• •

CHAPTER FIFTY;

INTO THE THICK OF IT.

• •

IF HAVEN COULD ENCAPSULATE ONE FEELING FOR THE REST OF HER LIFE—it would be the invigorating rush of evergreen inflating her lungs. The wilderness had become a distant memory during her confinement within the Mountain, and even now, her reacclimation lingered unfinished, tenuous. Yet—the sun's gentle caress, weaving warmth through her skin, seemed to momentarily ease the deep-seated ache in her bones. Mornings broke in hues of soft periwinkle, unfolding into the vast, velvet nights punctuated by the silver winks of distant stars. To breathe freely, unbound by the oppressive grip of a tomblike existence, was an unimaginable solace—a slow, resolute mending of her frayed edges.

Truthfully, Haven didn't know how she had managed to survive on a satellite orbiting through space for nearly twenty years. The Ark, for all its life-preserving sterility, was never a home . . . but a holding cell.

        The stars were unfathomably beautiful.

. . . But she was meant to be outside.

Soon enough, Haven and Bellamy had found themselves thrust into motion, their morning jolted alive by the double O's unceremonious entrance—Octavia tearing open the curtains to flood their room with light, while Orion enthusiastically launched herself onto their sofa bed, stripping the blankets away. With no time to linger on their abrupt awakening, they had hastily changed their clothes, armed themselves, and stepped out into the crisp morning air.

Apparently, Raven and Clarke managed to convince Abby to sanction a mission beyond the perimeters of Camp Jaha, aiming to locate and disable Mount Weather's radio tower. The approval, however, came with strings attached: Abby, along with a considerable contingent of the guard, insisted on joining the expedition. It was definitely not the freedom the group had hoped for, preferring the stealth of unsanctioned excursions . . . but it was a move forward nonetheless.

The inclusion of the guards, initially viewed as a colossal pain in the ass, had unexpectedly played to their advantage. With the group's size significantly increased, Haven and her friends found it simpler to meld into the sea of faces, their presence diluted among the many. However, this very advantage brought with it a paradoxical challenge—the more people involved, the more difficult it became to discreetly peel away from the group without drawing attention.

Because while Abby and the Council focused on circumventing the Mountain Men's radio interference, the core group was driven by a more desperate, personal agenda: to uncover another access point into Mount Weather besides the tunnels . . . and to save their missing friends.

It was about damn time.

Of course, Bellamy had insisted that Haven should've stayed behind while the others handled the rest. The numbness in her arm, despite a slight return of sensation from resting in the sling, was still a significant danger in the wild—insufficient to guarantee full functionality or her safety. Still, painfully aware that commanding her to stay behind would only fuel her resolve to follow, dousing her willingness to get herself killed in kerosene . . . Bellamy sought a middle ground.

A brace.

Apparently, Jackson had already anticipated the need for it, having prepared it as a backup from the very beginning; both he and Bellamy understood Haven's nature well enough, predicting that it would only be a matter of time before she ripped off her sling, anyway.

But whatever.

        The brace was far more than a simple constraint; it was a finely wrought instrument of empowerment, crafted to fuse restraint with liberation. It was specially designed to offer support while allowing far more freedom of movement than the sling. With it, Bellamy aimed to equip Haven not just with physical stability, but with an affirmation of his faith in her strength—balancing the fine line between her autonomy and his undying commitment to her safety.

And although Haven still remained vehemently skeptical of Jackson's medical opinion, wearing the sling gave Bellamy peace of mind . . . so, she relented.

        Once Haven was secured in her brace, Bellamy had also insisted she test her skills by hurling knives at tree stumps—gauging her readiness before even considering stepping outside Camp Jaha's boundaries. Her dominant arm maintained its flawless precision, and while her left arm lacked some power and accuracy, she still remained a damn good shot. As long as she kept her throws low, unable to manage a high overhand, she managed well. If she deviated from this technique, however . . . she was super, super fucked.

        But that's where Bellamy and his rifle came in.

        The Blake boy had positioned himself unyieldingly to her left, while Orion guarded her right, providing Haven with the freedom to maneuver while also forming a protective barrier. The strategic placement allowed her to operate with utmost confidence, ensuring that any unforeseen threat that might exploit her bad arm would be swiftly countered by her protectors.

         . . . The pistol remained in her waistband, too.

Honestly, it was somewhat miraculous that the group had been permitted to join the expedition—armed—particularly after Bellamy's explosive confrontation with Abby just days prior.

        Major Byrne, notoriously severe and often referred to in hushed tones as Major Bitch, had vehemently argued for Bellamy's arrest. She wanted him charged with resisting arrest and making threats of yet another assassination attempt. Yet, Abby, in a surprising move of clemency, refused to press any charges. She dismissed his aggressive outburst as mere concussion symptoms, suggesting he be handled with caution rather than subjected to the harshness of confinement.

        AKA: Abby was well aware that if she chose to have Bellamy arrested, she'd be igniting a powder keg. She knew all too well that he could obliterate her career into ash, snatch the stupid Chancellor's pin right off her ill-fitting jacket, and shoot her in the forehead—not once, but at least five times.

. . . Minimum.

Plus, Bellamy's deep knowledge of the terrain made him indispensable. He was recognized as one of the finest sharpshooters, perhaps the best among the Guard, despite no longer officially being part of their ranks. If Abby and the Guard wanted to survive, they needed his guidance and expertise on navigating the wilderness; if Haven's group wanted the opportunity to sneak off and find their friends . . . they needed to begrudgingly join Abby.

So . . . not much of a choice on either side.

        Navigating the strained atmosphere proved to be a formidable challenge to both Haven and Bellamy's patience. They maintained a deliberate distance, trailing as far behind Abby as possible, who led the group alongside Clarke. If Haven had managed to come to terms with the eerie presence of her undead mother . . . then surely she could endure Abby's proximity. By avoiding direct attention on her abuser, her heart rate spiked only slightly, about fifteen BPM above the usual.

       But it wasn't Haven who noted this subtle escalation.

        She only registered that Bellamy had been tracking her heart rate when he discreetly maneuvered them further away from Abby's form—whispering reassurances that her pulse was finally beginning to settle.

        It didn't matter that every inadvertent glance at Abby plunged Haven's stomach into a vortex of nausea. It didn't matter that her fingertips trembled, her face drained of color as though she were a ghost haunting her own body, her lungs caught between the agony of asphyxiation and a fiery desire to burn alive without air. It didn't matter that Abby's mere presence dredged up the deep scars carved into Haven's heart with the cruel precision of her scalpel.

        Finding their friends was most important.

        The rest would have to wait.

        "Gay son or thot daughter?"

        At the sound of Orion's fifth indecent question breaking the solitude of the group's journey . . . Haven swore she could physically hear Bellamy's eyes roll to the back of his skull from beside her.

        Octavia, leading the group by a few measured strides, let out a huff tinged with mild amusement. "What brain rot are you regurgitating now?"

       "What? It's a sincere question," Orion argued, her shoulders lifting in a nonchalant shrug as she thoughtfully pondered her own answer. "Personally, I vote neither."

Haven cast her an inquisitive glance. "Why's that?"

"One—fuck them kids. Two—I don't want them to end up with a man...period," Orion answered simply. "Duh."

Hardly able to restrain the reflexive laugh emerging from her lips, Haven shook her head, her mirth only intensifying as Orion pinned her with a blank stare. "Your variables aren't wide enough," she pointed out. "Who said the daughter had to be into men?"

Orion sharply narrowed her amber eyes, mulling over the prospect of Haven's challenge before her lips curled into a reluctant frown. "As introspective as that is—I still vote neither. Liking girls is objectively worse," she huffed lamely. "Unrequited yearning til' death."

It was then that Haven's senses honed in on Raven, drifting some twenty feet ahead, shadowing Clarke and Abby's steps. Since adapting to her leg brace, Raven's mobility had significantly improved, transforming her into a vital component of the expedition; Abby depended heavily on her expertise to pinpoint and dismantle the elusive radio tower.

        Yet, still . . . the Reyes girl had chosen to keep a margin of distance from the majority of the group as they trekked through the wilderness.

        Haven half-believed that Raven's detachment was a strategic move to divert attention, facilitating a smoother escape for the others when the time came. However, another part of herself wrestled with a deeper, gnawing uncertainty, troubled by her inability to fully decipher the intentions behind Raven's solitary stance.

. . . They had always walked together.

"You could always just tell her how you feel."

        As Bellamy's suggestion floated towards Orion, it became clear that Haven wasn't alone in her distant observations of Raven. Turning slightly to her right, she caught Orion's gaze, equally transfixed on the mechanic. Her eyes held a lingering, melancholic trace as they studied Raven's retreating figure, then dropped disconsolately to the dirt beneath her boots. Moments later, Orion composed herself, drawing on her customary mask of wryness to shield the vulnerability that had briefly surfaced.

        "Ya'll hear something—?" Orion cleared her throat. "Who asked the King of Dirt what he thought?"

Bellamy only scoffed. "Nevermind."

        "As if you should be me giving advice," Orion retorted, tilting her head defiantly as she cast Bellamy a smug glare. "How long did it take you to tell Haven you love her, anyway?"

        Haven snorted. "Five years."

        "FIVE—?!"

        The eruption of Orion's astonishment boomed through the forest, her voice ricocheting off the trees and capturing the attention of every nearby guard. She stood frozen, her eyes wide and her features twisted in sheer disbelief. As she glanced between Haven's amused laughter and the telltale flush creeping up the nape of Bellamy's neck, her mouth worked soundlessly—a series of starts and stops with no words managing to break free.

"F-Five?! What? How? Why? You waited five FREAKIN' years—?!"

"Damn. Even I knew after, like, the first day," Octavia chimed in smugly, executing a smooth turn on her heels, continuing her trek backwards so she could fully savor the sight of her big brother's fluster. "O, O—you'll never believe it!" she recited mockingly. "This delinquent literally tried to kill me when I brought her to her cell today, but she's also like, the most beautiful girl I've ever—!"

"You talked to Octavia about me on the first day we met—?" Haven cut in, pinning Bellamy with an expectant stare. Despite the probing nature of her question, the smile adorning her face was radiant, outshining even the sun that hung lazily overhead. "No way. No way."

        Utterly exasperated from often being the designated, unwitting punching bag among the girls, Bellamy let out a groan of annoyance. "Yeah—and I'll stand by it too," he grunted, though his eyes helplessly softened as he glanced to Haven. "You scratched the skin off my arms and I was already hooked. Shoot me."

"Touching." Orion grimaced as she glanced at the familiar figure of the Collins boy pacing a few strides beside Raven. "Not only does your dumbass have awful timing—you say 'shoot me' while we're walking behind a literal mass murderer."

Gliding through the foliage like a phantom, Finn trailed just ahead, the only one in the group not permitted to carry a weapon. He had been remarkably silent since the Council's decision last night to absolve him of responsibility for the massacre. Wrapped in a shroud of introspection, he occasionally sent pining looks toward Clarke, each glance laden with a desperate hope for recognition, or . . . redemption.

       Despite Clarke's silence, there was no overt shunning from the others; it was moreso that Finn seemed utterly imprisoned by his own relentless thoughts, almost indifferent to the world around him, lost in a sea of remorse and isolation.

       Haven didn't know what to say to him, either.

        . . . What could she?

       Sorry you feel bad about slaughtering the people who were telling you the truth—? Sorry you feel isolated after you mindlessly shot warriors no older than twelve—? Sorry you cloaked it all under the bullshit pretense of doing what you thought you had to do—?

        ". . . We've all done things . . ."

        As the morning wore on, Bellamy's words from the night prior echoed through Haven's thoughts, resounding with a haunting clarity.
Sure, the hundred had all done things, awful things in their desperate bid for survival. She could understand how war had sculpted Finn, how the relentless cascade of loss and trauma had whittled him down, binding him ever tighter to the fragments he had left. She recognized how his love for Clarke had driven him to the precipice of madness. She could feel the dark stains on her own hands, marks left by Grounder blood, much like everyone else's.

Yet, understanding all these human frailties and the reasons behind them did not—could not—sanction their actions. Some empathy for Finn's plight existed, but it hung heavily, a bitter acknowledgment that comprehension does not equate to absolution. The line, once crossed, marked them all, and though forgiveness might be sought, the shadows of their deeds lingered . . . eternally.

Every fucking day was a moral dilemma.

Octavia agitatedly shook her head. "I still can't believe they let Finn come."

"Meh. Not really surprised," Orion mused flatly, falling into step beside Haven's right as the terrain beneath their feet became increasingly rugged, guiding them to a higher vantage point. "The Council's already full of other mass murderers, anyway."

       Haven and Bellamy shared a knowing glance of understanding.

        "Unfortunately...he's the best tracker we've got," Bellamy grumbled, his voice gravelly, laden with a reluctant acceptance of their harsh circumstances. He then swept his gaze across the canopy of trees overhead, ever watchful for hidden dangers lurking in the high branches. "Don't forget to look up—the Grounders use the trees!" His warning boomed through the forest, commanding and stern, intended to pierce the quiet and alert the guards to potential threats. "That's how we lost John Mbege."

        Right.

        . . . The Grounders had once slit Mbege's throat high in the treetops, his lifeless body callously dropped onto Haven's unsuspecting form below—aiming to eliminate them both in one fell, savage swoop.

        Haven could still taste Mbege's blood.

        Bellamy could still hear his own scream of terror, an echo that haunted him—the raw, guttural sound that ripped through the air as he helplessly watched Haven collapse under the weight of Mbege's dead body.

That day sucked. Bad.

Heeding Bellamy's solemn warning, the guards lifted their gazes to the brooding treetops, hands tightening instinctively around their rifles. They searched the labyrinth of leaves and branches, eyes darting with disciplined urgency, every sense honed for the faintest rustle or shadow that might signal a Grounder's presence.

        At that, Haven's eyes flicked knowingly towards Clarke. The blonde continued to walk beside her mother, seemingly undisturbed and focused on the path ahead. Yet, suddenly . . . Clarke mimicked swatting at a fly, her gesture appearing casual and insignificant to the untrained eye.

        . . . Bingo!

        This simple motion, however, was a calculated signal—a silent communication unnoticed by the guards but crucial for the watchful eyes of her companions.

Silently, with utmost stealth . . . Haven and Bellamy subtly veered to the right, carefully distancing themselves from the rest of the guard detail. They moved with precision, ensuring each step was light and unnoticed. It wasn't long before Orion and Octavia joined them, seamlessly melding into the coordinated deviation.

        Together, the group navigated through the underbrush, their movements a whisper against the forest floor as they embarked on their divergent path . . . distancing themselves far, far away before daring to speak.

       Once the guards were safely out of earshot, Haven brought their covert advance to a sharp halt, facing the remainder of her friends with a triumphant grin.

        "Easy," she proclaimed. "Now what?"

       "According to Clarke—before the bombs, there were buildings everywhere here," Bellamy began, drawing the girls into a huddle as he outlined the next phase of their plan. His eyes knowingly moved from face to face, gauging their understanding and readiness as they prepared to sift through the remnants of a forgotten world. "I'm guessing some of those buildings had access to Mount Weather. So...we're looking for ruins, latches, anything that's manmade, okay?"

       "Cool," Orion acknowledged. "So like, anything that's super decrepit?"

        Bellamy nodded.

        Mirroring his nod with one of her own, Orion offered Bellamy a vibrant salute, then abruptly seized his sister by the hand. "Got it," she declared, lugging Octavia behind her as they eagerly ventured deeper into the wilderness ahead. "Try to keep up, bitches!"

        As the figures of Orion and Octavia melded into the forest's murky depths, Haven and Bellamy subtly trailed behind, their eyes lingering on the fading silhouettes that danced between shafts of light and shadow. They maintained a delicate balance, close enough to sense any ripple of danger that might threaten the girls, yet distant enough to allow their own search across the underbrush. The strategic spread of their presence across the forest floor aimed to multiply their chances, hoping to uncover the hidden gateways into the Mountain's bunker.

       With each step, the formidable duo smoothly combed the terrain, their keen eyes scanning for any anomaly that might signal a buried entrance. As they moved, there was a quiet tension, a shared understanding that each moment could bring them closer to discovery—or disaster. If the stars had miraculously aligned in their favor today . . . they might just find what they were seeking before the guards could catch the scent of their sneakaway.

        "How's your arm, Hav?"

        Intimately aware of the warmth of Bellamy's stare fixating on her shoulder—again—Haven offered him a gentle shrug. "It's fine," she admitted truthfully. "The brace feels way better than the sling. I can move around a lot more."

Bellamy remained unmoved, observing the girl he loved through a familiar veil of scrutiny, mapping every nuance of her features and every recoil in her muscles as she navigated the forest beside him. Her words suggested genuine improvement—yet the tiny, almost imperceptible bite of her lip as she stretched to peer around a tree trunk betrayed lingering discomfort.

Although the Blake boy knew pain was an inevitable companion in their rough terrain, an unwelcome yet expected shadow following Haven's recovery—the knowledge did jack shit to ease the torment it inflicted upon his heart. Each sign of her discomfort, however slight, was a cruel dagger to the chest. Yet, still—he clung to the hope that as long as the numbness didn't creep further into her nerves, as long as it remained at bay . . . he could find a way to bear it.

        "What about this?" Bellamy asked, gently extending his arm to grasp Haven's forearm, bringing her to a soft halt. His touch was tender, almost feather-light, as his fingers cautiously pressed against the skin that had been numb just the day before. "...Do you feel that?"

        Haven nodded.

. . . She could. Kind of.

Although she couldn't fully gauge whether Bellamy's touch was forceful or gentle, it was undeniably different from the cold void of numbness she had experienced yesterday. The sharp tingle of pins and needles felt like a firestorm under her skin—a fierce, almost painful reminder that sensation was clawing its way back. Even if it might've been fleeting, she reveled in this raw reintroduction to feeling: the touch of his fingertips, his hold, his warmth.

"You mean it?" Bellamy asked. "Really?"

Haven resisted the urge to fondly roll her eyes. "Do you feel this—?"

Defiantly, she raised her left arm ever so slightly—a testament to her reclaimed strength, visible to both him and herself. Her fingers fluttered over his chest and collarbones, tracing contours with a light, exploratory touch. Before Bellamy could even arch his brow in amusement, she had already pushed herself onto her tallest tiptoes, straining upwards to plant a fleeting but electrifying kiss on his lips.

        Time ceased to exist.

Then, just as swiftly . . . Haven retreated first, grounding herself back in their shared mission and resuming the search.

        Bellamy's groan could be heard echoing from somewhere in the distance behind her. "Yeah—I felt it, alright," he called out, his voice carrying through the trees as he adjusted the crotch of his pants, a wry smile likely playing on his lips. "You can't keep distracting me to get what you want, you know. I'm just worried—"

"Sure can!" Haven shot back, flashing a smug wink over her shoulder that elicited yet another groan from Bellamy. "Ease up, Bell. I'm fine. Wouldn't be our first thing looking for an underground bunker."

Bellamy's mouth curved into a crooked grin. "Guess not."

        "HEY!"

        Before Haven could even complete her turn, Bellamy's arm swept out, yanking her swiftly behind him with an urgency that silenced her mid-protest. Her breath hitched, words dying on her lips as she caught sight of the guards lingering beyond between Bellamy's broad shoulders.

        Well . . . fuck.

        "BLAKES! VINCETTA! SMITH!"

        Bellamy gritted his teeth with poorly restrained agitation. "Motherfucker—"

"Let's go! Right now!"

Sergeant Lucien Scott stood at the base of the hill the group had just climbed, his march through the fallen leaves marked by a tightly clenched jaw and arms stubbornly crossed over his chest.

Among the members of the Guard Unit, he was known for his strict, ass-kissing adherence to the rules—a trait Haven had painfully encountered during her time in the Sky Box. On a particularly harsh day, he had coldly denied her a restroom pass after she had reached her daily limit—mercilessly forcing her to bleed through her labor uniform during an agonizingly heavy period.

The day after that ruthless incident, fate—or perhaps a touch of clandestine retribution—saw Bellamy and Sergeant Scott crossing paths in a narrow hallway. In what appeared to be a clumsy mishap, Bellamy had tripped, prompting Scott to tumble to the ground. In the chaos of the moment, Bellamy's foot found its way onto Scott's hand, pressing down with an unfortunate weight.

        His fingers ended up broken.

. . . Oops!

       "In case you've forgotten..." Bellamy shook his head. "...we're not under your command."

Scott merely tightened his jaw, irritation already evident in his steely gaze as he reached the crest of the hill, his older lackey trailing just behind. "Don't make us do this the hard way."

"Ooo!" Orion's voice rang out, clear and defiant as she emerged from the shadowy embrace of the nearby foliage, flanked by Octavia. "Shiver me timbers!"

       Haven tilted her head. "What's the hard way?" she probed, stepping out from behind the iron fortress of Bellamy's back and smoothly crossing her arms. "Last time I checked, we blew right past you...again."

        Scott icily narrowed his eyes as he weighed her words. "Is that a confession, Smith?"

        "Come on, Scott," Bellamy started, his voice low and tempered with reason, opting for a diplomatic approach rather than his usual intimidating presence. "Fourty-seven of our people are prisoners in this mountain—"

        "That's why we're here," Scott finished.

"Wrong," Bellamy cut in defiantly. "You're out here to find other stations of the Ark. We're out here to find our friends."

"Scott! Rudder! Fall the hell back!"

David Miller's command thundered across the hilltop as he emerged from the shadows, a formidable presence that split the tension like a cleaver. At the mere sight of him, Scott and Rudder instinctively parted, a deep-seated respect for their superior written into their swift compliance. Hands anchored on his hips, David's features were a tapestry of deep irritation, every furrow and frown broadcasting a fierce disapproval.

Yet . . . his ire was not aimed at Haven and her group; it blazed unmistakably towards his own men—a scathing indictment of their conduct that echoed powerfully in the quiet of the woods.

Haven resisted the urge to gape.

David and Miller were fucking identical.

Their hairlines followed the same path, while their eyes shared a warm, inviting softness laced with a hint of mischief. Both shared the same distinctively shaped nose and the thick, expressive eyebrows that seemed to animate every facial expression. But the most telling sign of their kinship was the way David clutched his rifle in his left hand, a mirror image of Miller's recent adjustment to shooting left-handed as well.

. . . Miller was going to be ecstatic his dad was alive.

        "This is exactly why I was ordered to oversee these four and not you," David stated firmly, his piercing gaze like flint striking steel, aimed sharply at his men. As he pivoted towards the younger group, his stance softened. "You're not doing this alone, kids. Let's find my son."

        Bellamy grinned. "Damn right."

        David narrowed his eyes into slits.

        "Uh..." Bellamy cleared his throat, rallying his stance to stand a little taller, his posture correcting under the familiar scrutiny of his former superior. "Damn right, Sir."

        "EWWWWW—!"

        At the shriek, Haven's eyes shot towards Orion, ignited by instinctive alarm. There, the Vincetta girl battled furiously against her own boots before vaulting onto Octavia's back, a desperate refugee fleeing the nightmarish tide of beetles that now blanketed the forest floor. It was a sight both grotesque and nauseating; Haven had never seen such a multitude of insects before—amassing like a dark and merciless flood, sweeping forward with relentless, horrifying intent.

        "EW!" Orion screeched, anchoring herself on Octavia's back with one hand while flailing her sword wildly with the other, slashing at the ground teeming with insects. "EW! EW! EW! DIE, FUCKERS! DIE!"

        Bellamy stared at her incredulously. "Would you keep it down?!"

        "Would you suck my dick—?!" Orion shot back, momentarily snapping her sword towards Bellamy's neck in a sharp warning before plunging it back into the swarm. "They're all over the place!"

        As the duo beside her dissolved into incessant bickering, Haven's stare was captured by the eerie phenomenon unfolding at their feet. The beetles, swarming in vast, expanding numbers, orchestrated an unsettling dance of nature. They surged in a torrential wave, their glossy black carapaces glinting ominously in the sunlight, moving with a disturbing uniformity that suggested a collective mind. Driven by an unseen force, they sprinted southward on countless tiny legs, an exodus that painted a frantic escape across the forest floor.

        . . . As if they were fleeing from some unseen terror.

        Scott, momentarily descending from his high horse, observed the unnerving scene with a deep furrow creasing his brow. "What the hell are they doing?"

        Bellamy clenched his jaw. "...Running."

        "Yeah!" Orion retorted. "NO SHIT!"

. . . But from what?

        Haven, drawn by an instinct as sharp as the blade concealed beneath her shirt, edged closer to Bellamy, her hand gravitating toward the hidden weapon without conscious thought. She was well-versed in the forest's cryptic language, where each whisper and rustle might herald fortune or catastrophe. The forest often cloaked its warnings in a deceptive tranquility—a calm that seduced the unwary into vulnerability, only to unravel into a cataclysmic storm. She remembered her owl granting them safe passage to Lincoln's cave, right before two members of their group had gotten stabbed. She remembered the quiet that sucked the life from their frail lungs . . . right before the acid fog rolled in and claimed Atom's life.
       
        . . . Wait.

        Haven felt it before she could see it.

        "ACID FOG!"

        By the time she whipped her head in the opposite direction, Bellamy was already in frantic motion, hurling his backpack to the ground with a force that sent its contents spilling across the dirt. His movements were rapid and precise, desperately yanking out tents and anything that could offer shelter. He barked orders over the rising panic, his voice booming with authority as he commanded David and the guards to find coverage with everything possible.

        As the golden mist rolled toward them—a familiar, agonizing sting invaded Haven's senses, attacking her irises with cruel ferocity before the fog was even within thirty feet of their group. Her skin erupted into a tormenting itch, her lungs ignited with a searing burn, and a violent cough clawed its way up her throat, morphing into a strained wheeze. Desperate for any form of protection, she shifted toward her pack, kneeling on the soft earth to rummage through it, but . . . the bugs.

       They weren't merely running.

They were disappearing.

        Haven's eyes locked onto the beetles as they funneled toward a massive cavern in the distance, cloaked in layers of ancient moss. One by one, they slipped seamlessly beneath a narrow crack at the base of the cavern, as if it were the threshold of a doorframe.

        . . . The ruins.

As the poisonous fog crept ever closer, its noxious tendrils inching nearer with each passing second, Haven felt her lungs constrict further, each breath a battle. Wheezing and coughing, she forced her body into motion, rising from the dirt and launching herself toward the mysterious structure in the distance. But as she raced forward, she noticed Octavia was already five steps ahead . . . propelled by the same damn thought.

"HAVEN! O! O! GET BACK HERE!"

"GUYS! WHAT THE FUCK—?!"

        Ignoring the frantic calls of their group, Haven feverishly ripped away the dense foliage that blanketed the cavern wall. Below her, Octavia seamlessly pulled at the vegetation at the very spot where the beetles had disappeared. Their combined efforts soon paid off as the green curtain parted, unveiling the distinct rectangular outline of a door . . . complete with a rusted handlebar.

"BELLAMY!"

Even before Haven's shout fully escaped her lips, Bellamy was already in motion, his instincts honed and sharp. His arms, like iron bars, shot out—grasping Haven's forearm with a grip that could bend steel, and snagging Octavia's backpack with a force that threatened to tear fabric—poised to drag them both under the scant protection of the shittily erected tent.

"No! No! Stop it!" Octavia shouted, wrestling out of her brother's relentless grasp and pointing adamantly towards the cavern wall. "There's something in here! Maybe it's the ruins!"

        Bellamy's initial instinct was to dismiss Octavia's outcry entirely, his whole being concentrated on shielding the two souls he loved most from the merciless advance of the acid fog. Yet, as his gaze snagged on the unmistakable silhouette of the door handle embedded in the cavern wall . . . a flicker of recognition halted his actions. Releasing Haven and Octavia abruptly, he redirected all his formidable strength toward the door—his muscles shrieking in a desperate bid to pry it open and uncover whatever secrets lay hidden beyond.

       "HEY!" Bellamy's voice boomed through the chaos, releasing one hand from the stubborn structure to frantically wave over Orion and the guard detail. "OVER HERE! HELP ME OPEN THIS!"

        Soon enough—Orion, David, and Scott joined the frantic efforts at the door, their combined strength amplifying the struggle. The metal barrier wailed under their force, a cacophony of resistance as stubborn as the creeping death outside. The fog advanced, a silent, toxic wave, inching ever nearer with ravenous intent. As it hovered only mere feet away . . . the door finally succumbed, groaning in defeat and swinging open with a resonant clang.

       "COME ON! INSIDE—NOW!"

        "LET'S GO!"

        "HURRY UP! COME ON! COME ON!"

Haven was the first to be hurled into the shadowy void, flung by the urgent, quivering hands of Bellamy. Octavia and Orion tumbled in immediately after her, a cascade of bodies fleeing the toxic onslaught. Even from inside, the air clawed at Haven's lungs, each breath a fiery agony, each gasp a battle against the invisible poison. Frantically, she scanned the flickering shadows during her headcount, only for her heart to plummet as she realized that they were one short.

"HELP!"

. . . Rudder.

"HELP ME! PLEASE!"

        No. No. No.

        As Rudder's frantic cries echoed through the gaping chasm between them—Haven's mind was viciously dragged back to the day when Atom was devoured by the acid fog. She could still hear him, a wraith in the creeping, sinister yellow mist, his desperate pleas cutting through the maelstrom. His voice, hoarse and fraught with agony, had reached for her and Bellamy, first begging for rescue, then, in a harrowing shift . . . pleading for death.

Not again.

        . . . Never again.

       She launched herself forward. Unflinchingly.

      "HAVEN—NO!"

       Hovering mere inches from the venomous embrace of the acid fog, Haven thrust her hand into the swirling, deadly mist, desperately seeking to clutch at Rudder's vanishing form. She was completely detached from the world around her—unaware of Bellamy's arms as they wrapped tightly around her waist, wrenching her back with a force that stripped away any trace of gentleness. The miasma scorched her fingertips, a cruel reminder of its lethal power, but even that was dwarfed by the incendinary torrent of her grief. Nothing else could reach her, not the acidic sting on her skin, nor Bellamy's agonized cries as the fog brushed him too—both drowned out by the roaring void of her anguish.

. . . Atom.

Atom. Atom. Atom.

       By the time Haven was thrust into Orion's arms—Bellamy had already slammed the door shut, sealing them inside the cavern's formidable tomb and relinquishing Rudder to the other side.

Darkness swallowed them whole.

• •

"WHERE ARE WE?"

        HAVEN WAS UTTERLY LOST TO THE TORMENT WRACKING HER BODY as they huddled in the shadowy depths of the bunker. The burns on her fingertips, a harsh penalty for her desperate reach into the fog, were her own damn fault—so, she refused to complain about that. Rather, it was the shallow, gasping breaths that cut deeper, each one a searing battle as she fought to steady her breathing within the claustrophobic confines. Pain lanced through her lungs with each inhalation, a cruel echo of the fog's venom, while sorrow relentlessly corroded her heart . . . breaking it down over and over with relentless, ruthless persistence.

She was a fucking idiot to think she could endure another bunker.

Despite its vastness compared to the cramped supply depot she and Bellamy had stumbled upon last month—the sense of claustrophobia here was suffocating, far surpassing even that of Mount Weather. The air was thick with humidity, the darkness almost tangible, pierced only by the distant drip of water and the eerie scuttle of beetles. Yet, it was not the oppressive atmosphere or the lurking shadows that haunted Haven most—it was the echo of Rudder's screams.

The bunker's door may have shielded them from the toxic fog, but it did little to silence the harrowing sounds of the guard's final, desperate gasps for air.

       They didn't just hear his death.

        . . . They felt it.

        Still, this definitely wasn't the time for Haven to rip apart their meticulously laid plans, shredding them on the sharp thorns of her escalating terror. Death was a grim inevitability; the world wouldn't pause for her discomfort, nor did it offer her any excuse to jeopardize their objectives simply because she was coming undone.

It also didn't help that Bellamy's watchful presence burned holes into the side of her skull. His deep-set concern carved lines of dark foreboding around his eyes, reflecting back at her in each labored breath she drew and the relentless, near-violent twitch of her fingers.

He was worried.

He was always worried.

       . . . Haven couldn't afford to fuck this up.

       Not when they needed to find an access point to Mount Weather and save their friends' lives.

Inhale. Breathe. Exhale.

As Haven's eyes flickered open, a heightened awareness of their surroundings washed over her, each detail sharp under the beam of flashlights drawn from their supply packs. Cars lay scattered around them in neat, parallel rows, their designs echoing the very automobile she had once wrenched the transmitter from. Back then, amidst the urgency of adapting their wristbands for communication—the thought of using these vehicles had eluded the delinquents entirely.

But now, here in this expansive, neglected lot, cars sprawled in a silent sea of metal and glass.

. . . Weird.

Bellamy's grip on his rifle hardened. "It looks like some sort of garage," he murmured, his voice a cautious whisper, wary of any unseen company. "I used to read about places like this."

        Octavia swallowed hard. "More like a tomb."

        "Or a turd dungeon," Orion added under her breath, scrunching her nose in distaste as she looped her arm through Haven's, ensuring she stayed close. "It reeks."

        Which . . . was also true.

        It smelled like literal death.

        Pivoting towards David, Bellamy shook his head, the action laden with the deep weight of remorse. "Look...I'm sorry about your man," he began earnestly. "But we have to move if we want to find an access door to Mount Weather—now."

        "Hold on, Blake." David's command sliced through the darkness, pinning Bellamy in the harsh spotlight of his flashlight beam. In a swift motion, he reached out, clutching Bellamy's collar just as he shifted to vanish into the shadows. "Not so fast."

Bellamy clenched his jaw. "Sir, that fog will keep us pinned down here for another—"

His words died on his tongue as David soundlessly thrust an additional gun into his palms.

"We'll split up—meet back in fifteen," David decreed, his eyes steely yet imbued with a palpable sense of undying trust. "Be safe, son."

        Haven watched wordlessly, the moment stretching taut as the men locked eyes, a silent conversation thundering in the thick air between them. The space became laden with the weight of unspoken words and deep understanding known only to those bound by the roles of trainer and trainee . . . Chief and Cadet. Her knowledge of David aboard the Ark was limited, yet through Bellamy's stories, he emerged as a figure larger than life—a role model and guardian. David was one of the few guards untainted by a lust for control, driven instead by a genuine commitment to the welfare of the Ark's residents.

Bellamy nodded dutifully.

And then . . .

He was giving the gun to Haven.

Cautiously, he slid the weapon into the right pocket of her cargo pants, its weight echoing the pistol that had already settled heavily in her left. Silence cradled them as he captured her stare. There was no need for words, not when his actions roared with a thunderous intensity—declaring a devotion far deeper than words could ever articulate.

. . . I'm not letting you die down here.

At that, Bellamy squared his shoulders.

"Let's go."

Swift as phantoms, the group divided—David and Scott veering left through the shadowy expanse of the garage, while Haven and the others drifted right.

Haven felt herself unraveling even further as she abruptly untangled her arm from Orion's, her need for space chewing at her from the inside out—especially as they pressed against the sticky, oppressive walls of the garage. It wasn't a pull away from her friends, but a desperate attempt to escape the suffocating confines that made her skin seethe. Sweat glossed her forehead, slick and hot, while each inhale brought the acrid, metallic scent of blood . . . thrusting her consciousness mercilessly back into the terror of the Harvest Chamber.

She hated it here.

She hated how the pervasive scent of iron not only hurled her back into the dark, sinister confines of Mount Weather's experimental morgue, but also into the grim shadows of the dropship—the very place she had witnessed her friends convulse and die from a blood-hungry virus. It was there she had seen Bellamy, agonized and frail, vomiting blood so violently she feared his stomach had ruptured. And it was there, beneath the floorboards, she had cowered as Murphy forced him to his knees, looping a noose around his neck in a cruel mimicry of justice.

She fucking hated it here.

        Haven's breath hitched, its rhythm accelerating as Bellamy's hand gently steered her forward by the small of her back. "You didn't have to give me the extra gun, you know," she murmured flatly. "I can handle myself."

        "Damn right," Bellamy echoed. "It's just backup."

        Haven only shook her head. "I'm not a child who needs three different weapons and a stupid brace to protect herself."

        Bellamy's face fell. "What—?" he whispered, unable to restrain the reflexive pinch of his brows, staring at the girl storming ahead of him as if he were suddenly missing something. "It's just backup, Hav. I never said you were."

        "You didn't have to," she muttered. "You're acting like it."
  
        "I wasn't trying to—"

        "But you did."

        "Haven."

        At that, Bellamy decisively took the lead, stepping ahead of Haven while allowing Orion and Octavia to move forward. He positioned himself as a gentle blockade against her brewing warpath, careful not to touch her—he understood not to commit that crime. Instead, his pleading eyes sought hers, desperate to bridge the chasm of misunderstanding between them. He felt the crushing weight of the confinement she felt—not only the physical walls of the bunker pressing in, but the emotional confinement he had unwittingly imposed.

        Slowly . . . he understood.

        It wasn't merely the bunker's walls that suffocated the girl he loved—it was his protection, his presence, his panic.

        . . . It was him.

        "You think—you think I don't know exactly what you're capable of? I know you can take care of yourself," Bellamy's voice softened, threading caution through his words as he watched Haven shift uncomfortably, her breaths coming in uneven tides. "Look, I'm sorry if I made you feel...smothered, or something, okay? I can back off a little." His next words were astoundingly firm. "But you need to take a breath."

Haven refused.

Bellamy shook his head. "I'm not moving til' you do it."

Curling her hands into fists, Haven attempted to steady herself, acutely aware of the absence of her locket—a cool, familiar anchor in turbulent times. Taking even a shallow breath proved to be an impossible task. The air around her felt oppressively thick and tainted, each inhalation dragging more grime into her lungs, mocking the tranquility Bellamy had implied it would bring.

       "Inhale for five seconds, hold it for five..." Bellamy instructed, his eyes intently tracing the fragile tremble of her breath, catching too soon in its cycle of calm. "...then release it for five more."

Haven stared at him blankly.

"It helps me," he admitted softly. "Do it."

Reluctantly, Haven acquiesced to his guidance. She drew in a shaky breath, her lungs trembling as they expanded, and forced herself to hold the air captive, resisting the urge to let it escape prematurely.

. . . One. Two. Three. Four. Five. . .

The air still felt wretched and poisoned, echoing a sinister murmur of her darkest memories. Yet, as she exhaled, deliberately elongating the moment, something miraculous unfurled within her—the air, once so heavy with torment, seemed to lighten, as if her breath had the power to cleanse the darkness from its very molecules.

. . . One. Two. Three. Four. Five. . .

Bellamy studied her thoughtfully.

"...Better?"

Haven offered a small, tentative nod. "Yeah," she conceded, shaking her head as if to scatter the fog that had tainted her thoughts and sharpened her nerves to a brittle edge. "Yeah. I'm sorry. The brace isn't stupid. I know you're looking out for me...I just..."

        "Small spaces," Bellamy finished. "I know."

        Haven managed a shaky smile.

Before they could continue their trek through the uncertain shadows, a thunderous crash shattered the silence, its echoes clawing ominously along the cold, concrete walls of the garage. The sound rooted them to the spot—a tangible dread settling heavily upon the group's shoulders as they stood, breaths held, eyes wide . . . waiting for the darkness to reveal its lurking threat.

        One heartbeat passed. Another.

        And then . . .

. . . Music?

"Oh," Orion gulped. "Oh...fuck no."

Unflinchingly, Bellamy and Haven readied themselves against the echo of disruption, weapons in hand. They fluidly carved a path from the dim outskirts to the pulsing heart of the garage, navigating through the labyrinth of shadowed cars, each vehicle a silent sentinel in their stealthy advance. Orion and Octavia moved just behind, their eyes sharp and guarding, watching over the duo as they delved deeper toward the haunting melody, merging with the darkness to glide unseen among the still giants of steel.

        The melody only grew louder.

        Orion's whisper was incredulously fearful. "Is this freakin' Christmas music—?"

Octavia shrugged. "I think so."

        "Shut up," Bellamy hissed, his arm shooting out to halt their advance. He dropped into a low crouch, muscles coiled like a spring, the rifle in his grip as much a part of him as his own limb. His flashlight cut a sharp swath through the suffocating darkness, its beam slicing across the expanse in search of something—anything. "Sergeant Miller? Scott? You out there?"

        Haven held her breath, scouring through the gloom, fervently searching for any hint of life. Instinct shrieked within her, urging her to flee, though she couldn't discern the source of her intrinsic alarm . . . again. Their flashlights flickered like mere candles against the darkness that stretched endlessly before them, rendering her sight practically useless. She leaned into her other senses, her ears straining, tuned to catch even the faintest rustle or whisper of movement.

        Something groaned. Loudly.

         . . . Or someone.

"Time to turn back," Orion declared, already pivoting to retreat to their initial path, only to be halted by Bellamy's iron-clad grip around her forearm. "No way, Blake! No way! This is literally the part where we all get killed! Like—super, super violently!"

Bellamy's scolding was primitive. "Stop whisper shouting in my ears!"

"You stop leading us into a death trap!"

"Both of you—shut up and look!"

Haven's voice smoothly cut through the rising tide of bickering, a crisp command that refocused their attention on the task at hand. Silence engulfed them as they honed in on the groaning once more. With a steady hand, Haven directed her flashlight towards the noise, its beam slicing through the blackness and finally illuminating the harrowing, nauseating nightmare before them with pristine clarity.

Two figures, undead warriors clad in maroon and grey battle garbs, were hunched over a corpse . . . savagely feasting on its internal organs.

Haven felt her heart plummet.

"...Reapers."

As if suddenly aware of the group's lingering proximity, the Repears exploded from their hunch on the ground—soaring towards the group like rabid hellhounds unleashed.

. . . FUCK!

There was no time for Haven to absorb the ghastly details of the Reapers' snarling, blood-stained visages as they lunged forward, driven by a cannibalistic frenzy; the moment was too fraught for her to even consider drawing her blades. In the brief breath she had taken to steel herself . . . Bellamy was already in motion, his actions precise and lethal. He fired two sharp cracks into the darkness with unerring accuracy—each bullet halting the Reapers' charge as they lifelessly collapsed.

        Dead.

        "Holy shit," Orion panted. "Holy shit."

        "W-We can't stay here," Haven stammered, unable to avert her eyes from the gruesome brain matter now splattered across the nearby cars. "The shots...they'll only attract more of them. We need to find better coverage before they find us."

        Bellamy shook his head. "We still need to find Sergeant Miller."

        "We will," Haven assured firmly, her mind sifting through memories of the tunnels to quickly formulate their next move, all while bearing the weight of locating Miller's dad. "The Repears—they're nearsighted, okay? If we hug the wall again while we look for David, we should be able to—"

        Another snarl stole her breath.

Bellamy wasted no time thrusting the girls behind him and forcing them as far away as possible. The flashlight embedded in his rifle sliced through the murk, a stark lance of light that leaped across the tinted windows, skittered over the clinging damp of musky walls, and summoned forth shadows that danced and twisted like phantoms.

        At last, the light halted—trembling upon a sight so ghastly, so fraught with foreboding, that the very air seemed to hold its breath.

. . . No.

No. No. No.

Bellamy shifted to pull the trigger.

"DON'T!" Octavia shrieked. "...IT'S LINCOLN!"

        Slowly, murderously . . . the familiar silhouette of Lincoln emerged from the gloom. He was crouched on the ground, hovering over the mangled remains of Sergeant Scott. Blood, thick and gleaming ruby, stained his hands as he savagely shoveled tissue from Scott's heart into his mouth. Yet even the deep, visceral red of blood paled in comparison to the seething, infernal glow that encircled the brown of his eyes—a murderous halo that flared with rage as he turned his gaze upon them.

        The Mountain Men.

        . . . They had warped him into a cannibal.

        As Lincoln rose from the blood-soaked concrete—his movements were slow, deliberate, every step a display of predatory menace. Unlike the other two Reapers that Bellamy had swiftly shot dead, Lincoln's approach was more ominous, restrained, as if some part of him still clung to the remnants of his humanity. His bloodshot eyes darted wildly between Octavia and Haven, flickering with a fleeting glimmer of recognition that quickly dulled, smothered by his altered instincts.

        It was as though he were waging a silent, internal war with every reluctant step . . . his body recoiling from the devastation he knew he would unleash.

        "Lincoln! Lincoln—it's me!" Octavia's voice broke through the tension, a desperate plea wrapped in the tremor of her heart. She slipped out from the protective shadow of Bellamy's back, desperately holding out her hands—vying to reach the man she once knew. "I-It's Octavia!"

"O..." Bellamy began lowly.

"Lincoln!" Octavia pleaded. "Lincoln!"

        But in the end, the warrior was hopelessly defeated by the morbid transformation that had corrupted his very DNA, rendering him a slave to the monstrous instincts now coursing through his veins.

Lincoln bolted straight towards her.

"NO!"

Before Haven's mind could catch up with her instincts, her hand was already tearing the handgun from her back pocket, sliding it skimming across the gritty concrete. The gun traced a metallic, urgent rasp, coming to rest just within reach of Octavia. The Blake girl's fingers clasped around the cold grip of the weapon just as Lincoln's shadow loomed over her—a monstrous, relentless tide.

His hands, now cruel instruments of his transformed hunger, clamped onto her shoulders with a force that spoke of inexorable appetites. In one, ruthless motion—he thrust Octavia backward, her body arching through the air before crashing over the hood of a dusty SUV.

        "OCTAVIA!" 

        The scream that tore from Bellamy's lungs was primal, echoing off the desolate walls with a force that seemed to shake the very air. His hands gripped the rifle with a deathlike intensity, veins bulging and knuckles pale as ghosts. His eyes—wide, wild, aflame with a blinding terror that seared the soul—tracked the cruel twist of his sister's fall behind the bulk of the SUV.

        "O! O!" he pleaded. "GET UP!"

        "HEY! C'MERE—YOU FUGLY GUT MUNCHER!"

        Supercharged with an otherworldly rage, Orion surged forward, her sword poised to pierce the sole of Lincoln's boot in a defiant strike. But before her blade could find its mark, Lincoln countered with a brutal ferocity. A punishing kick, swift and merciless, landed squarely in Orion's gut. The force ripped the breath from her lungs, wrenching the sword from her grasp as she collapsed onto the unforgiving concrete. Her skull struck the rim of the SUV with a sickening crack, blurring her consciousness to the precipice of oblivion.

        Yet . . . the true horror unfolded as Lincoln swiftly mounted her, pinning her beneath his formidable weight. Above her, his jaws snapped viciously, a dire promise in the dark as they lunged for her throat.

       Haven launched herself into a sprint.

       "GET THE FUCK OFF HER!"

Abandoning her flashlight, she flew forward, hurling herself onto Lincoln's back with a predator's grace. Her legs wound tightly around his spine, anchoring her firmly atop him as though he were a wild beast to be tamed. Her hands unflinchingly grasped the hilt of her blade—not to kill, but to exact a precise and crippling torment.

       She cunningly targeted the brachial plexus—a critical nexus of nerves painfully familiar from her own shoulder injury.

       Cruelly and precisely, Haven pressed the hilt against the pressure point; each motion was deliberate, harnessing every fucking iota of her weight and the full force of her will, aimed at incapacitating the monstrous form Lincoln had become.

        He erupted into a howl of numbing agony.

        The sudden shock, a cruel jolt of electricity, seized Lincoln's right arm in momentary paralysis—gifting Haven a brief, desperate chance to blindly plunge her blade deep into his tricep. However, rather than the stab wound debilitating him even further . . . the pain only seemed to agitate him.

. . . Oh, fuck.

        With a beastly snarl, Lincoln twisted violently—a swift and powerful motion that effortlessly dislodged Haven from his back. All at once, she found herself flung beneath him, the ground cold and unforgiving against her spine as he reversed their positions with horrifying speed.

Now . . . it was Haven pinned under the immense weight of his wrath, her breath catching in her throat as she stared up into the bloodshot, unnatural rage of his eyes.

        Then, he tried to sink her teeth into her neck.

        No. Fucking. Way.

Pinned beneath Lincoln's merciless grasp, Haven twisted and writhed, her movements desperate against his blood-slick grip. Her fingers grazed helplessly against the fabric hiding her backup gun, her secondary blade an agonizing stretch away. Every motion was futile; Lincoln's jaws only snapped closer, closer, and closer to her face—each breath a gust of hot, carnivorous intent that bore the stench of Scott's destruction.

In a moment teetering between desperation and the uncanny clarity that comes at the edge of defeat, Haven embraced exactly what she knew best . . . the power of a perilous, unfathomably stupid idea.

        "NATBLIDA!"

The word—a title, a primal invocation, a prayer woven through the fabric of generations, a desperate tether cast towards the soul it once knew—resounded with a gravity meant to reach the Grounder buried beneath the Repear.

Lincoln snapped his head upright.

A gunshot snarled through the air.

. . . And then Bellamy struck, viciously slamming the brunt of his rifle into Lincoln's skull, its impact rendering him unconscious in seconds.

"Fuck!" Bellamy hissed, kicking at Lincoln's limp form, not out of malice but desperation—swiftly clearing a path to the girl he loved. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—we need to get somewhere safe! C'mon!"

Reeling from the disorientation of just how rapidly shit had hit the fan—all over again—Haven was yanked from the brink by Bellamy's relentless grip. As he hauled her to her feet, he deftly secured Scott's fallen shackbaton in his waistband, reasserted his grip on his rifle, and slung his free arm around her waist—propelling them both into a sprint away from the looming peril.

        Running felt like an impossible feat, especially after enduring the crushing agony of Lincoln's weight, which had nearly suffocated her all by itself. But at the same time, this relentless, repetitive flight was all they had left—a desperate gasp for survival as they pushed their limits, sprinting through the shroud of danger that clung to their every step.

        "Where can we go, Bell?" Haven panted breathlessly. "Where the fuck are we supposed to go? Where's Orion? O-Octavia—"

        Before she could voice the full measure of her panic—Bellamy was already in motion, wrenching open the door of the vehicle furthest from Lincoln's last known position in the garage. With urgent hands, he guided Haven into the backseat, slamming the door shut behind her as she struggled for breath, her words cut short. Barely a moment passed before he reappeared, now shepherding Orion and Octavia into the vehicle as well. His figure blurred as he vaulted into the cramped confines alongside them—the finality of the door's slam sealing them together in a fleeting sanctuary.

Almost immediately . . . the air within the confined space became insufferably hot.

"Blake..." Orion panted, her face contorted in discomfort from the earlier blow to her head and the oppressive closeness of their huddled bodies. "Your elbow is like, two centimeters away from my cooch, dude."

        Scrambling as much as he could, Bellamy pressing his spine hard against the fogged glass of the left rear window. He instinctively drew Haven onto his lap, a maneuver born of necessity rather than comfort, attempting to carve out a breath of space for Orion and Octavia as they disentangled themselves. Still, even with these shifts, the vehicle remained a goddamn hotbox—sweltering and cramped, the air thickening around them as they strained to regulate their breaths.

"Sorry," he huffed.

        Meanwhile . . . Octavia appeared to be three heartbeats away from losing her mind. "I-I shot him!" she choked out, her voice catching in her throat, eyes wide and wild as she scanned the scene outside the window—torn between a desperate hope for Lincoln's survival and the primal fear of his return. "I fucking shot him! I shot him in the leg—!"

Holy shit.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

. . . The gun.

Octavia had shot Lincoln with the gun that Haven had given her.

In any other circumstance, Haven might have extended a sliver of comfort to the trembling Blake girl. Yet, the grim severity of their predicament had warped Haven's thoughts into tangled knots, and the oppressive closeness of their refuge was scorching her skin, as if the very air they breathed was aflame. Words fled from her, elusive as shadows at dusk; solace became a ghostly notion, unreachable and thin. She wanted to soothe Octavia . . . but her entire being was shackled to a singular, consuming task—to avert her gaze from the dark corners of their cramped hideaway, where phantoms threatened to spill from the shadows, weaving hallucinations that could further unravel her already frayed edges.

        "O," Bellamy whispered, his chin lightly brushing against the crown of Haven's hair as he nodded from behind—a subtle gesture laden with weighted reassurance. "O...he'll live, alright? You did the right thing."

"He's a Reaper!" Octavia cried out. "H-How is it even possible?! He just...he just looked right through me! How he's just—?"

Before the group could steal even a full minute to catch their breath—the ominous, thunderous echo of heavy footsteps filled the garage again, shattering the fragile silence. Instinctively, they huddled even closer, eyes wide and hearts hammering, beseeching the heavens above for mercy, hoping against hope not to be delivered into slaughter.

. . . It was Lincoln.

Through the misted window, Haven strained to discern his foggy visage, marred and unmistakably bloody. Enshrouded in darkness, only the stark angles of his face emerged, ghostly pale against the cold, metallic gleam of the cars nearby. He appeared wild, unhinged, his eyes as red and rabid as ever. Blood coursed from his lips in cruel, crimson cascades, as if he were savoring the last vestiges of Scott's heart, devoured in his madness.

        Orion swallowed thickly. "...Can he see us?"

        "I-I don't know," Bellamy whispered. "Shh."

        Shivering with dread and frantic to escape the harrowing gaze of the warrior she once knew, Haven hesitantly shifted her eyes away from Lincoln's hardened features—a move to preserve her sanity, a frail attempt at detachment . . . only to make the inadvertent, catastrophic mistake of glancing over his shoulder.

        Lincoln wasn't alone.

        . . . Atom lingered just beyond her reach.

• •

hi friends.

our girl is hallucinating again i fear ☹️

sorry if this feels abruptly ended, i lowkey fucking hate this chapter, i have had the WORST writers fatigue and falling back on editing has been beating my ass. im in the phase where i hate literally every word im typing 🤭🤭🤭 plus, so much action at once is THRILLING to write but also objectively the most difficult, and theres STILL another action scene for this episode that feels more appropriate in the next chapter instead 😭 i like to resolve certain scenes all in one chapter but this one i have to cut simply because its exhausting ✨ im emo im cutting it short but the chapter is literally 10k words already !!! like girl breathe a little bit!!!

anyway!!! everything is literally downhill from here yall! once we reach finn's death chapter...there will be no peace until the season ends. like. at all. at all. that being said...i am SO pumped for the bullshit that ensues after he dies. plot gonna go 📈 like ive been WAAAAIITING to get into everything that happens after his death.

lets just say grief is a ugly thing !! 😀

as always.... love you!! so much!!! thank you for reading. thank you for 60k!!! <333

SEE U NEXT WEEK!