The wind on Lyris carried more than just air. It whispered melodies, carried over jagged cliffs and through the carved ruins of ancient amphitheatres. Yoongi sat cross-legged at the edge of one such amphitheatre, a small array of crystalline audio recorders hovering around him. The others stood respectfully, giving him space, watching as his fingers traced invisible patterns through the air. His ears were tuned to frequencies others might miss—the subtle hum of mineral veins beneath the ground, the chirping of Lyris's echo-birds, the faint sighs of ancient marble moving against itself.
Jimin sat beside Namjoon on a cracked column, arms wrapped around his knees. "He's been at this for hours," he whispered.
"He hears what we don't," Namjoon replied, eyes locked on Yoongi's concentrated figure. "He's not just composing. He's communing."
Taehyung, drumming softly on a nearby mossy ledge, added, "His heart syncs to the planet's. That's how he finds the rhythm."
Jungkook, fiddling with a portable transmitter prototype, lifted his head. "Is he going to use our heartbeats in the track?"
"Yes," said Jin, appearing behind him. "Yoongi asked me to record all of us during meditation. He thinks our synchronised rhythm can act as a resonance trigger."
They all fell quiet as Yoongi finally stood. His eyes were glassy but fierce.
"I have it," he said. "The Anthem."
The group gathered closer as Yoongi lifted one hand, and soft playback began from the crystal recorders. The track was unlike anything they'd ever heard. There was no obvious melody at first, only textures—wind rushing through ancient halls, the slow echo of footsteps on stone, and beneath it all, the steady beat of seven hearts, in perfect unison. Then came layered tones, drawn from each member's vocal frequency, each a harmonic thread. When the voices began to merge, the air around them shimmered. Even without lyrics, the song spoke volumes.
"It's… alive," whispered Hoseok.
Yoongi nodded. "It's not just a song. It's a signal. A key."
"To what?" Jungkook asked.
"To wake up those who've forgotten how to feel."
Namjoon's eyes narrowed. "Zenthra."
The name alone sent a chill through the group. Zenthra was a prison planet buried in shadows, orbiting a dying star. Once a thriving mining colony, it had been overtaken by the Federation and repurposed as a detention world. Rumours said it housed artists, rebels, truth-sayers—anyone deemed "dangerous" by the Council.
"They keep it locked down with frequency blockers and emotion dampeners," said Seokjin. "No music. No colour. Just grey walls and silence."
"That's where we'll transmit the Anthem," said Yoongi.
Taehyung and Jungkook exchanged a glance. "We're going," said Taehyung, his voice even.
Jungkook nodded. "We'll sneak into their broadcast tower and send it from the inside."
Namjoon looked uncertain. "It's a fortress."
"We're ghosts," Jungkook replied with a grin. "They won't even hear us coming."
Preparations moved fast. Using scraps from old Federation signal kits and Echoes technology, Jungkook and Yoongi created a pulse amplifier strong enough to override Zenthra's internal network for precisely three minutes. That was all they would need.
On the day of departure, Jimin wrapped an arm around Taehyung and whispered, "Be safe. And don't let the silence swallow you."
Taehyung squeezed his hand. "I'll bring the sound."
The dropship descended into Zenthra's atmosphere like a silent comet. Cloaked in adaptive camouflage, it passed through two planetary defence fields undetected. Taehyung and Jungkook parachuted into the shadows of a crumbling mining facility, dressed in stolen guard uniforms.
Navigating Zenthra's underbelly felt like walking through a dream where everything had been drained of meaning. The corridors were dead quiet, patrolled by emotionless enforcers who moved with mechanical precision. Prisoners sat slumped in their cells, eyes blank, lips unmoving. Some had not spoken in years.
Jungkook hacked into a side terminal while Taehyung stood watch.
"Ten more meters and we'll be at the broadcast node," he whispered.
When they reached the central broadcast tower, the old console blinked weakly, forgotten by the guards who no longer saw the need for propaganda in a place without rebellion. Jungkook plugged in the amplifier and gave Yoongi's Anthem a final glance.
"This is for them," he said softly.
Taehyung's hand hovered over the activation switch. "Let them remember."
He pushed it.
The Anthem surged through the prison's speaker system like a wave of warm light. At first, nothing happened.
Then, a shiver.
A guard stumbled, clutching his chest. A prisoner's head lifted slowly, tears welling in dry eyes. Across the compound, the song awakened something long buried. People began to cry, then scream, then sing. The vibrations cracked walls and fried emotion-dampening circuits. Machines sparked and burst open. One by one, the frequency blockers shut down.
Hundreds gathered in the main yard. They raised their fists, their voices trembling as if remembering how to speak for the first time.
The guards collapsed, weeping. The Anthem showed them everything they'd buried—grief, guilt, love, rage.
The prison turned into a choir of defiance.
Inside the tower, alarms began to blare.
"Time to go," said Jungkook, slinging the transmitter onto his back.
As they fled through the chaos, a Federation drone snapped a picture of them before sparking out.
By the time the dropship returned to orbit, every Federation system had flagged them.
Namjoon read the report aloud on the ship.
"BTS and Echoes are classified as Class A Threats. Sub-label: Sonic Terrorists."
Yoongi smirked. "We made the list."
But none of them laughed. The weight of what they'd done settled in like gravity. The prison was free, but the war had truly begun.
Hoseok stepped forward and held out a hand.
"To the sound that breaks chains," he said.
They each placed a hand atop his.
"To the Anthem," said Jimin.
"To the unheard," added Jin.
"To the rebellion," Namjoon finished.
They stood there, quiet only for a moment. Then the silence shifted, filled again with the pulse of music. And it was louder than fear.