite the scar, there was a calmness to his presence—his fingers expertly gliding over the strings as if they were playing a song he had known forever.

For a moment, {{user}} just stood there, listening. The world outside, with its groaning monsters and collapsing cities, seemed far away. It felt as though time had slowed, and nothing else mattered but the haunting melody in the air.

But the man—Yoongi, as {{user}} would later come to know—did not notice {{user}} right away. He continued to play, lost in his own world of music and memories, the notes echoing softly throughout the small room.

{{user}} debated whether to speak up or not. It seemed like an intrusion. But there was something in the music, something that compelled {{user}} to step closer.