• •

CHAPTER FIFTY SIX;

WHAT IF THIS IS
ALL THE LOVE YOU EVER GET?

• •

        "MURPHY . . . WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?"

        JOHN MURPHY WAS THE LAST PERSON that Haven ever expected to darken the doorway of the dropship. After slipping from Camp Jaha—undetected and miraculously alive—Haven, Bellamy, and Raven had been sitting on needles, their breaths shallow as they awaited Clarke, Finn, and Orion's return. Every whisper of wind, every murmur from the forest outside stirred Haven's wild hope, only to be dashed again by the empty entrance. She was suffocating in the wait, itching for their familiar forms to materialize behind the curtain, but instead . . . she came face to face with Murphy.

        He strolled through the threshold as arrogance embodied, the very sight of him igniting a fury so swift, so primal . . . Haven almost let her knife fly before rationality clawed her back.

"Relax," Murphy huffed. "I believe I was invited."

        Murphy's hands ascended in an exaggerated gesture of surrender, yet his eyes shifted rapidly, calculating the danger posed by the blade quivering in Haven's grip and the rifle Bellamy clutched like a cross. With a slow, mocking step backward, he adopted a stance of submission—but the smirk that twisted his lips betrayed his amusement.

Wait.

        . . . Invited?

        Haven narrowed her eyes. "What the fuck?"

        Her words hung suspended, half-formed and seething, as the fabric barrier was thrust aside by another entrant. Instinct took over—her knife shifted in her grip, the blade a subtle glint of danger, perfectly mirrored by the menacing aim of Bellamy's rifle. But tension dissolved into confusion as the familiar intruder brushed her wild curls aside, humming a casual tune . . . utterly oblivious to the arsenal greeting her.

        "Um—woah!" Orion's voice spiked with alarm, her body jerking back as she observed the weapons leveled at her, nearly colliding with Murphy's chest. "Jeez! It's just me, Blake. Unclench your freakin' ass."

        Haven sheathed her blade beneath her shirt.
       
        Bellamy huffed out an agitated breath.

        As the immediate threat dissolved and their weapons slowly lowered, Haven's mind spiraled back into the maze of her earlier bewilderment. Her confusion deepened, eyes flickering between Orion and Raven, who seemed remarkably . . . undisturbed by Murphy's unexpected appearance. There was no trace of outrage, no customary sneers—nothing to suggest they found his presence unwelcome. In fact, there was a disconcerting lack of reaction, as if his joining them had been anticipated.

        But that was impossible.

        Neither of the girls would ever voluntarily invite Murphy to join them.

        Unless . . .

        Haven's eyes darted knowingly between Raven and Orion, an accusing edge to her stare, searching for any semblance of understanding. "...Why don't either of you look surprised to see him?"

        Silence.

       "Ori..." Haven's voice softened, feigning innocence as she tilted her head toward the Vincetta girl. Her words, deceptively light, carried the weight of suspicion. "You aren't lying to me, are you—?"

        Orion's eyes bulged. "Uh..."

        "Blame me," Raven cut in, easing the pressure off Orion before she could fully flounder into panic. "I thought we could use an extra gun."

Haven gaped. "Murphy?" she echoed, gesturing towards his serpentine silhouette with an incredulous sweep of her hand. "That's your extra gun?"

Murphy, ever the opportunist, flashed a smug grin. "Don't act like you didn't miss me."

"I'd miss you like I'd miss the fuckin' plague."

        "Always an honor to be greeted with your kindness, m'lady," Murphy hummed snidely. "I'll take what I can get."

        "Shut the fuck up, Murphy," Bellamy spat, pinning the boy beneath a glare that could warp bone. Then, with a deep, exhausted sigh . . . his clenched teeth parted just enough to force out the bitter words. "...He might not be the worst idea."

        Haven felt her jaw detach. "You're serious."

Bellamy didn't flinch. "He knows where he stands," he muttered, each syllable tasting of wretched bile as he forcibly pried them off his tongue. "He's a dick. He knows he's a dick, and he knows damn well that I'll put a bullet in him the second he steps out of line."

To drive his point home, Bellamy leveled his rifle unerringly at Murphy's chest—again—lips curling into a satisfied smirk as the boy reflexively staggered backward.

"...At least he doesn't pretend to be something he's not anymore."

"Ouch," Murphy winced, though the sting barely grazed his surface. Smirking, he shed the flinch like an old skin, slipping effortlessly back into his well-worn cloak of arrogance. "Even dicks can grow. Nobody believes in change around here, huh?"

Haven curled her hands into fists. "You don't exist in the same realm as change."

"Neither do you, Hav," Murphy fired back. "Stubborn til' death. Always above it all."

"Above you," Haven hissed wretchedly. "Don't get it twisted."

Murphy's grin only widened. "Righteous as ever... aren't we?" he hummed. "At least you're consistent."

Before Haven could sharpen her tongue, Bellamy had already closed the distance, no longer needing the rifle to emphasize his threat. It hung forgotten at his side, a relic of a lesser menace. Now, his eyes did the work—dark and endless, a grave waiting to swallow the unwary—begging, taunting, pleading for Murphy to fuck around and find out.

        "Easy now, watchdog," Murphy huffed. "...I was just giving her a compliment."

"Don't," Bellamy snarled.

Meanwhile . . . Haven found herself utterly fucking adrift in disbelief, still grappling with the reality that Murphy had somehow wormed his way into the group's fragile acceptance. Raven, forever marked by the bullet he'd lodged into her spine, lived with permanent nerve damage. Bellamy had been hung by him. Orion loathed him for the mere crime of existing. Yet, despite all of . . . that, the three of them had seemingly chosen to tolerate his existence, whether out of necessity or some bizarre form of earned trust.

Haven couldn't stomach it.

The thought of Murphy being granted any sliver of redemption gnawed at her insides with a force that refused to be sated. To her . . . he was nothing but a living, breathing betrayal, a poison that had seeped into their already fractured world. If he wanted forgiveness—if he dared to dream of it—it wouldn't come without a steep price. Murphy would have to crawl through filth, bleed for every sin, and slave himself to the bone to earn even a whisper of redemption in her eyes.

        And even then . . . it might never be enough.

"Where's Finn?" Raven asked, wrenching Haven from her foul thoughts as she looked to Murphy expectantly. "He should've been right behind you."

Murphy casually brushed her off. "Don't worry," he assured, sidestepping the enormity of Bellamy's death glare and inching closer to Orion. "Spacewalker's gonna be just fine."

Orion gave a begrudging nod. "We saw him and Clarke a few miles back."

"We—?" Haven echoed. "As in...together?"

Murphy shrugged. "Is that so hard to believe?"

What. The. Hell.

Pathetically, Haven fought against the urge to gape, bewilderment cresting over her for the third time in mere minutes. Razor-sharp eyes darted between Orion and Murphy, scouring vainly for some tear in the fabric of reality that might justify the madness before her. The thought of any semblance of togetherness between the duo felt like an affront to nature. This wasn't just absurd—it was a breach in the cosmic law, an impossibility that made her question the very ground beneath her feet.

        . . . What the fuck did she miss during her time in Mount Weather?

Orion, visibly bristling at Murphy's proximity, folded her arms tighter across her chest—a scowl darkening her features. "I wouldn't say together," she muttered. "He just walked behind me while I kicked dirt in his face."

"Yup." Murphy's grin, infuriatingly unshaken, softened at the edges with something almost . . . fond. "She only cussed me out twice."

True to nature, Orion let one arm fall loose, only to drive her fist into Murphy's gut with an excruciating thud. "Four times," she corrected, the warning escaping her lips as a low, venomous hiss. "Don't make it a fifth—you bottom feeding mouthbreather. Next time I'll shiskabob your freakin' scrotum."

Haven cracked an involuntary grin.

. . . At least that was normal.

Before another word could permeate the air, the heavy thud of rapidly approaching footsteps thundered up the ramp, accompanied by the sudden whoosh of the curtain being thrust open.

        All eyes snapped toward the entrance.

        There, silhouetted in the waning afternoon light, stood Finn—disheveled, breathless—but all attention abruptly shifted to the limp figure cradled in his arms.

Clarke, pale and unmoving, hung in the crook of his embrace, her face unnervingly still. A thin trickle of blood snaked its way down from a gash on her temple, marring her porcelain features with streaks of scarlet. Yet, it wasn't the blood that prompted Haven's heart to seize—it was the barely perceptible rise and fall of Clarke's chest . . . the fragile, shallow breaths that came too slow, too faint.

. . . She was barely moving.

Haven stormed the distance at once.

        "Clarke—?!" The name tore from her throat in a choked whisper, her wide eyes frantically scouring every inch of Clarke's still, ashen face for any sign of life. Beneath the torrent of her terror, rage simmered . . . barely restrained as she glanced to Finn. "W-What the hell? What the hell happened—?!"

        Finn shakily parted his lips. "I—"

        "What did you do?!" Bellamy thundered, his rifle clattering to the ground as he rushed forward to examine his co-leader more intently. "You had one fucking job, Finn. All you had to do was get here alive!"

        "It—it wasn't my fault," Finn stammered breathlessly, his voice breaking as he clung to Clarke's inert body. "A Grounder hit her on the head."

"I'm gonna hit you on the head!" Orion fumed, abandoning her position near the curtain, her knuckles cracking ominously as she clenched her fists. "J'en ai tellement marre de ta merde—"

        "Rip him a new asshole later!"

        As Finn ushered Clarke further into the dropship, Haven's wild eyes shifted to Murphy's sudden intervention. There he was, knelt on the grimy floor, his movements feverish as he scambled to assemble a makeshift cot. His jacket had been thrown down, now serving as a blanket, while his backpack lay upturned, its contents scattered across the floor, hastily repurposed into a pillow.

        "C'mon!" Murphy beckoned. "Put her here!"

        Nearly ripping Clarke's limp form from Finn's grasp, Haven took hold of her upper body, while Bellamy swiftly moved to support her legs. The moment Clarke touched the makeshift bedding, Haven collapsed to her knees beside Murphy, her hands quivering as she hovered over Clarke's head. The scarlet stream of blood seeping from Clarke's temple struck like a crude time bomb—forcing Haven's breath to catch, her lungs flaring with catastrophic panic.

         "I-I need a bandage," Haven's voice began as a fragile whisper, its volume fortified only by the swell of fear clogging her throat. "A rag. Anything."

        Murphy plunged into the disarray of his belongings at once. "Got it," he muttered, seamlessly thrusting a rag into her shaky hands. "Here."

        If Clarke had imparted any critical wisdom about wound care to Haven . . . it was the relentless truth about head wounds: they bled like a motherfucker. The face, veined with a delicate web of blood vessels lying perilously close to the thin veneer of skin, was prone to bleed far more profusely than any other part of the body. While the bleeding didn't necessarily spell a fatal injury—blood could often mislead in its drama—it was still blood, and blood was fucking horrifying.

         Haven adjusted her stance, pressing the rag firmly against the wound, her touch calibrated to staunch the bleeding without inflicting more pain. "Murphy," she instructed. "Hold her head still."

        Murphy complied without a word.

        "I said hold her—don't manhandle her." Haven hissed, eyes catching the unintentional roughness in Murphy's handling. She reflexively shot him a withering glare, one that nearly made him wilt under its intensity . . . though his hands softened. "Clarke. Clarke. Can you hear me?"

        Clarke remained unsettlingly still.

        Murphy could barely restrain his grimace. "...Doesn't exactly look like it."

        "Shut up, Murphy." Haven skewered the boy with yet another damning glare before returning her attention to Clarke. She delicately placed her free hand on the pulse point at Clarke's throat, seeking the steady rhythm of life beneath the cool skin. "Her BPM seems stable. It took me fifteen minutes to wake up after Lincoln knocked me out. She just needs—"

        "Wait," Murphy interrupted, his eyes widening as a crooked, incredulous grin marked his face. "Lincoln knocked you out... and Bellamy let him live—?"

        "Shut. Up. Murphy." Haven insisted, far more lividly this time around, effectively snuffing out whatever snide comment he might have been conjuring next. "She just needs some time. I-I can keep an eye on her."

        . . . Clarke would've done it for her.

        At that, the blonde stirred ever so slightly upon the cot. Her lips parted just enough to release a soft, pained sigh—barely audible. Though her consciousness was shrouded beneath the heavy mists of her concussion, this faint sign of distress suggested she was still there, trapped . . . but there nonetheless.

Haven lifted her gaze from the fragile girl beneath her care, only to find Bellamy's eyes already anchored on her—observing, waiting. He leaned forward slightly, frame bent low, his hands braced on his knees to align with her level of sight. A thousand unspoken sentiments wove themselves into the invisible thread that bound his heart to hers, tightening with every unsaid word. His eyes knowingly held hers, and in a single, solemn nod . . . he conveyed all the reassurances his lips could not sculpt into words.

And then . . .

Her eyes found Finn.

        Lingering at the edge of the room, the Collins boy stood cemented in place, rooted beneath the anesthetizing weight of his guilt. His pupils, dilated to their limits, reflected nothing but raw torment—his mind too fractured to form coherent thought, too suffocated to draw breath. He could do nothing but stare, unblinking, at the ghost of the girl sprawled on the cot. Around him, the air seemed to crystallize, suspended in brittle stillness . . . as if the faintest movement might fracture him irreparably.

Raven was the first to console him.

"Hey," she began softly, threading her way through the cluster of bodies near Clarke, halting decisively as she reached Finn's side. "It's just a bump on the head."

Orion scoffed. "That's putting it lightly."

Unperturbed by the expected backlash, Raven centered her focus wholly on Finn, disregarding Orion's interjection as if it were a mere whisper in the wind. "Clarke's gonna be okay," she assured firmly. "Are you?"

Finn refused to meet her eyes.

Raven reached for him without thought. "We'll figure this out—"

"That's what Clarke said," Finn snapped, bitterness tainting his words as he finally summoned the strength to move. He angled past Raven with a surge of frustration, lunging toward the ladder. "Right before I almost got another one of you killed."

All eyes flashed to Haven.

She could feel their eyes on her—sharp as blades—cleaving through the thin, trembling veil of impulse that failed to obscure the monster of their grief. Her heart twisted violently in her chest, a broken thing crying out, aching to armor itself against the excruciating burden of remembrance. To be seen was torment, but to be laid bare, exposed to the marrow of her existence, was a devastation beyond human reckoning. Known for dying. Known for haunting her friends with the echoes of tragedy. Known for unwittingly becoming the first fissure in the slow, agonizing collapse of Finn Collins . . . a catalyst in a ruin she never intended.

Haven parted her lips in vain.

        "Finn..."

. . . But he was already gone.

• •

ONCE UPON A TIME . . . after she cut him from his noose, but before the dropship's ladder was marred with the blood of crimson stab wounds—Haven had saved Murphy's life. He had lain crumpled in the corner, convulsing and sputtering in his own blood, the first victim of the plague that would soon tear through camp like wildfire. Haven had knelt beside his feverish frame, wiping the blood from his lips, prying open his airway, battling the virus that annihilated him from within. The other delinquents had circled like vultures, itching to slaughter him the moment she turned her back—but Haven stood her ground . . . defying them, daring them to try.

It was the right thing to do.

Once upon a time, after Murphy defiantly clawed his way back from the virus's scarlet kiss of death . . . they had worked together.

         As the virus ravaged their people, claiming the lives of the hundred left and right, they moved in a strange, unspoken synchronicity. Haven became the last line of defense for those convulsed in the throes of the virus, moving from one fallen delinquent to the next, offering whatever aid she could muster in the moments between life and ebbing breaths. Behind her, Murphy lingered like a shadow—mopping up blood and despair, restoring a measure of dignity to the spaces where lives had been lost. There were no words exchanged, no need for acknowledgment. They were united not just by the circumstances that thrust them together, but by a mutual recognition of what was necessary.

        It was the right thing to do.

And then . . .

Murphy had killed two of their own.

Once upon a time, the cycle of trust and betrayal between Haven and Murphy spiraled into infinite darkness, each turn shadowed by the weight of their choices. Haven, in a moment of desperate hope, had extended an olive branch to Murphy, appealing to the fragment of goodness she believed still lingered in his hardened heart. She had begged him for the return of her locket, a symbol of her past, her identity, clasped in the hands of someone she wished to see as more than the monster he had shown himself to be.

But Murphy, ever the harbinger of chaos, turned her gesture of vulnerability into a weapon.

He hurled the locket—and his scorn—back at her with a force that struck deeper than the physical blow that had left her unconscious. The spiral didn't stop there; he then used her and Jasper's lives as a cruel form of currency, a bargaining chip to manipulate Bellamy into a noose.

        Once upon a time, Haven metamorphosed into something wretched, her essence steeped in the darkness that had seeped into the very marrow of her existence. Her hands, once meant for healing, had become lethal instruments of fury. Bloodlust had driven her mad; she stabbed Murphy repeatedly—a furious, frantic attempt to reclaim some semblance of control, to punish the source of her agony.

". . . Maybe you're death itself. . ."

        Yet, in the end, as her breaths came in ragged gasps . . . Haven's hand faltered, whether from mercy, exhaustion, or some cruel combination of the two.

Once upon a time, she let Murphy live.

         . . . It was the wrong thing to do.

Mercy could be misplaced.

Forgiveness felt like a curse.

Because now . . . as Haven sat in the shadowed belly of the dropship, the weight of her past decisions pressed suffocatingly against her.

        Cradling Clarke's weary head in her lap, the Smith girl's gaze wandered across the scarred interior of their sanctuary turned slaughterhouse. Here, her friends had breathed their last breath, and choked on the thick, desperate air of survival. Above, Bellamy had hung from the ceiling, his ears flushed with the eerie blue of suffocation. To her left, the ladder where she had unleashed her fury upon Murphy loomed large. Each rung served as a reminder of the strikes she had delivered, her blade biting into flesh as she attempted to carve out justice—or perhaps merely revenge—from his matchstick bones.

And to her right . . .

Murphy sat silently beside her.

        Wistful. Waiting. Watching.

        Haven was the first to break the silence. "I don't need you babysitting us, you know," she murmured, straightening ever so slightly from her slouch against the wall. Her fingers gently sifted through Clarke's hair as she spoke. "She's gonna be fine. And I don't fucking like you."

        "C'mon..." Murphy drawled, tilting his head against the wall with an infuriatingly lazy grin, one that only bolstered his arrogance. "Objectively—I'm not the worst person here today."

Haven icily lifted an eyebrow. "Really—?"

Murphy nodded. "Really," he affirmed smoothly. "I mean, Finn's already two for two with you and Clarke. Twenty for twenty if you count the massacre. And, what—twenty-one if we add your heart stopping..." He paused as he corrected his tally. "Two times, wasn't it—?"

His grin soured into an actual grimace.

"Fuckin' yikes."

Haven was going to stab him. Again.

"Get. The. Hell. Out."

"Unfortunately for both of us, you're stuck with me," Murphy admitted gruffly. "Tried to help Bellamy and the others with patrol—but he told me to either 'get lost or get fucked.'" A bitter scoff escaped him as he shrugged. "Second option's all yours, so... here I am."

A beat passed.

"Plus, you look like you need someone to blame your shitty mood on," Murphy continued. "Consider this an act of public service."

        Haven said nothing.

        Instead . . . she centered her focus wholly on smoothing over Clarke's hair, tucking the golden strands behind her ears and ensuring no blood tainted their purity. Thirty minutes had elapsed since Bellamy dispatched the others to their posts, vigilant for any sign of Grounder intrusion, and Clarke still remained unconscious. Although she shifted occasionally, the movements were sporadic and reflexive, offering little reassurance to those watching over her.

        Murphy parted his lips again. "I—"

        "What?" Haven cut in, snapping her head towards him, the movement so fierce that the ends of her locs lashed across his face. "What else could you possibly have to say to me?"

        "I can start with, uh... sorry?"

        Haven blinked at him. "What—?"

        Murphy drew in an exasperated breath of courage from the still air. "I'm sorry," he repeated lowly. His face twisted into a grimace, as if the syllables tasted foreign on his tongue, though he refused to falter. "For everything, I guess. Jasper. Bellamy. Raven."

        His voice quieted.

"...You."

The word was softer than the rest, carried on the wings of a whisper, but within it lay the naked truth. It hovered uncomfortably in the air between them, trembling like a wounded thing, too frail to stand on its own . . . but too significant to be cast aside. 

Haven stared at him blankly, unblinking, as though he had suddenly sprouted five heads . . . and each one spoke a different, incomprehensible language.

        "Me—?" she echoed. "You're... apologizing to me?"

"Please don't make me repeat it," Murphy grumbled, abruptly tearing his eyes away, unable to withstand her judgment any longer. "You know what I'm trying to say here, alright? Breaking your locket and then trying to kill your boyfriend..." His mouth twisted into a wry smirk, more self-deprecating than amused. "Not exactly the shining highlight of my resume."

"No shit," Haven huffed out, though her scorn felt hollow, the words carrying less bite than she'd intended. "But you don't need to take up your apologies with me, Murphy. Take 'em up with everybody else you screwed over."

Murphy tilted his head back against the wall. "Luckily for you... I already did."

Haven pinned him beneath a reflexive glare. "You're lying," she countered flatly. "You really expect me to believe that your ass went on an apology tour?"

"Why are you so quick to jump down my throat?"

"Why are you stupid enough to ask that?"

        Murphy blew out another exasperated breath. "Look—we both know I'm not a saint, alright?" he began earnestly, a knife's-edge of sincerity creeping into his tone. "I don't particularly like any of you, and I know none of you give a damn about me. But I... I don't want to watch any of you die." Inhaling deeply, he mustered the strength to lock eyes with her again. "I don't want to be the reason for it. Not anymore."

        " . . . Maybe we should retire Vampira for good, eh? . . ."

Haven couldn't find it within herself to believe a single poisoned word from Murphy's serpentine lips. She had tread across this desolate, fractured ground far too many times, feeling the earth splinter beneath her every time she dared to trust him . . . only to be plunged deeper into the abyss of his lies. The dream of coexistence among them had once flickered fleetingly on the edge of the horizon, but it was forever devoured by the raging storm of his betrayals—an unstoppable natural disaster that swallowed the heavens, suffocating the sun until every shred of light was lost.

        And yet . . .

        A fragile part of herself wrestled with the treacherous suspicion of . . . what ifs.

        What if Murphy's confessions were genuine? What if the fires of war had reshaped him, burning away the callousness and forging him into someone capable of change, someone who truly longed to mend the fractures he'd created? Or, more realistically, was his sudden epiphany just the cold, bitter truth staring him in the face—an understanding that isolation meant certain death?

Haven wasn't sure—couldn't be sure—and a part of her revolted against the very notion of caring. Her mind counseled her to shut him the fuck out, to preemptively armor herself against the vulnerability of trust.

        But her traitorous heart had always been nosier than she cared to admit.

        "...What changed?"

        "Getting stabbed," Murphy admitted with a stark, rueful laugh—an odd sound in the somber air of the dropship. "Like, ten fuckin' times."

        Haven almost scoffed. "I'm not apologizing for that."

        "Wasn't asking you to," Murphy continued, his laughter tapering off into a somber reflection. His voice softened, carrying a trace of something deeper, more contemplative. "Guess it just made me think... maybe I don't want to keep doing shit that makes people want to kill me."

"Wooow," Haven droned. "Insightful."

Murphy shook his head. "Stabbing me was the closest I've ever gotten to dying, Hav. Including when I was kidnapped by the Grounders." His eyes darkened as he glanced towards the ladder. "I don't... I don't want to die alone."

         . . . Bingo.

Haven fucking knew it.

Lo and behold, John Murphy wasn't seeking redemption, nor was he rising from the ashes of his former self. Rather, he was grasping at the only lifeline left to him—the group. His apparent turn towards repentance was less about genuine remorse and more about survival instinct. It wasn't born from guilt . . . but from the visceral fear of abandonment.

Strangely enough, this realization did not stoke Haven's usual urge to lash out at him. Instead, it softened her, blunted the edges of her instincts against him. Perhaps it was the transparency—or the semblance of it—that Murphy offered. He wasn't cloaking his intentions in noble pretenses; he was, in his own twisted way, laying bare his needs and fears. It didn't excuse his past actions, nor did it erase the wariness she felt towards him, but it fostered a grudging . . . understanding of his survival instincts, even if they were cloaked in self-preservation rather than true penitence.

At least he was being honest—ish.

        Haven shrugged in reluctant acceptance. "Dunno, Murphy..." she began. "Still sounds pretty selfish to me."

        "Told ya' I'm no saint." Murphy flashed her an infuriatingly smug wink. "You expect any different from me, sweetheart?"

        "Absolutely the fuck not. And, please, like... never say that again," Haven warned, her voice laced with just enough edge to keep him in check—a warning fang bared at the snake slithering too close for comfort. "At least you're upfront."

        Murphy screwed her lips into an exaggerated grimace. "Euggh—don't make me gag," he grunted lowly. "That's the same thing your boyfriend told me when I apologized to his cranky ass, too."

"What part—?" Haven jabbed. "He asked you to stop calling him sweetheart?"

"Nah," Murphy answered toyingly. "That little gem's just for you."

Mustering all the indignation of the moment, Haven retracted her hand from its gentle task of threading through Clarke's hair and, with a swift movement . . . delivered a resounding smack across Murphy's face.

"Motherfuck—!"

The curse escaped his lips, unbidden, a venomous hiss of breath through clenched teeth. But Murphy was already in retreat—recoiling as if he'd known the strike was brewing long before Haven's hand even twitched. His fingers pressed against his reddened cheek in melodramatic anguish, wincing in agony. Yet, beneath the depths of his serpentine eyes, there flickered a grim understanding—a silent acknowledgement of boundaries.

"...Got it," he grumbled. "Fuckin' hell."

Before Haven could salute him with an upturned middle finger, Clarke's form—slumped and silent until now—stirred in her lap. A faint inhalation, the soft brush of air through parted lips, and the slow flutter of eyelids heralded her return from the shadowy depths of her concussion-induced slumber.

Haven sighed in relief.

        "Well, well, well..." Murphy mused, edging closer to adjust the damp rag against Clarke's temple. "Princess awakens at last."

Groggily . . . Clarke's blue eyes blinked open, catching the last dying light of conflict, softened and diffused by the veil of her hazy reawakening. Even through the fog of her consciousness, the confusion etching her features was not born from her recent lapse alone. Rather, it stemmed from the startling sight before her—Murphy and Haven, seated side by side, neither one lunging for the other's throat.

"...How hard did I hit my head?" she mumbled.

        Haven's lips curled into an affectionate smile. "We'd have to ask the Grounder responsible for it," she teased, slipping her hands from Clarke's hair and cautiously supporting her shoulders, easing her into a seated position. "You feelin' okay?"

"Kinda," Clarke winced out. "Is Finn—?"

"He's fine," Haven filled in softly, shoving the traitorous twist in her chest far, far down until it coiled deep into the recesses of her soul. "He's watching the perimeter with Bellamy and the others."

Clarke stared at her blankly. "Bellamy's with Finn... and you're with Murphy," she echoed, squinting, futilely attempting to realign a world that had suddenly skewed off its axis. "Are you sure I'm the one that's concussed?"

Haven weakly shrugged.

"GET INSIDE!"

At the sound of Bellamy's command ripping through the air, the very breath within the metal tomb seemed wither, sucked dry instantaneously. Fear had no time to seed itself in Haven's chest; before it could even stir, footsteps thundered up the ramp. Panicked silhouettes of her friends emerged against the dim light—Finn barreled through the curtain first, Raven hot on his heels, while Orion frantically raced from behind. Bellamy was the last, relentlessly guarding their retreat, ensuring no shadows dared to follow before he finally vanished into their shitty sanctuary.

His eyes were wild with panic.

Haven shot to her feet. "What the fuck—"

"Party's over," Bellamy panted, decisively planting himself between Haven and Murphy—shoving the latter aside with an unapologetic palm to the face. "We've got company."

• •

        BENEATH THE ASHEN SKIES OF DUSK, GROUNDERS HAD THE DROPSHIP SURROUNDED—an ominous siege silently tightening its noose. They prowled the shadowed fringes of what once stood as King of the Earth's defiant wall—watchful, patient, their forms shifting like wraiths in the murky evening light, yet never breaching the camp's barrier. Evidently, it appeared that the Grounder who attacked Clarke and Finn had lived to tell the tale to his army.

And now, they had arrived, thirsting for the blood of the one they desired most.

         . . . Finn.

Haven was well aware that their hastily crafted plan was a ticking time bomb; in their harsh world, disaster was as punctual as dawn. Hiding Finn at Camp Jaha would have been suicide in itself—but at least there, the electric fence and the armed vigilance of the Guard lent some semblance of security. Here, at the dropship, they were disastrously under-equipped—armed with only a meager arsenal of rifles, daggers, and Michonne. If the Grounders chose to strike, they were undeniably, unavoidably, super fucked.

        Yet, strangely enough . . . they hadn't attacked.

        "They're not moving any closer."

        At the sound of Murphy's observation, Haven shifted from her vigil against the back wall, daring to peek beyond the curtain that shielded them from view. Careful not to expose herself, she slowly crept to the side where Bellamy stood opposite Murphy. The quiet thrum of her heart synced with the gentle cadence of his breathing, his chest pressing reassuringly against her spine. Though Bellamy permitted her to glimpse the distant warriors, his arm coiled firmly around her waist . . . a wordless caution not to step too far.

"Staying out of range," Bellamy observed gruffly. "Probably waiting til' it's dark."

        Orion scoffed, absentmindedly twirling with her switchblade. "Pussies," she sneered, though her expression brightened as the others drew near. "Hey, Blake—remember when you called Finn a pussy?"

        Bellamy shot her an exhausted look.

Orion merely shrugged.

        ". . . Dying in a fight you can't win isn't brave, Bellamy. It's stupid. . . "

        ". . . Spoken like every coward who's ever run from a fight and every pussy who can't apologize for starting it. . ."

        Truth be told, the aftermath of that conversation lingered in Haven's mind like a thick, impenetrable fog. It was the first time Finn and Bellamy had shared the same space since her heart had stopped . . . twice. Yet, the finer details of their exchange eluded her, lost beneath the weighty shadow of Bellamy's near death just hours before. All that resonated through the haze were fragmented echoes: the biting frost of spite in Bellamy's tone and the blazing righteousness in Finn's eyes—a gaze that, paradoxically, melted into remorse as he offered his apologies to her shortly after.

" . . . I don't want to die knowing that you hate me. . . "

Haven could remember that part.

The weight of Finn's confession had made her heart seize in her chest—a dull, persistent throb that festered beneath her ribs, while her insides had writhed with a sickness she couldn't stomach. His soft-spoken sentiments weren't merely words; they were a slow-acting poison, a rot that had begun the moment they left his lips, seeping into her soul, corroding everything in its path. Day by day, it had hollowed her out, eating away at the foundations of their friendship until nothing about it felt solid anymore.

And now, as Haven stood there, haunted by those words, it was as if that decay had reached its zenith.

She felt closer to death than she ever had, even though, for once . . . her life wasn't the one on the line.

        ". . . Would you do it again? . . . Kill somebody? . . . "

        ". . . Yeah. Yeah. I would. . . "

         Haven banished the conversation to the darkest corridors of her mind and threw away the key.

        Meanwhile . . . Murphy's head snapped up so swiftly it was miraculous he hadn't gotten whiplash. "No way," he drawled, eyes darting between Bellamy's crossed arms and the guilty downturn of Finn's eyes. "There's no fuckin' way I missed that."

        Bellamy didn't bother to deny it.

        Finn, on the other hand, looked as though he could dissolve right into the floorboards.
       
        "It was right after you got shanked. And, y'know... blew a freakin' hole in the wall," Orion grunted lowly, pinning Murphy beneath a scowl that gradually softened into a wistful, nostalgic sigh. "Every now and then... I remember it just to feel something again."

"Not helping," Bellamy cut in. "We need to think of a plan."

Murphy shrugged. "If we hit them now, at least we'd take them by surprise."

Joining the small assembly that had formed at the center of the room, Clarke crossed her arms, apprehensively biting her inner cheek. "We don't even know how many of them are out there."

"Well..." Murphy raised his hands in mock resignation. "I'm not hearing any better ideas, Clarke."

Haven shook her head. "No. If we go in blind—we're done for," she pointed out grimly. "And the gunfire? That'll just draw the rest of their army straight to us. If they haven't attacked us yet... I don't think they want a fight."

Finn remained apocalyptically silent.

"...We'll give them something."

At that, all eyes in the room snapped towards Raven, observing as she halted her restless pacing and deliberately marched towards the others. Violet shadows carved hollows beneath her eyes. Sweat clung to the edges of her hairline. Tension festered within every muscle and sinew in her body. She appeared possessed—as if something sinister writhed beneath her skin, a beast gnashing its way free, and with every movement . . . it became clear she was losing the war against it.

        Bellamy knitted his brows. "All they want is Finn."

"Personally? Still think that's our best option," Orion admitted, smoothly pocketing her switchblade, resisting the urge to grimace as Raven's death glare struck her next. "...Sorry."

As Raven's eyes knowingly slid to Murphy, her eyes darkened into bottomless pits . . . twin graves of unfathomable, pitch-black sin.

"Finn wasn't the only one at the village."

Murphy jerked his head upright.

But Haven . . . Haven froze.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa..." Murphy began, his voice trembling, teetering on the precipice between shock and revulsion as he tried to comprehend the sheer cruelty of Raven's proposal. "Raven, I came here to protect him. You were the one who wanted me to come. You... "

His voice hardened with bitter realization.

"...That's why you asked me to come along."

. . . No.

No. No. No.

Haven's stomach churned, a violent twist of nausea that made her skin seeth, her breath shallow, and her daze drop. She couldn't bear to meet Raven's feral eyes—not now, not like this. It wasn't the horrific nature of the plan to trade Murphy's life for Finn's that hollowed her out from the inside. It wasn't the fact that, mere hours ago, she wouldn't have even flinched at the notion of Murphy's death.

        No.

        . . . It was because it made sense.

        Every savage inch of it, every calculated step, aligned seamlessly with the ravenous nature of Raven's devotion. Because for Raven, this wasn't about morality, a weighing of right or wrong—it was about Finn; it was always about Finn. Her love for him had metastasized into something vicious, something unholy, a girl with gnashing teeth and rending claws that would tear through anyone who dared to obstruct her path.

        Haven had been ignorantly blind.

        Blind to the consuming darkness that had always skulked beneath Raven's loyalty. Blind to the terrifying truth that there was nothing and no one Raven wouldn't sacrifice—not even her own humanity—for him. The horror wasn't in the plan; it was in the morbid epiphany that this wasn't a betrayal.

        This was who Raven had always been.

        Haven parted her lips. "Raven..."

        "Enough Grounders saw him at the village," Raven continued fearlessly. "They'd believe he was the shooter."

        Murphy's mouth twisted into a vicious, feral snarl, a raw sound escaping his throat—half rage, half desperation. "You sick bitch."

        "What the fuck, Raven?" Orion's eyes widened in shock, lips parting and snapping shut as her gaze darted frantically between Raven and the rest of the group. "This wasn't a part of the plan. Murphy was just supposed to be the backup gun. I—I swear it!"

        "I believe you," Haven murmured, her voice low but laced with steel, casting Orion an apologetic glance. But the fury germinating inside her was undeniable now, curling beneath her ribcage like pale starfire. Her spine straightened, her fists clenched, and when she turned to Raven—her gaze was damning. "This isn't happening, Raven. You weren't at the village. You didn't see Finn shooting their people dead. Murphy was trying to stop him."

        "And Finn refused to listen," Bellamy chimed in, subconsciously mirroring Haven's step forward with an agitated step of his own. "You know what the Grounders do to people."

But Raven was unflinching.

"They want a murderer, we'll give them one."

Raven closed the gap between herself and Murphy, her lips a tight, grim line sculpted by lethal intent  . . . and lifted her rifle squarely against Murphy's chest.

"Drop your gun!" she barked.

        "No!" Haven shouted, itching to lunge forward—but Bellamy's reflexive grasp on her wrist arrested her motion before it could fully manifest. "Raven, put it down!"

        Murphy leaned tauntingly against the steel barrel. "Go to hell, Raven."

        "Put it down, Raven," Clarke urged lowly—a calculated calm threading through her words as she inched closer, careful not to provoke the already volatile girl any further. "Like it or not, he's one of us."

        Raven did not dare to glance in the blonde's direction. "I said drop it!"

        "I said drop it!" Haven shouted, her temper reaching its fever pitch, wrenching her wrist from Bellamy's iron grasp. Unflinchingly, she positioned herself as a shield between Murphy and the ominous barrel of the gun, compelling Raven to angle the weapon just past her shoulder. "Punishing Murphy doesn't change Lexa's offer. She won't stop until Finn answers for his crimes."

        Raven shook her head. "Get out of my way."

        "No," Haven breathed. "No."

        Raven clicked off the safety.

        "Get. Out. Of. My. Way."

        "Raven..." Bellamy warned tightly.

        "Birdy," Haven's plea tore through the air, frantic and raw, clawing at the fraying threads that once bound them tightly. She summoned the stars above, beseeching them to bridge the gulf to the Raven she knew as intimately as her own shadow—to the friend who had not merely plummeted to Earth for the boy at their side, but for her as well. "Just look at me, okay? I—"

In a devastating pivot, the cold steel of Raven's rifle shifted from its perch over Haven's shoulder, abandoning Murphy as its intended victim.

And then . . .

. . . The barrel rotated with a terrible grace, centered unerringly at Haven's chest.

        "NO!"

Time stretched impossibly thin, every second an agonizing epoch as five bodies lunged for the gun in perfect synchronization. But Haven . . . Haven couldn't move. Her lungs refused to expand, her limbs heavy with inertia. The world collapsed into a suffocating silence, the echo of her racing thoughts drowned in the shrill, unrelenting howl of her eardrums. She could not hear the chaos, but she saw it—saw Orion and Murphy fling themselves at Raven's torso with reckless abandon, saw Clarke throw herself between death and fate, and Bellamy—seething, frantic—his hand gripping the weapon's mouth as if he could subdue its lethal whisper through sheer will.

And then . . . there was Finn.

         Amidst the chaos, it was Finn who ultimately deflected the gun's aim, his hand forcing the barrel away in one final act of intervention.

        But Haven heard none of it; all she could hear was the sickening, soul-deep shatter of her heart.

Until . . .

        "What the hell is wrong with you, Raven?!" Bellamy seethed, blinded by an unfathomable, blistering outrage. His march towards Raven was a storm surge, halted only by Murphy's firm grasp, anchoring him against the tide of his own fury. "What the HELL is wrong with you—?!"

. . . The world snapped back into motion.

Haven found her voice at last. "Bellamy, don't—"

"No! I-Is she fucking serious?" Bellamy continued, his eyes locked on Raven's, drilling into her with the intensity of his disbelief. Over the crown of Haven's head, his voice boomed, hands lashing wildly at Murphy's futile attempts to restrain him. "You would point a gun at your best friend—?!"

"Over FINN—?!" Orion cut in, eyes wild with outrage, her words further inflaming the already volatile atmosphere. "No way! No freakin' way! Stakes are high, but you're acting insane! Delusional—!"

"Orion!" Haven cut in. "Just—"

"—Give it the fuck up already! Finn's NEVER going to pick you first—!"

"STOP!"

At Finn's thunderous cry, six pairs of eyes snapped toward him on instinct, the sheer volume of his command shattering through the clamor of their argument.

Bellamy finally managed to shove Murphy aside, grunting agitatedly, though he halted his death march toward Raven. Orion clamped her mouth shut. Clarke buried her head in her hands. Haven refrained from blacking out, while Raven . . . Raven stood immobile, the full gravity of her actions settling upon her like biting frost.

Finn sucked in a ragged inhale. "Just stop—okay? We're not doing this," he reasoned breathlessly. His eyes swept over the fragmented group, seeking connection, pleading for unity. "They've got us surrounded. The only thing we can do is stay and defend this place—together."

        . . . Together.

        Bellamy felt the concept bleed through him with the cruelty of a dual-edged sword. It wasn't just weariness he felt—it was the deep, soul-crushing exhaustion of a man who had given everything and lost too much. Too many battles fought, too many loyalties broken, and now, standing in the wreckage of lives torn apart, he was asked to fight for something . . . together.

Together . . . with the boy who had stilled the heart of the girl he loved.

Together . . . with a best friend who had cast aside truth for the sake of a killer.

It was a sick joke, an unfathomable demand placed upon him. All Bellamy's selfish heart ached to do was grasp Haven's hand and run, vanish into the quiet of some far-off, forgotten valley, someplace where the specter of their intertwined calamities could not follow.

        But then, her eyes found his.

        Haven nodded. Bravely.

        . . . Far braver, far kinder than anything he could ever hope to be.

Bellamy reluctantly glanced to Finn. "...I'm with you. "

Orion and Clarke nodded in sync.

        Finn's eyes then shifted towards the devastatingly quiet boy beside him. "Murphy?"

        "Yeah." Murphy's response was soft, a low affirmation stripped of hesitation . . . though he privately wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. "Yeah."

Finn nodded. "Go upstairs. Watch the rear. I'll take the lower level," he ordered grimly, watching as Murphy ascended the ladder before pivoting towards the others. "You five, take the front gate. That's the plan. All right?"

Everybody moved at once.

Orion was the first to march through the curtain, her sword already drawn, gleaming in the dim light as Clarke followed. Raven drifted toward the ramp next, her eyes distant, lost somewhere far from the terror swirling around them. But her vacant gaze failed to shield her from the damning weight of Bellamy's death-stare, his eyes burning twin holes into her spine as he begrudgingly trailed behind.

He paused at the curtain's threshold, eyes darting to the empty air behind him, selfishly waiting—hoping—for the one presence he knew wouldn't be there.

Haven stood rooted in place.

"Go," she urged softly. "I'll be right there."

Bellamy lingered for another heartbeat longer before offering her a knowing nod. Clutching his rifle like a cross, he finally summoned to strength turn, his silhouette merging seamlessly into the shadow-strewn hues of dusk.

And then . . .

Haven glanced at Finn.

It appeared as though her childhood friend had aged a lifetime over the past few hours. His face, pale and weathered, bore the marks of survival—dirt and ash smeared across skin that had seen too many battles. But it was his eyes that told the truest story of his torment. Bloodshot. Scarlet-veined. Sunken deep into hollowed cheeks, they no longer held the softness she remembered. Each breath he took seemed reluctant, almost resentful, as though the very act of staying alive was an affront to him—a cruel gift from a universe that refused to let him slip away.

He looked half-dead; more ghost than boy.

        Finn's question was devastatingly low as he stared her down. "You actually wanna talk to me?"

        Haven crossed her arms, observing him with the weight of a thousand unspoken truths, each one carving deeper into the silence between them. "You wanna tell me why you want the lower level all to yourself—?"

        Finn tiredly shook his head. "Not really."

But Haven already knew.

She knew it. She felt it.

There was no other reason Finn would insist on guarding the lower level alone. While the focus of the others was external, vigilant against the threat they expected to breach their defenses at any moment, Haven's gaze turned inward, toward the threat no one else could see. The true danger wasn't at the gates—it was already inside, festering in the quiet torment behind Finn's eyes.

        The monster of his guilt.

        Finn wasn't merely attempting to hold the line against a potential onslaught. He was looking for an escape route, a way to fade into the shadows of the chaos around them unnoticed. His real plan was to end the nightmare enveloping them by removing himself from the equation—the only resolution he believed was left to him.

. . . Finn wanted to give himself up.

Haven's approach was gentle, cautious, every movement calculated to reassure rather than corner. "Finn..." she began quietly. "We have a plan, okay? We just need to give it a little more time."

"I don't deserve it," Finn admitted flatly, eyes hollow, the words falling like stones from his lips. "Not after this. Not after everything. Not after I made your heart stop."

Something inside Haven's chest wailed.

"Finn..."

"ENOUGH, HAVEN!"

She reflexively flinched backwards.

        Before she could even formulate a response—before she could summon the strength to breathe, to think, to process the sheer magnitude of Finn's outburst—Bellamy had already thrust his head through the curtain.

His eyes were glued to Haven.

Searching, scouring, then softening.

But beneath the instinctive surge of protection, Bellamy's gaze darkened—a shadow passing over his features, barely contained impulse seething just below the surface. He held her stare, silently begging for permission to put everyone out of their misery and finally silence Finn forever. Not just for the disruption, not merely for the chaos he had sown, but for the audacity—the sheer fucking gall—of raising his voice against her.

His hands flexed at his sides, aching for action, but he waited for her signal.

        Haven jerkily shook her head. "We're fine," she whispered, glancing over her shoulder and gesturing for Bellamy to step back. "Go."

        He retreated soundlessly.

        Finn's scoff barely restrained the bitter undertow of his emotions. "I..." he began, shaking his head, breath faltering as his voice trailed off. "Do you see what just happened? Nobody trusts me. You can't even be around me without fearing me."

        Haven shook her head. "I'm not scared of you, Finn."

        "You just FLINCHED!" Finn roared, the accusation biting as he gestured wildly to her trembling torso, her fear manifesting visibly, involuntarily . . . again. "I...I killed you! I fucking killed you, Haven! I killed eighteen other people, too!" His turmoil drove him to pace, his movements erratic as he stalked towards her, only to halt abruptly, summoning the last of his wits to retreat. "I mean...what are you even trying to do here—really? Why buy me time when I'm the only thing standing in the way of the truce that could save our friends in Mount Weather?"

        The silence that unfurled between them was monstrous, a vile beast that roared without sound, its echoes putrid with the decay of truth and the gargantuan shadow of Haven's guilt. It enveloped her, thick and suffocating, steeped in the detritus of regret and the raw remnants of choices unmade.

        Guilt for abandoning her friends in Mount Weather to a fate marked by darkness and despair. Guilt for not pressing the cold steel of the pistol against her mother's temple, demanding freedom not just for herself, but for all. Guilt for Miller. Jasper. Monty. Leo. Guilt for surviving the labyrinth of the Repear tunnels without them. Guilt for surviving and not doing everything in her power to save them.

        Guilt for surviving.

        Guilt for surviving.
 
        Haven shakily parted her lips. "I—"

        "You've been the one pushing to save them the hardest out of EVERYBODY—and you're sacrificing them for me!" Each word was saturated with incredulity as Finn stepped closer. Haven recoiled, instinctively staggering back, yet her movements were strategic, subtly positioning herself to obscure the exit. "Why? Why waste it on me? Why does my life matter when I'm the one that killed YOU?! Why, Haven?!"

        Haven felt tears scorch her eyes.

        "Because—"

        "Why are you still looking to me like I'm worth while—?!"

       "Because you were my BROTHER!"

        Finn went rigid.

        But Haven . . . Haven was shaking.

        "You were my brother, Finn!" she cried, utterly defenseless against the glassy sheen stretching over her eyes, though she refused to let the tears fall—not now, not yet. "I—I don't know where you got it in your head that I blame you for what happened to me at the bridge. We already talked about it. We moved on—"

        "Did we?" Finn cut in rashly.

       "You faced your consequences for leaving Raven on the bridge to die. You'll pay for the massacre, too—one way or another. I'll make damn sure it happens," she declared hotly, her eyes blistering with the intensity of her conviction. But as Finn edged closer again, his steps staggered and haunted . . . her resolve began to thin. "But that doesn't mean I want you to die! I—I don't hold a grudge against you for what happened between us! Stopping my heart was an accident—"

        "You're right," Finn interrupted, his outrage withering at the edges, dissolving into fragments of unfathomable self-reproach. "That part was an accident, but pushing you back.... that wasn't. I-I wanted to." He swallowed thickly. "I wanted to see you hurt."

But his words shattered against the fortress of Haven's consciousness, swallowed by the void where reason used to dwell. Her ears were howling with ghosts of their haunted past—the harsh clap of her fists against Finn's face, knuckles grinding bone . . . skin splitting with the fragility of paper.

". . . You are nothing, Finn! Nothing! . . . "

        She could still feel his blood on her knuckles.

        Shivering, shuddering, sickened by the nauseating twist of remembrance . . . Haven fought to choke down the bile scorching the back of her throat. "I was provoking—"

        "Stop! Making! Excuses! For! Me!" Finn exploded, obliterating the fragile silence of his remorse and resuming the erratic cycle of pacing. His eyes were wild, manic—yet imbued with terrifying certainty. "I-I have to own up to it. Hav. I have to own up to everything."

        "Listen to me," Haven pleaded desperately, her eyes tracking his restless pacing as if she could tether him with the conviction of her stare alone. "We're figuring something out, okay? We'll hold you accountable in a way that's fitting. We'll save our friends in Mount Weather. But I... I-I can't... " Her voice crumbled into one thousand irreparable fragments, dwindling to a panicked, frantic whisper. "I don't want you to die for this, Finn. I-I don't want you to die. I can't—"

"I deserve it."

"Finn—"

"I deserve it."

"Maybe," Haven cut in recklessly, unaware that her own breaths were beginning to sync with the ragged rise and fall of his. "Maybe you fucking do, Finn. If that's what you need to hear—fine. What you did is unforgivable. It's monstrous. I-It's horrifying."

        The words struck devastatingly hard, each one a sharp-edged truth, and for a moment, it seemed as though they would ricochet off the stone walls Finn had entombed himself within. But Haven saw it—the slight hesitation, a falter in his relentless stride, as the weight of her words began to erode his defenses. It was subtle, barely perceptible, yet it was enough. Enough for Haven to cautiously step closer . . . a slow, deliberate motion that defied the tension seething between them.

        "But you're my friend," she whispered. "And I won't let you end the rest of your life for an atrocity you committed at eighteen."

One beat passed. Another.

        Finn only stared at her.

"...You remembered my birthday?"

Haven's chin quivered. "It was my second day in Mount Weather."

Finn shook his head. "Ninety percent of our friends already wanted me dead before the massacre," he murmured flatly. "Your friends now, I guess."

And then . . .

Without warning, Finn attempted to bypass her, his footsteps heavy with grave certainty as he marched toward the ramp, poised to give himself up. But Haven's instincts ignited before her mind caught up—her hands flew forward, shoving into his chest with all the force her trembling body could muster.

"You can't do this," Haven declared lowly. "I won't let you."

        Finn shook his head. "Yeah..." he echoed. "And how are you gonna stop me—?"

        His words suspended in the void, audacious yet hollow—a challenge tossed into the ether without conviction. But Haven's hands remained firm against his chest, her eyes ablaze with something . . . darker, manic, desperate. Something that refused to surrender her childhood friend to the abyss he was so willing to fall into. There was a fire in her—a deeper, scarier recklessness he hadn't seen before, a resolve that dared him to try and push past her again.

        Finn might've been teetering on the edge of madness.

        But Haven . . . Haven had already crossed the threshold—her cruel, selfish desperation outmatching his by a landslide.

        "Somebody has to answer," she began shakily—the words spilling out like gunfire, saturated with venom and sacrifice. "I-I can turn myself in. I can say I gave you and Murphy the ammunition in the first place. I-I can say I was shooting with you from the treeline. I..."

        She choked back a traitorous sob.

        Haven knew she was unraveling, the threads of her composure fraying into blinding chaos, her readiness to dive into the abyss for Finn seeping into her core like a dark, encroaching rot. Truth had lost its luster, rendered meaningless against the backdrop of necessity; what mattered now was the lie she could clothe herself in, the sin she was willing to embrace as her own.

        Condemning herself to death could work.

        Perhaps Lexa would believe the charade. Maybe she'd glimpse the guilt shimmering in Haven's eyes, hear the confession in her voice, and choose her sacrifice over Finn's. Maybe the inferno meant for him could be coaxed to consume her . . . to wrap its fiery fingers around her fate instead.

It could work. It could work.

. . . It had to.

"I-I have to do something," Haven managed to choke out. "Anything."

        For the first time since their clash began . . . Finn's eyes softened. "A lot of us have changed since we landed on the ground, Hav...but not you," he began quietly, shaking his head against the lure of nostalgia. "You're the still same nine-year-old girl who took the fall for me when I stole the extra ration cards. But I'm not... I-I can't..." His breath faltered. "I won't be the same boy."

Tears bled down his cheeks.

One after another, spilling into the murky light filtering through the curtains like the last, desperate breaths of dying stars . . . until Haven could no longer discern where Finn's tears ended and hers began.

"I'm not letting you take the fall this time."

        But Haven refused to listen.

        Before Finn's words could take root, she surged toward the curtain, fully prepared to march down the ramp and confess the grave of her sins to the Grounder army below. She shivered relentlessly from the tips of her fingers to the crown of her hair, a quiver that resonated through her very being, yet her conviction stood ironclad, impervious to the flames of terror. If her death was the price to save her friend, her chosen family, and to cement the truce that would save her friends in Mount Weather . . . then so be it.

So fucking be it.

Let her ceaseless waltz upon mortality's tightrope meet its final cadence.

Let her be the one to fall first.

All at once, Finn's hand lashed out, his fingers clamping around Haven's forearm with a force that snatched the breath from her lungs. He yanked her backward, her body jolting as he twisted her shoulder—knowingly or unknowingly tearing at the fragile sutures concealed beneath her brace. Agony exploded within her, a brutal detonation of pain that radiated outward in waves. Like a thousand icy, searing needles, the pain ricocheted through her nerve endings, scorching through her arm and threatening to buckle her knees.

        . . . But Haven would not yield.

        Teeth clenched, she spun back toward him, and with every ounce of strength she had remaining in her right arm, she shoved him back—again.

"Enough!" Haven spat out, swallowing the torture that coursed through her body, refusing to let it conquer her. Her eyes stung as she pinned Finn beneath a devastated glare. "Finn... you can't stop me."

        "No." Finn shook his head. "But he will."

        "What—?"

        "BELLAMY!"

No more than three seconds elapsed before Bellamy Blake thrust his body through the curtain, his presence a force that seemed to shatter the air. His eyes swept over the room with an intensity that left no shadow untouched. Jaw locked tight, muscles coiled like a predator on the verge of striking, he moved with an instinct so primal it seemed as though the universe itself had placed him beside Haven. He studied her intrinsically, dissecting her very molecules—catching the tears that shimmered in her eyes, echoing the distress in Finn's, and most critically . . . the slipped state of her shoulder brace.

        Bellamy's gaze then slid to Finn.

        Silently. Steadily. Seethingly.

        "What the fuck did you—"

        "She wants to turn herself in," Finn cut in.

        "You think I don't already know that—?" Bellamy snapped hotly. His features softened the moment he faced the girl he loved, logic and desperation festering beneath the surface as his hands reached out—gentle, trembling, seeking to steady her. "C'mon, Hav..."

        But before his touch could land, Haven flinched—jerking away as though his hands were flame.

        "Finn," she pleaded. "Y-You can't do this."

        Tears erupted from her, treacherous and scalding, warping her vision until the world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of agony—hers, theirs, all of it woven together in an unbreakable, suffocating web. She couldn't see Bellamy hovering beside her, nor could she detect that his presence had unknowingly left the exit route to the ramp wide open. Her lips quivered, futilely attempting to form words, but they clung to her throat like soot, thick and choking, smothering the final remnants of her resolve.

"Finn," she whispered again. "Finn—please."

        But her plea faded into nothingness, withering into the abyss that had already claimed him.

Finn was gone.

Finn had been gone for two full weeks.

His essence lingered, floating adrift, liminal in a darkness that Haven hadn't intended to summon. An insidious current had snatched him away, tearing him from her grasp before she even realized he was slipping. Lost to her now, he roamed aimlessly in the void—a void she had unwittingly catalyzed the moment her heart had faltered on the bridge, setting into motion an irreparable chain of events far beyond her control.

"It's okay, Hav." Finn's lips twitched into a bittersweet smile. "We can finally call it even."

And then . . .

        Finn lunged for the ramp.

Haven lunged for Finn.

Bellamy lunged for Haven, frantically managing to wrestle her thrashing form into his arms, securing the universe herself snug against his torso. His free hand shot out towards Finn at the very last second, fingers stretching impossibly far, straining to their limits, desperate to reel him back . . .

        One more inch. One more second.

        One more chance.

        . . . But he was too late.

        Raven's scream cleaved the sky in two.

Finn had given himself up.

• •

bellamy trying not to kill everybody in that damn dropship and fuckin cooperate with the stupid ass plan just bc he loves his wife

ANYWAY HIIIIIIIIIII

the title of this chapter is indeed named after the song from snow patrol !! if you want to listen to it and cry i recommend <333
but i freakin loved writing this chapter!!! nobody understands how much i love that murphys back with the group now. i love to hate that mf. he is simply just SO fun to write and i cant wait for his dynamic to be woven back in with everybody :)))

also... yall i fear haven is losing it just a little bit!! just! a! tad! the spiral is starting to spiral 🌀 real bad 🌀 and everything gonna get worse from here on out!!! only worse!! no brakes full send into hell

annnnd next chapter is finn's death
one of the hardest povs to write since i started this book :,)))
GOOD LUCK.

THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER!!! I LOVE YOU BEYOND WORDS.