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CHAPTER SIXTY NINE;

DEAD GIRL WALKING.

[ content warning: extreme violence ]

        THE DORMITORY HALLS OF MOUNT WEATHER WERE EXACTLY AS HAVEN REMEMBERED—unchanged, yet unbearably altered. Honeyed lamplight spilled over walls adorned with exquisite paintings. Soft, inviting bunk beds lined the room, their plushness promising rest to the battle-worn teenagers who lay beneath them. Yet, the air was permeated with something unmistakably vile. Every corner seethed with dread, every shadow bristling with the glint of flashing teeth. Fear roamed freely, clutching at Haven's chest, white-knuckled and feral.

It was a graveyard masquerading as sanctuary—a sarcophagus painted in gold.

        There had been no time for words, no chance for Haven to question her mother's intentions as Dahlia had ushered her from Level Three to Level Five.

        Not with the Mountain Men shadowing their every footfall.

        All Dahlia could do was shove Haven into a restroom, pressing into her hands a pair of oversized sweatpants and hospital-issue grippy socks. Haven had accepted the clothes in bitter, grateful silence. She had no other choice, anyway—still draped in nothing but the gauze undergarments Tsing had left her in. The sweatpants were a relief . . . but there was no top.

        No shield.

        Instead, Haven wore a tiny, white tank top—a pathetic excuse for modesty. It clung tightly to her chest, stark yet nearly translucent, exposing far more than it hid. Her upper body was now laid bare for the entire godforsaken population of Mount Weather to witness.

        Surgical scars. Resuscitation marks. Stitches.

        She felt fucking naked.

        But as Haven slipped into the baggy sweatpants, her fingers brushed against something that had been covertly tucked into the front pocket.

A folded scrap of paper.

HOLD THE LINE TO TAKE LEVEL FIVE
PROTECT YOUR FRIENDS
THEY'RE WATCHING US

Once again, there was no time—no time to unravel Dahlia's cryptic actions, no time to demand answers about Tsing's insidious proposition, no time to voice the multitude of questions jackhammering beneath her skull. And by the time Haven had stepped out of the restroom, clothed but exposed in ways that felt worse than nakedness . . . Dahlia was already gone.

Before she could even register her mother's absence, two of the Mountain Men descended upon her. Their iron grips latched onto her biceps, grubby fingers twisting her limbs against her spine. Pain detonated through Haven's right arm—a savage, seething agony that shot up to her shoulder. Her left arm offered no such rebellion; it hung low, unfeeling, little more than a dead weight.

(She tried not to notice the faint grey hue creeping over the fingertips of the latter.)

Nothing else could matter. Not right now.

        Every breath from this point forward was a declaration of war. Haven's thoughts burned with undying purpose—to tear through the Mountain's entrails, to reunite with her friends, and to organize a movement of destruction so violent it would echo through stone and bone alike. Level Five would be reclaimed in fire and blood, Bellamy would remain a ghost in the machine, and the chaos she'd unleash would be biblical.

        As the dormitory doors finally hissed open, the sight before Haven struck her like a gunshot, dragging the breath from her lungs and nearly buckling her knees.

Her friends—her family—stood defiantly alive.

Lined up at the rear of the room, side to side, their arms were linked in perfect unison—a human barricade formed against Mount Weather's cruelty. Monty, Jasper, and Jones led the forefront. Fox and Del shivered apocalyptically behind them. To the right, Harper swayed like a ghost, more corpse than girl. Terror was evident in each quivering jaw and every poorly concealed shaking fist . . . but Haven had never seen them so extraordinarily brave.

They stared at her horrifically.

Wide-eyed. Frozen. Dead silent.

. . . Until Monty broke the barricade first.

"Hav—?"

        That single, shattered syllable was enough. Upon realizing the Mountain Men weren't here to drag another one of her friends for harvesting—at least not yet—Haven wrenched herself free from their grasp. All at once, she sprinted towards Monty, launching herself into his awaiting arms and allowing the barricade to swallow them whole.

Molten tears soaked through her shoulder brace in seconds.

        "What are you doing here?" Monty's voice broke as he breathed the words into her locs, trembling with disbelief. He clung to her as though half-expecting her to vanish into obsidian mist. "Tsing said you broke out—that you escaped with Clarke—but Miller told us the truth! Why would you come back? W-Why the hell would you come back?"

        Haven shook her head and buried her face deeper into the crook of his neck. "I—"

        "You were right, Hav."

        Once Monty released her, Haven was left standing in the hollow silence, face-to-face with Jasper.

        Bony cheeks clung to a gaunt frame that seemed to tremble beneath the weight of itself. His eyes—wild and desperate—scoured her as though searching for pieces of her he had once known, but found only stitched remnants and the hollowed contours carved by sleepless nights. Stress appeared to have taken his soft, youthful features and mauled them. He looked monumentally relieved to see her—yet horrified all the same.

       "You were right about everything," Jasper whispered. "I'm sorry for not believing you. I'm so, so freakin' sorry—"

        Haven tenderly reached for his shoulder. "Jas..."

        But Jasper abruptly cut her off, pulling her into his arms with a force that betrayed his frailty. For a fleeting moment, he clung to the thunder of her heartbeat against his brittle ribs, grounding himself in the proof of her existence. Then, he gripped her by the shoulders, his words tumbling out in a frantic stammer.

        "Y-You shouldn't have come back here, Hav," he managed to choke out. "Tsing will stop at nothing—"

        "Can you guys at least give her some damn clothes before stressing her out? Christ, dude."

        Miller.

        Before Haven could blink, before she could even summon the thought to breathe, Miller was there—wrapping her in the sanctuary of a long-sleeved, pale pink button-up. She noted his own stripped-down attire—slacks and a plain white undershirt—and knew without needing to ask that it was his. Her chest tightened as their eyes met. Words hovered just out of reach, inadequate, too clumsy to bridge the gravity of the moment. She wanted to thank him, to voice something—anything—but there was no language vast enough to contain what she felt.

        The shirt was still warm from his body heat.

        Her heart was warmer.

        "Miller," she breathed out. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Miller grunted, worriedly side-eyeing the jagged lines of her sutures and clenching his jaw. "I'm royally pissed that you're back too."

Haven swallowed the urge to grimace. "We heard your message on the radio."

Jasper broke into a timid smile, one that eradicated the shadows marring his pallid skin and restored its boyish warmth. "You did?"

        "Yeah." Haven met his smile with a shaky one of her own. "Yeah, Jas. We had to come back. There was no other choice. Once we lock down Level Five...we've gotta fuck shit up." Her smile grew wider, the ember catching flame, as Miller shot her an approving wink. "We just need to buy Bellamy enough time to do his thing."

"Roger that." Jasper discreetly lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing the unmistakable silver glint of a handgun tucked against his waistband. "He gave me his gun to hold the line."

Haven almost collapsed to the floor beneath the enormity of her relief. "He's okay?"

        "Hell fuckin' yeah he is!" Miller chimed in, gently nudging Haven's elbow with his own for reassurance. "Look, I'm still pissed, but I knew it'd only be a matter of time before y'all came back here together. Man... I bet Bellamy begged you to stay behind." He arched an eyebrow that prompted Haven's gut to plummet. "How'd you convince him?"

        Well . . .

Haven would never admit it aloud, but her choice to return to the Mountain had startlingly become her own personal crucifixion. Since Tsing had revealed the devastation wrought upon Bellamy's nervous system—damage he now carried because of her—she couldn't bear the sight of herself in any reflective surface. Nor the filthy image mirrored in the eyes of her friends. She could not regret her decision to return, not when it meant helping him, helping all of them. But god—god—the regret of every moment before that choice clawed at her like vultures to a corpse.

Every step she'd taken that had unknowingly desecrated the boy she loved.

Her tongue felt like soot.

"I—I didn't tell him."

        Miller burst out hysterically laughing.

        Haven did not return his joy.

The sound of Miller's laughter died in his throat, splintering into horrific silence. His gaze sharpened, searching her face for some sign, any sign, that he had simply misheard the absurdity. That she'd crack a smile, roll her eyes, bark something characteristically cutting to prove him wrong. But there was nothing to find—no mirth, no reassurance.

        Only silence.

        "Oh..." The word escaped Miller in a whisper, barely audible, as his breath caught. "Oh, shit. Oh, shit!" His voice soared as panic tore through each syllable. "You're not joking, are you?"

Haven said nothing.

Monty blew out a long, exasperated sigh, slapping his palm against his forehead before dragging it down his face. "Called it."

Miller, on the other hand, appeared as if he were seconds away from popping a gasket. "Bellamy doesn't know you're here?" he pressed hotly. "Hav, what the fuck—"

The sudden blaring of alarms silenced him mid-sentence.

All at once, the teenagers surged into their human barricade, snapping into position with the fluidity of war veterans. They locked arms instinctively, each link held taut by the silent promise to stand or fall together. Jasper and Monty anchored the forefront beside Harper, while Haven was drawn into the second row, protectively flanked by Miller and Jones. Before she could even process the unspoken urgency rippling through the ranks . . . the dorm shook with the familiar reverberation of boots.

Mountain Men.

Ten of them, armored head to toe in military-grade riot gear, flooded into the dorm as a living nightmare. Their faces were hidden behind dark visors, faceless executioners wielding assault rifles against children. Like shadows made flesh, they fanned out to seal the perimeter, seamlessly cutting off every path to freedom.

        And then, at the heart of their formation, she appeared.

        Tsing.

        Every child in the dormitory froze as Tsing's eyes prowled over their frightened faces. She moved with the detached hunger of a bloodthirsty vampire, as though she could scent their fear and savored it. Her focus shifted from face to face, searching, calculating—seeking the next body she would drain, the next young life to feed her twisted pursuit of immortality.

She pointed a condemning finger at Monty.

"This one."

        The Mountain Men unhesitatingly obeyed.

Jasper erupted in outrage. "NO!"

Before Haven could think, her body acted on pure instinct. She tore herself free from the human barricade, furiously breaking away from Jones and Miller. In a flash, her arms wrapped around Monty's torso from behind, clinging to him as if her body alone could shield him from the inevitable. Desperately, she yanked Monty backward, her strength pitted against the soldiers' relentless pull forward. Her leg shot out blindly, a flurry of wild kicks aiming for flesh—knees, calves, groins—anything vulnerable enough to buy them a second longer.

But it wasn't enough.

The Mountain Men were too many, too strong. They overwhelmingly pried Monty from her grasp and dragged him toward certain death.

        "No!" Haven shrieked. "NO—!"

        "GET YOUR HANDS OFF HIM!"

        A click. A snarl. A gunshot.

Jasper unleashed the fury of Bellamy's pistol unflinchingly. The bullet tore through the air with deadly intent, aimed unerringly at the chest of one of Monty's captors. Its discharge resounded like a clap of thunder, reverberating through the stony confines of the room, startling everyone into a flinch. But the anticipated horror swiftly morphed into shock at the startling absence of blood.

        The soldier remained unscathed, his chest barely heaving.

. . . Bulletproof vest.

(FUCK!)

        Pandemonium erupted at once.

        There was no time for Haven to react as the next sequence of chaos unfolded. Fluidly, the Mountain Man lashed out, his fist colliding with Jasper's arm and sending the gun skittering across the floor. A brutal backhand followed, snapping Jasper's head to the side and doubling the lanky boy over like a ragdoll. No time to draw breath. No time to strategize. No time for any reaction beyond pure, animalistic instinct as the militia descended upon them—a swarm of riot gear and unrelenting force. Screams tore through the stone chamber as fists flew and boots stomped. Rifles clicked and loaded. Bodies crashed. Miller snatched a hidden iron pole and struck against any Mountain Man foolish enough to step within range. Harper and Del led the offensive line, clawing and slamming into the soldiers still grappling for Monty. Amidst the frenzy, Haven dropped to the ground—her eyes scanning for the discarded gun that might tilt the scales back in their favor.

A familiar silver gleam caught her eyes, shimmering faintly at the foot of one of the bunk beds.

. . . Bingo!

Crawling through the madness, Haven shoved her body forward, ducking and weaving beneath the storm of stomping boots and flailing limbs. Each movement was a gamble—one misstep, one slip, and she'd be trampled into the stone. The sharp angle of the floor forced her to extend with her left arm. Its numbness was further deadened by Tsing's pain meds, sparing her the agony but robbing her of full control. Overhead, the raid raged on—screams tore the air, blows landed with sickening force. But Haven forced herself to block it out, her focus narrowing to the singular, glimmering lifeline as she stretched.

Reaching. Reaching. Reaching.

          Grey fingertips brushed cold metal.

. . . Until a soldier's boot slammed against her shoulder brace, ruthlessly pinning her in place.

In one swift, crushing motion, the Mountain Man twisted Haven's arms behind her back—yanking her upright like deadweight and claiming her as his captive.

        Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!

Haven was tremendously grateful that she couldn't feel the full force of the assault, but the bruise to her pride was catastrophic.

        "ENOUGH!" A guard barked. "Don't move!"

Once Haven was spun around, arms restricted and her spine pressed flat against the soldier's chest . . . the aftermath of violence came into horrifying focus.

The room, once a blur of motion, now lay eerily still. Wisely, the teenagers had ceased their resistance, eyes wide and breathing halted as the Mountain Men thumbed off the safeties on their rifles. Miller slumped against the wall, weaponless, his breaths shallow but his drive undeterred. He began to crawl towards Haven after realizing she'd been body-snatched. Jones nursed a bloodied nose, while Harper teetered on the edge of consciousness. The others clustered together in the corner like wounded prey, makeshift weapons clutched in white-knuckled fists, bracing for the storm to rage again.

        Tsing advanced once more, studying the battered teenagers with surgical precision. As though they were little more than unruly livestock in need of taming. Ripe for correction and rabid. She honed in on Jasper's form—still crumpled on his knees at the center of the room—and issued her verdict toward the guards.

"Take him instead."

        "No!" Fox screamed brokenly. "You can't!"

        But the Mountain Men had already sprung into action.

        Haven watched helplessly as they seized Jasper by his hunched shoulders, forcefully yanking him to his feet. The scrawny boy fought with everything he had, his screams rasping raw from his throat as he thrashed—again, and again, and again—against the solid grip of the soldiers. But despite his valiant efforts, his wiry frame was no match for their overwhelming force.

"LET HIM GO!"

        "JASPER! JASPER! NO!"

"Search the rest," Tsing declared coldly, raking her gaze over the children one last time before whirling on her heels. "Make sure there are no other weapons. As soon as we're in the lab, I want Jasper prepped. We start immediately."

Haven could feel her blood roar to life.

No. Fucking. Way.

Fury surged within her, eclipsing pain, fear, and reason. Summoning every ounce of starfire festering in her brittle bones, Haven fearlessly launched herself after Jasper. The Mountain Man gripping her from behind fought to hold her back as she thrashed. Her right shoulder shrieked in protest, twisting agonizingly against the force of her struggle.

        But her left?

        The left was numb, lifeless . . . but that was her opening.

        Gritting her teeth, she pushed her body beyond its limits, twisting and contorting her numb arm as far as it would go. Muscles strained, joints protested, and the world blurred with the volcanic force of her defiance. For one brief, desperate moment, she felt it—the tantalizing scrape of freedom as she almost wrenched herself from his grasp.

        Almost.

The Mountain Man halted Haven's escape by snatching a fistful of her locs in his grubby hands.

Haven was fuming. "You sick CUN—!"

"Dr. Tsing!" The guard called out. His arm coiled tighter around Haven's torso while another soldier moved in alongside him, harshly pinning her arms and forcing her wild struggle into submission. "What about Smith?"

Tsing paused mid-step and spun back around. "Bring her with," she ordered, her lips screwed into the cruelest of cunning smirks. "Let's show her exactly what will happen to her friends if she refuses my offer."

That's it.

        (Haven was going to kill this bitch.)

        "Copy that."

        "NO!" Miller shouted. "NO! FUCK OFF!"

        Haven gritted her teeth until she was certain her tongue was tainted by her own blood. Together, she and Jasper were jostled out of the dormitory, their struggles silenced by the iron grip of the Mountain Men who flanked them. Tsing clinically led the way. Behind them, Miller's furious resistance echoed distantly through the corridor. The metallic groan of the steel door resonated as he slammed his entire body weight against it—over and over and over again.

But the door held, as impenetrable as the nightmare unfolding around them.

        "Transporting assets!" The Mountain Man adjusted his grip on Haven, lifting one hand from her abdomen to tilt his radio to his lips. "Smith and Jordan. Elevator C."

        Praying to the vast, indifferent cosmos above . . . Haven hoped to whatever higher power existed that Bellamy hadn't heard her name over the radio chatter.

        Eventually, the procession was steered toward the elevators at the heart of the stone corrdior. Tsing moved unhurriedly, swiping her keycard to summon the rattling lift. The scanner's light blinked green, its approval an indifferent verdict on their fate. Once the doors groaned open, they revealed the cramped confines that would carry Haven and Jasper skyward—toward the cruelty of Level Three. Their deaths felt preordained, the lift serving as their final ascent into hell.

But, suddenly . . .

        The Mountain Men began to choke.

"Some... thing's... wrong."

Before Haven could partly comprehend what the hell was happening . . . the guards began to collapse. One by one, the Mountain Men crumbled to the concrete, their bodies convulsing as if consumed by an invisible fire. Their hands flew to their throats, clawing desperately, but the effort was futile. Gasps curdled into wet, choking gurgles, the sound unnervingly human and animalistic all at once. Putrid, red blisters erupted across their faces and their necks. The lesions spread rapidly, even gnawing under the fabric of their uniforms to devour the hidden flesh beneath.

        As Haven's mind spiraled through the fragments of memory, she slowly recognized that this unraveling was hauntingly familiar. She had seen it before—the blisters, the convulsions, the horrifying disintegration.

        Emerson. Outdoors.

        And then . . .

"Radiation! You need to get out of here!"

        Haven was so goddamn shellshocked by the sight of the guards—curdling to death beneath her very eyes—that Tsing's unnervingly fluid movements barely registered. The doctor snatched a walkie-talkie from the belt of the nearest fallen guard and screamed into its microphone.

        "Containment breach! Level Five! Seal the whole floor!"

Once Haven tore herself from the clutches of her paralysis, her eyes sought Jasper's face. She worriedly scoured for signs of damage, any betrayal of the radiation's cruel touch, refusing to settle until she saw it—the warmth in his soft eyes.

He met her frantic inspection and laughed.

"... Bellamy," he whispered.

        "CONTAINMENT BREACH!"

Amidst the disembodied wail of the alarm system . . . Haven had no time to dwell on the flood of relief surging through her veins. No space to savor the gravity of Jasper's admission. Yet it struck something deep within her—a truth as inevitable as the pull of the earth. Of course, it had been Bellamy. Of course, he had saved the damn day—whether by calculated intent or blind chance—even from whatever shadowed corridor or forgotten corner of the Mountain he was lost in.

To save their lives, likely without ever realizing he had done so. To shoulder the weight of others' survival as though it were his natural burden. He did not need to glimpse the wreckage to mend it, did not need to know who was crumbling to cast them a lifeline. He existed as an unseen constant—a force of will so steady that even on the edge of destruction . . . he was still the tether that pulled them back.

         It was what Bellamy Blake did best.

        "CONTAINMENT BREACH!"

"LET'S GO!"

        Haven's lips twitched into a fleeting smile as her friends spilled out from the dormitories. Whether Monty's deft hands had hotwired the circuit boards or Miller's unrelenting force had torn the damn door from its hinges, it no longer mattered. Freedom surged through them like wildfire. Rifles abandoned by the Mountain Men found eager hands, ammunition vanished into pockets, and makeshift barricades rose from anything not bolted to the floor. It was messy, electric, feverishly beautiful—a moment carved out of chaos where the will to live roared louder than fear.

        Jasper erupted into a supersonic boom. "LET'S GO! THIS IS OUR CHANCE!" he roared, shoving open the floodgates for the others to surge into the corridor. "EVERYBODY MOVE! TAKE THE LEVEL! Monty—get the cameras! Miller—get their guns! GO! GO! GO!"

        "CONTAINMENT BREACH!"

        Just as Haven pivoted to dart back toward the dorms, intent on checking on the teenagers bruised and battered during the raid, a flash of white—a familiar, pristine lab coat—caught her eye.

        Tsing.

        Rather than crumpling to the ground and succumbing to the merciless chokehold of the radiation, Tsing stood as if carved from stone. A harrowing figure of defiance amidst the ruin. She slammed her unblemished knuckles frantically—over and over—against the elevator button while casting quick, furtive glances over her shoulder. No venomous welts marred her copper skin. No choking, wet gasps tore through her chest. Where her colleagues had fallen, writhing in agony . . . she remained eerily pristine, untouched by the phantom miasma that curdled life to ash.

Tsing was not affected.

Haven froze mid-step, pulse thundering, her eyes dilating in horrific understanding as she fully registered the monstrosity.

Miller settled breathlessly beside her.

        A thousand unspoken words annihilated the space between them as their eyes met.

        And then . . .

"YOU PSYCHOTIC SON OF A BITCH!"

        Roaring like the cosmos unbound, Haven launched herself at the doctor, her body a weapon forged in blistering, atomic fury. Tsing barely turned before Haven slammed into her, furiously slamming her dead weight into the metal floor of the elevator. Collision was inevitable and absolute. She crushingly drove her knees into Tsing's forearms, pinning the doomed woman beneath her body weight. Trembling hands shot to the soft flesh of Tsing's throat, fingers curling like iron talons, digging in with the promise of imminent death.

        Tsing gasped in horror. "Haven—!"

        "SHUT THE FUCK UP, LADY!" Miller.

        His words detonated like distant cannon fire, sharp and commanding, but utterly irrelevant. Judging by the faint reverberation of his presence and the hiss of the still-open elevator doors, he must have stopped just at the threshold. Footsteps echoed—soft, uncertain—marking the arrival of others. But Haven was deaf—utterly, wholly deaf to their presence, lost in the singularity of her own fury. The firestorm caged within her chest cavity annihilated every word, every sound, every infinitesimal particle of existence that wasn't Tsing beneath her.

        "YOU!" Haven thundered, tightening her grip around Tsing's throat and throttling, as if to strangle the answer from her rattled breaths. "Why aren't you reacting to the radiation—?!"

        "Haven..." Tsing croaked. "Allow me to..."

        But Haven's fury knew no limits. Her fist launched into Tsing's face with the force of a meteor strike.

Again. Again. Again.

        The elevator walls trembled with the sheer, cataclysmic weight of it.

"Which one of my friends did you bleed, huh?" Haven seethed, sinking her fingers deeper into the flesh of Tsing's throat, cutting off air and words alike. Her other fist trembled, bloodied and black, but it did not falter—it rose again, demanding answers that no syllables could satisfy. "Whose blood is it inside of you, Tsing? Harper's? Bellamy's—?! What innocent child did you KILL FOR IT?!" Another strike landed. Another. Another. "Why do YOU deserve to live over them?!"

        Tsing's complexion began to pale, her features morphing into something disturbingly ashen and grey. "Haven..."

Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

        "Haven! Hav! Hav—!"

         Swallowed in the abyss of her own making, Haven was unreachable, deaf to Miller's shouts battering the air behind her. The world had ceased to exist, eclipsed by the black sun of her rage—a nuclear eruption within her chest that liquefied reason and calcified grief into something lethal. Nothing could pierce the gravity of her outrage. Her fist wailed until Tsing's neck jerked backwards against the metal grates. Until her eyes were bulging with the obsidian wash of death, mirroring the murderous void Haven had become. Until her windpipe was bruised and crushed beneath the force of Haven's death grip.

She could not stop. She would not stop.

Until . . .

        "Haven—LOOK!"

Miller's hand firmly settled on Haven's shoulder, halting her mid-swing. Somehow, impossibly, his touch forced her rage to sputter and still. Her breath came in ragged gasps, knuckles trembling as they hovered above the ruin she had wrought.

        Slowly, hesitantly . . . her gaze fell to the mangled corpse beneath her grip.

Tsing's body, though still clinging to the faintest thread of life, was destruction incarnate. Her face had morphed into nothing but swollen flesh and pulverized bone, pulsing with the agony of exposed veins. The grates beneath her skull gleamed with a viscous pool of shadows, but it was not the carnage that stole the air from Haven's lungs. It wasn't the gore, nor the shocking persistence of Tsing's labored breaths, that froze her veins to ice.

        It was something else.

Something infinitely worse than mere betrayal.

        "... Oh my god," Jasper whispered.

Tsing had succeeded.

        The covert, unspoken transfusion that allowed her to survive the effects of nuclear radiation had worked. But it was not the blood of Haven's friends that coursed through the doctor's veins.

It couldn't be.

. . . Not when the ichor seeping from Tsing's mutilated nostrils, staining her teeth, and coating Haven's knuckles was pitch-black.

It was Haven's lifeblood. Hers.

It was her veins they had drained. Her body they had pillaged. Her existence they had mutilated for another woman's twisted vision of salvation.

Her blood. Her betrayal. Her devastation.

Hers.

. . . Wasn't it?

"Vaccines," Haven whispered numbly. "You're.... you're a fucking liar."

Tsing's mangled lips parted, impossibly, as though defying the ruin Haven had left her in. A nauseating slick of onyx coated her gumline like tar. "Allow... me... to... explain."

        But Haven did not need her explanation.

        "You performed a transfusion on yourself," she whispered, her voice trembling, yet sharp with the venom of realization. "You waited until I left the Mountain. And then... and then you did the transfusion with whatever blood you..." Breath abandoned her as she began to shiver uncontrollably. "You stole from me."

        "You're wrong," Tsing wheezed out, straining against the force of Haven's obsidian-drenched knuckles and audaciously fighting to reclaim oxygen. "Please.... allow me to explain the success. I—I still need you. We need... each other, Haven."

"I—I don't care what you need!"

"This... is... remarkable... progress..."

"I! DON'T! CARE!"

        The declaration reverberated through the elevator shaft with the force of a grenade. Its sound echoed endlessly, ricocheting off steel walls, swallowing Haven in its violent resonance. She inhaled, trying to drag in oxygen, to force her trembling body to obey—breathe, move, exist—but it refused her. Her hands shook uncontrollably, stained with the viscous black blood—her blood—that oozed from the destruction of another's body. It gleamed mockingly, dark and alien—a cruel reflection of the truth she could no longer reconcile.

        What was left?

        Haven Grey Smith had lost her body long before this moment. Five years of control stolen, of autonomy ripped away until she did not know where she ended and Abby began. Five years of theft, her very existence reduced to a commodity, carved into pieces and stitched back together by hands that wielded scalpels as chains. Her blood—HER! BLOOD!—had been harvested, twisted, and pulsed through the veins of two monstrous architects of her misery.

        What was left?

        What more could they possibly take?

        Before Haven could control herself, she launched her fists into Tsing's body all over again. Her knuckles split open, blood mixing with blood—hers, Tsing's—it didn't fucking matter anymore. She would not allow herself to stop. Because the moment she did, the moment her fists finally stilled, the truth would suffocate her.

        She wasn't fighting to end Tsing's life.

        She was fighting to keep herself from ending her own.

        "Why should I let you live?!" Haven stared at the reflection mirrored in Tsing's glassy eyes and finally—finally—began to sob. "Why do you deserve it?! TELL ME! WHY?!"

        "S..." Tsing rasped weakly. "Six..."

        "SPEAK UP!" Miller's roar knifed through the tension at once. "ANSWER HER! NOW!"

        Tsing's body began to convulse as stolen blood spewed from her lungs and gurgled at her lips.

        "Six... months..."

         Haven shook her head. "What—?"

        "You... have... six... months... left... to... live..."

If memory served, the human body held roughly five liters of blood—life distilled to a finite measure. Lose more than half, and death became certain. Haven had no idea how much of hers had been spilled, how many nights she'd bled out beneath sterile lights and deceitful hands. All she knew was that it hadn't been enough. Not enough to be kind enough to finish her off with mercy. What gutted her now was the horrendous truth that her body remained full—achingly so—yet she was devastatingly, unrelentingly empty.

        A carcass walking.

        A vessel stripped bare, carrying the weight of a heartbeat she no longer wanted.

Six months.

To live. To die. To continue to be nothing.

"See?"

Tsing gurgled her final words aloud without the faintest comprehension that they'd be her last.

"We...need... each... other."

Vaguely, Haven registered the familiar silhouette of Miller stepping into the elevator. Something glinted in the dim light as it left his hand—a metallic streak that skittered across the grated floor, coming to rest against her bloodied fingertips.

A blade.

        It felt almost holy in its timing. Divinely serendipitous. Murderously fitting. The weight of Haven's life expectancy hung over her head like a guillotine—one that she could no longer summon the resilience to fear.

Six. Months.

"...You've got none," she whispered.

Haven wrenched the blade from the floor, gouged the metal into her shivering palms—then slit the devil's throat.

SIX MONTHS. TWENTY-SEVEN WEEKS. ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY-THREE DAYS. Two thousand, nine hundred fifty-two hours. One hundred seventy-seven thousand, one hundred twenty minutes. Ten million, six hundred twenty-seven thousand, two hundred seconds. An epoch that could shatter stars in its enormity, yet felt smaller than the space between her shallow breaths. A countdown inscribed into the marrow of Haven's bones and etched into her shadow—one that ticked louder and louder with each inhale she dared to claim.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

A relentless drumbeat heralding her end.

And yet . . . it didn't change a damn thing.

Haven did not fear her expiration date. Fear would have been merciful, a clean break in the dam. Instead, she stood beneath the deluge of its inevitability and found herself drowning in the weight of it. Time was no ally; it was a sadist. Every second carved illusions of hope into her flesh—only to cruelly twist the dagger, reminding her of just how little of it she truly had left.

       But fear's absence did not mean apathy; it meant something darker—something heavier.

        It meant everything.

        Every moment Haven had lived, every regret she'd stomached, every agony, every love, every loss—the weight of their remembrance nearly crushed her to her knees. Ravaged her bile-ridden throat. Gnashed at her too-thin ribs. Demanding to be felt—everywhere, everywhere—all at once. The expected devastation was not numbness—it was an inferno, engulfing her whole while forcing her mortal shell to stagger through the ash.

She wasn't alive. She wasn't dead.

She was trapped in the purgatory between.

It was nothing new, after all.

This formidable realm of existence had been her home for five goddamn years.

Plus, Haven had taken Tsing's final declaration with a grain of salt . . . or perhaps a fistful of broken glass.

How could she possibly believe that Tsing wasn't lying to save her own ass, weaving one last web of deceit in a desperate bid to cling to life? To stop Haven from slashing the blade across her throat—just as planned—and silencing that poisonous tongue forever? The sight of Tsing's blackened blood pooling beneath her was proof enough of her duplicity. The vaccine proposal had been nothing but a goddamn lie. No vaccine could rewrite the genetic script of Haven's blood, or replicate the obsidian hue that marked her as an anomaly.

        Unless, of course, Tsing had indulged in monstrous experiments as Abby.

       Transfusions that defied the natural order.

       Regardless, Tsing had fucking lied. About the science, about salvation, about every honeyed promise since the moment Haven and her friends had been dragged—unconsciously—into Mount Weather's tomb of illusions.

. . . But she hadn't lied about HIBI.

Haven vehemently shoved the thought aside.

Six months was a lifetime away.

       And what mattered now—what truly mattered—was getting her friends through the next hour.

More specifically . . . the next raid.

        The entirety of Level Five had been transformed into a fortress, ransacked and claimed by the forty-five teenagers who now called it their battleground.

Monty's engineering brilliance had rendered the elevators utterly inoperable, cutting off the Mountain Men's access—except for the stairwell. Still, it forced their enemies into a bottleneck, where every inch of ground would be fought for in blood. Bookshelves. Clothing racks. Disassembled furniture. Every single scrap of material had been repurposed and piled against doorways, sealing off entry points to both the corridor and dormitories. Knives—(Haven's weapon of choice!)—and other makeshift armaments from the kitchen lay gleaming atop bunk beds. Rifles and ammunition were locked, loaded, and hot in eager hands.

This wasn't a refuge. It was a warzone.

And the teenagers were prepared to massively, royally, monumentally fuck shit up.

"Jasper, where do you want this?"

        Jasper abandoned his post near Haven and Monty to assist Miller and Del with another clothing rack. "Put it here! Over the weak spots—to make sure they don't get in," he instructed. The harsh scrape of the metal against the floor was almost drowned out by the cascade of orders Jasper barked in his wake. "We took the level, but now we need to hold it! They will be coming, and we need to be ready! Harper—get some pots from the kitchen. Fill them with water. Big as you can find!"

        "Watch out!"

The warning hardly registered.

Haven's grip tightened on the tablet in her hands, but she did not flinch as glass shattered overhead. Chaos had carved itself so deeply into their existence that the sound barely stirred her anymore. Instead, her gaze shifted to the source—a blur of motion and spite. Fox had swung a pole from one of the disassembled bunk beds, effortlessly striking not one, but two cameras mounted against the ceiling.

Lips curling into a faint, amused smirk, Haven raised a lively thumbs-up toward the sixteen-year-old girl.

"Good." Jasper nodded in approval at the sparking lens and exposed wiring. "Let's go get those hallway cameras next."

        Monty shook his head. "Nope—leave the hallway cameras," he chimed in, tilting his chin toward the tablet clutched in Haven's palms. The trio fluidly strode in sync towards the next stairwell to disarm. "Check out the tablet. We need eyes out there."

        Jasper blinked at him. "You can do that?"

        "Have you met me?"

Though the familiar banter between the Farm Station boys carried a bittersweet echo of comfort . . . Haven couldn't deny the cold truth seeping into her bones.

        She was scared out of her goddamn mind.

        The tablet she clutched in her hands had been salvaged from one of the guard offices on Level Five—AKA: ripped violently from the wall during their takeover. Now, it served as their lifeline to the Mountain's other unoccupied corridors. The glitchy, black-and-white camera feed flickered and sputtered, its fractured imagery fallen to her responsibility to monitor. Wide, anxious eyes darted over the grainy imagery for signs of an impending raid, for shadows that didn't belong, for the harbingers of death inching closer to their barricades.

        But most of all . . . for their other lifeline.

        Bellamy Blake.

Jasper worried his bottom lip as Monty bent over to inspect the next stairwell circuit. "Where are we on the doors?"

        "Elevators are all disabled," Monty answered, not sparing a glance over his shoulder. His fingers moved with relentless precision, nimbly navigating the labyrinth of multicolored wires beneath the pad-lock. "I shorted all of the other stairway locks. This one's tricky, though."

        "Tricky—?" Jasper echoed.

        "Tricky enough," Haven huffed lamely, shifting her weight on her heels. "Monty won't even let me try to stab the damn thing. Claims I'd 'fry myself into a human lightbulb' if I nick the wrong wire." Her fingers subconsciously twitched toward the pocketknife tucked into the waistband of her sweatpants. The blade, still smeared with black blood, felt heavier than it should. "But it's fine, I guess. Death by accidental electrocution is kind of an insane way to—"

        SLAM!

Haven barely managed to suppress her yelp at the startling flash of commotion. All at once, Jasper hoisted the wooden end of his axe and crashed it into the door's circuitry. The panel convulsed, showering with sparks and emitting a sibilant wail of agony . . . but the satisfied, shit-eating grin that crept across Monty's face was all the confirmation they needed.

Monty shrugged in approval. "That works too."

Haven gaped. "No fair!"

Before she could fire off another protest, the boys executed their signature move—a perfectly synchronized, touchless high-five.

Haven gaped further. "No! Fair!"

Yet the flicker of triumph vanished as swiftly as it had ignited. Both Jasper and Monty helplessly succumbed to the same soul-sucking, nauseating shroud of anxiety that clung to Haven. Spines pressed against the doorframe, the trio tensed, their eyes wide and alert to the flurry of movement beyond. Though Jasper, Monty, and Miller had led the uprising against the Mountain Men in Haven and Clarke's absence—their age was not lost on her. Miller had just turned eighteen, and Jasper and Monty were still only seventeen.

They were just kids.

Child soldiers thrust into the jaws of fate, their innocence butchered in its infancy and slaughtered before it ever had the chance to bloom.

A shadow marred Jasper's features as he watched their friends steel themselves for the looming confrontation. "...How long you think we can hold them off?"

Monty bravely lifted his shoulders. "As long as we have to."

        Haven managed to coax her frown into a smile as she noticed Fox hovering uneasily nearby. "C'mon," she began softly, pushing her spine off the doorframe and approaching the young girl. "We've got this. Let's brush up on our self-defense lessons back from camp, alright? Might even make you feel better."

        "Yeah." Fox nodded shakily. "Yeah. O-Okay."

        Haven returned the timid nod with another expertly crafted smile—a fragile shield for the younger girl to lean on. She soundlessly passed the tablet to Monty, entrusting him with the vital task of monitoring the camera feeds. Intent on leading Fox to a quieter stretch of the corridor to regroup, her steps were halted by a sudden, desperate grip on her forearm.

Jasper.

        She stared at him expectantly.

        "You should..." Jasper's fingers trembled slightly as he released Haven's forearm, the action seemingly draining him of strength. He cleared his throat before continuing. "You should, um... help Monty keep an eye on the monitor instead. Watch for Bellamy. Sit down, or something. Not stress yourself out too much, y'know? Or, just... take it easy."

Haven did not need to ask why.

Monty. Jasper. Miller. Harper.

All four of the teenagers had been there, frozen in the elevator's threshold as she slit the delicate flesh of Tsing's throat. All four had heard the haunting confession gurgled out in Tsing's final breath. The admission of Haven's life expectancy had struck them like a gunshot—its morbid countdown ricocheting through their young minds, forcing them to swallow the awful bullet of truth for the next six months. Monty had clung to Haven's side since, while Harper had respectfully averted her eyes whenever their paths crossed. Miller had buried himself in labor, tackling every possible task in the corridor—desperate to keep his hands and his mind occupied, refusing to let the truth creep in and annihilate him.

        But Jasper . . .

        The Jordan boy had always worn his heart on his sleeve. His grief was private yet relentless, betraying him every time his gaze settled on Haven for longer than a few seconds. The tears would always spill—always—no matter how devastatingly he fought to hold them back.

        Haven knew it was only temporary.

        The weight of her impending absence wouldn't linger forever. Their young bodies would adapt, their minds would harden, and the scars left by Tsing's bullet would fade. Whenever her allotted six months expired, they would expel the grief like shrapnel from a wound. They would endure, heal, and ultimately . . . they would move the fuck on.

        They always did.

        Haven reached for Jasper's forearm and offered him a tender squeeze of reassurance. "I'll be okay," she whispered. "I am okay. I promise. Tsing jacked me up with pain meds, so... I can't feel shit right now. Plus, the stitches really aren't as painful as they look—"

        "Stitches—?" Jasper's voice cracked, splitting under the weight of his disbelief. A bitter edge clung to his words as his lips parted, then pressed together, swallowing down a sharp, humorless scoff. "I—I'm worried about a lot more than just your stitches, Hav."

"I got her," Miller announced as he approached, decisively positioning himself beside Haven. He shot Jasper a friendly salute with his left hand. "Duty calls, boss man. Jones is asking for help sorting the ammo. Enjoy your reign before Bellamy comes back."

Jasper visibly hesitated.

And then . . .

He inhaled, wiped at his eyes, and left.

        By the time Haven finally peeled her eyes away from Jasper's silhouette, swallowed by the restless storm of organized chaos, she realized too late that Monty and Fox had retreated as well. They had slipped away unseen, immersing themselves in tasks further down the corridor, their absence leaving the corner by the stairwell eerily empty.

Empty . . . except for her and Miller.

He stood there, stiff and silent, his shoulders sagging beneath the crushing weight of something he hadn't yet named. His gaze flickered once in her direction—then away again—as though meeting her eyes would force him to confront something too unbearable.

        Miller could hardly look at her.

        "Miller..." she began softly.

        "Don't," Miller groaned, dragging his hand wearily across his face. He let his palm rest over his eyes—a poor substitute for the beanie he'd lost back at the dropship. "Don't say my name like that. It makes me feel worse."

Haven did not need to ask why. Again.

        Somehow . . . she had managed to convince the four teenagers not to tell Bellamy about Tsing's morbid confession. Not yet. Not until Haven could face him herself, look into the fathomless, tender depths of his brown eyes, and obliterate him with her own words. Her plea for their silence had spilled from her lips the moment she'd risen from the elevator floor, hands trembling and slick with the jet-black blood of Tsing's corpse.

The mere thought of cursing Bellamy with a truth like that made Haven wish she were already dead.

She knew what it would do to the boy she loved. She could feel the ruin it would carve into him, hollowing him out, leaving nothing but a husk weighed down by grief and guilt. She couldn't allow that. Not in the suffocating belly of this wretched mountain, where their survival hinged entirely upon bulletproof resolve. She could not afford to destroy Bellamy Blake any further than she already had—not when they had a mission to fulfill, and lives to save.

Not here. Not now.

Perhaps not ever.

        Miller had been the last to agree.

"You can't tell him," Haven whispered, her voice devoid of its usual strength and sounding devastatingly small. "You know that you can't."

        Miller sighed. "I know," he breathed out, lowering his hand from his eyes to uneasily clench it at his side. "I know. It's just... I know this sounds selfish... but think about my position here, Haven. You realize I made a promise to him to keep you alive, right? And now..."

        His breath caught.

        Haven refused to let the silence deepen the unspoken wounds. "You did your job, Miller. The promise was only meant for the fight at the dropship."

        "Not to me."

        And suddenly, Haven felt the violent urge to rip her heart from her chest, to sever it from sinew and soul, and cast it into some unreachable abyss. Somewhere distant, somewhere forgotten—where its sputtering existence could no longer wound the people she loved.

        Miller had already lost his finger for her.

       What more could he possibly feel he owed her?

        Haven parted her lips in vain. "I—"

        "I'll keep it quiet." Miller silenced her with another weighted sigh before tenderly clasping his hand atop her shoulder. "The only person you'll have to worry about ratting you out is Orion. I—I won't tell her either. But once this is all over..." He swallowed thickly. "Bellamy deserves to know. And somehow, we'll find a way to fix this."

But how does one mend the hands of a clock already fated to stop?

        How does one rewrite the elegy of a heart that has only ever known the cadence of its own undoing?

        . . . How do you save a life that was never designed to last?

Haven nodded shakily. "I know," she whispered, cursing the stars above for the numbness spreading throughout her arm. She ached to feel the comfort of Miller's palm against her. "But hey. Once this is all over... you'll also get to see your dad again."

        The attempt at optimism felt like a hot knife scorching through her chest, but she clung to it anyway.

Miller offered a shy, wistful smile. "I'm glad you got to spend time with him," he admitted, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip and blinking away the sudden onslaught of emotion in his eyes. "I guess you could say we're even. I got to spend some time with your mom, too. After she, uh, shoved you into the trash chute... she kinda pulled off this massive fuckin' stint. Convinced everyone that you fought your way outta here."

Haven choked back the sudden urge to
weep in . . . relief. "Did she?"

"Mhm," Miller hummed softly. "Fell off the radar for a few days after that. Said she had to lay low and keep her distance because Tsing was on her ass." Another fleeting smile touched his lips as he squeezed her shoulder, the sensation of it ghosting faintly through the strained cords in her neck. "But she's been sneaking me shit to help us ever since."

At that, Haven felt the maternal wound carved deep within her throat begin to shift—not to close, not to mend, but to gape wider. It yawned open to cradle something infinitely more insidious as of late.

Hope. Again.

If Dahlia was truly on their side . . . maybe Haven's friends had a chance. Perhaps the oppressive walls of Mount Weather could be crumbled under the sheer force of their rebellion. Maybe justice was no longer a fairy tale for children, but a fire they could ignite with Dahlia's hand on the torch. If Dahlia was truly on their side, maybe she had faithfully bent her steel spine toward Lexa's cause. If Dahlia was truly on their side, for the first time in her life, she might be standing alongside her daughter—not above her, not against her, but with her.

        Never as her mother. But at least as an ally.

Her next question was astoundingly quiet.

"Yeah?"

Miller nodded softly. "Yeah."

        BOOM!

        Before Haven could twist toward the thunderous echo erupting from the hallway . . . Miller's arm had already hooked around her waist. He moved like instinct incarnate, yanking her back whilst spinning her in one fluid motion, decisively planting her beside Monty, Fox, Jasper and the tablet. Without a pause or a backward glance, Miller proceeded to launch himself toward the barricade at the corridor's mouth, seeking to investigate.

        The weight in Haven's gut was a leaden thing, suffocating her breath before her eyes even met the tablet's glow.

She already knew what was coming.

Corridor 9's visuals were a maelstrom of static and soot, but the chaos did little to mask the advancing figures. Soldiers—unmistakable in their precision—moved like shadows through the veil of smoke. Their figures cut cleanly against the wreckage of what had once been the teenagers' first barricade. Since the elevators were dead—had been for hours—they'd decidedly opted for the straightest, most violent route forward.

        The motherfuckers had blown the stairwell door off its hinges.

        Just as expected.

        And as Miller retreated from the barricade—his jaw tight, features carved from granite—the sight of him knowingly reaching for his rifle was the final confirmation Haven needed.

        The Mountain Men were back.

        Round. Fucking. Two.

        "GET IN YOUR POSITIONS!"

        At the sound of Haven's decree, the teenagers scattered about snapped to attention, abandoning their drifting and aligning with military precision. After methodically positioning the large pots of water across the floor—designed to neutralize any nitrous gas attacks from their attackers—Harper and Miller took point at the forefront alongside the Gunners. Meanwhile, Haven and Monty herded the other armed adolescents to the rear, their eyes darting between the ranks and the intermittent flicker of the security feed.

        "Guys," Fox breathed out, glancing between the unspoken leaders of their uprising and frantically seeking their reassurance. Her blue eyes shimmered with terror. "We're not ready for this."

        Jasper shook his head. "Yes—we are," he vowed solemnly. He clasped Fox's shoulders, offering a firm, reassuring grip before guiding her towards the rear. "Just follow the plan... and we'll be okay."

       But Haven caught a glimpse of something deeper—a fragile, feminine insecurity lurking within the sixteen-year-old's eyes. Something that Jasper earnestly overlooked, too eager to bury Fox's fear beneath reassurances that couldn't fully reach where it mattered. But Haven saw it. She felt it. She understood that the intricacies of their plan held little solace for Fox—not if the young girl doubted her own capacity to defend herself.

Haven had felt the same at fifteen.

Before Jasper could fully usher Fox towards the others—the Smith girl's left hand shot out, steadily intertwining her fingers with Fox's trembling ones.

"I've got you," she whispered close to her ear. "I promise."

Fox held her stare and nodded. Bravely.

(Whether the teenager had squeezed her hand back or not . . . Haven couldn't quite tell.)

"Jasper—you were right," Monty called out, raising his voice ever so slightly to seize the Jordan boy's attention. He clenched his jaw as he scrutinized the black-and-white security feed. "No guns."

        Jasper's tongue clicked—a soft punctuation in the morbid silence, leaning over Haven's shoulder to observe the tablet for himself. "That's because they can't kill us," he huffed lowly. "Not like this, anyway."

"Wait a second..." Monty's voice trailed off, horror bleeding like ink into his eyes as they expanded into twin voids. "Some of them aren't wearing hazmat suits."

True to Monty's word . . . Haven's gaze widened as she observed the jarring deficit in protection among the soldiers. Half of the Mountain Men were shrouded in the sterile armor of hazmat suits, as if the reality of their death could be staved off by layers of fabric and filters. But the others—the others—strode unprotected, clad only in the riot gear that Haven recognized from Tsing's last raid. They were armed to the teeth, their bodies bristling with rifles, ammunition belts glinting under the cold, fluorescent light.

        Yet . . . their faces were bare to the poison air that should have ravaged their skin, scalded their lungs, and killed them instantaneously.

Miller cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder and clutched his rifle tighter. "What's that mean?"

        "...It means they're cured," Haven breathed out, finally reaching for the switchblade hidden beneath her waistband. The weapon's silvery gleam caught the lamplight, its edge crusted with the remnants of black blood—her blood, drawn from another's body. "They're immune now. Just like Tsing... was. It's probably from the marrow treatments you were talking about." Her lips curled into a grimace. "Unless they stole my blood too."

        "GET THIS DOWN!"

        All eyes snapped to the main barricade as the foreign, intrusive command rang out. The Mountain Men were hurling themselves against the bolted doors, each collision rattling through the room like an earthquake. Metal shrieked against metal, the tortured grind from the other side serving as a harbinger of the barricade's inevitable fall.

"...Guess we'll find out when I shoot the bastards in their fuckin' foreheads," Miller grunted, stealthily retreating from the barricade and sucking his teeth. He knowingly pressed two additional kitchen knives into Haven's grip as he passed. "Place your bets, gang. We've got about T-minus thirty seconds before this thing goes down. Red or black blood?"

The barricade shuddered. Again.

       "Red." Haven gritted her teeth and inhaled, caging the breath for five full seconds as she steeled herself for the chaos to come, prepared to royally, catastrophically—fuck shit up. "Get ready!"

"TAKE IT DOWN!"

        All at once, Haven and Jasper moved as one, signaling the teenagers to stealthily drop low and flatten themselves against the cold stone floors. Weapons clattered softly beneath their torsos, concealed just as the steel doors were pried off their hinges.

Red, noxious fumes billowed from the gas canisters hurled over the barricade—the thick miasma crawling venomously through the air. It was expected. Planned for. As the Mountain Men barked orders and began pummeling the barricade, Haven launched into silent, seamless action. Her hands darted to the pot of water at her side, plunging the drug-tipped weapons into its depths. A second canister rolled just out of reach, its scarlet fumes curling toward her face—but Haven did not hesitate. Her boot lashed out, sending it skidding toward Miller, who fluidly caught her unspoken cue. Though her eyes had screwed shut, she could hear the muffled splash of water as the canister met its watery grave, drowning with the hiss of a dying beast.

       Step 1.) Successfully avoid being drugged.

       Step 2.) Feign unconsciousness as if drugged—and ignore the instinct to flinch as the barricade finally fell.

        Face down against the stone floors, Haven forced every muscle in her body into submission. She willed herself to become stillness incarnate—a statue of flesh and bone. Her fingers tightened around the weapons hidden beneath her torso. The switchblade was in her right hand, the larger kitchen knife in her left, both concealed yet masterfully poised to slaughter. Her world narrowed entirely to sound—the metallic clang of the barricade collapsing, the thunderous cacophony of it scattering to the floor. Heavy footfalls stomping forward. Murmured orders. The faint slosh of water.

        Based on her surroundings . . . Haven gathered that Mountain Men had successfully breached the dorm. They had torn through the teenager's last defense with embarrassingly misplaced confidence.

        But Haven knew this was no victory for them.

        The soldiers had stormed blindly into their own goddamn trap, their arrogance ringing audaciously in the air—an echo that would sputter and die just as swiftly as they would.

Haven crushed the impulse to twitch, suppressing the seething, electric anticipation razing through her veins like lightning. Her body remained eerily unmoving.

Lethally silent. Deathly still.

Barely breathing.

And then . . . step three.

"NOW!"

        As Jasper's roar cracked through the air like gunfire—followed by the murderous arc of his axe—every teenager lying limp on the floor erupted into chaos.

        The fallen refused to stay fallen.

        Haven did not hesitate. She rolled over in one fluid motion, knives gripped tight, planting the first blade deep into the Mountain Man's boot near her locs. His scream barely registered before her second knife slashed upward, embedding itself deep into his throat. Scarlet erupted in a seismic gush—splattering her face, saturating her hands, dripping down the hilt as she viciously wrenched it free. The metallic warmth was sticky and hauntingly familiar, yet there was no time to dwell on the weight of her eleventh kill on Earth.

        Nor her twelfth. Nor her thirteenth.

         The kitchen knife plunged into the chest of the next soldier as Haven vaulted to her feet, sinking deep. She felt the blade cleave through muscle and bone, heard the wet, guttural gasp as she twisted and reclaimed it. Without a moment's hesitation, she unleashed a wide, merciless arc—slashing open another soldier's abdomen, shredding his internal organs and spilling them across the floor. But there was no pause in her assault. She could not stop. Would not stop. Her switchblade found its mark next, whistling through the air before embedding itself squarely between a fourth man's eyes. His body hit the ground with a sickening thud, yet Haven was already moving again. Violence no longer felt foreign; it had become her lifeblood, flowing as naturally as the breath she barely allowed herself to take.

        Bloodshed was everywhere.

        Everywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere.

        And yet, the teenagers roared as though this blood-soaked crucible was their birthright. Jasper's axe cleaved savagely through the spine of the soldier aiming for Miller before launching towards Del's assailant. Harper, out of bullets, swung the butt of her rifle with a primal shriek, shattering the face of a Mountain Man who dared get too close. Miller became Haven's unspoken shadow, firing at every one of her blind spots on the left while she slashed through the carnage on the right. Fox and the other forty-four were no less merciless—their raw, adolescent ferocity turning the Mountain Men's once-impenetrable fortress into a slaughterhouse.

        Bloodshed was everywhere.

        And not one of them flinched.

        Not when survival demanded they hold the line with bloody hands and undying hearts. Not when they faced the grim truth that they were teenage veterans, conscripted into a second war they had never declared. Marching once more into another abyss with enemies far more monstrous than war itself should ever conceive. These enemies—these butchers—feasted on their blood as though it were wine. Carved into the marrow of children to forge their own ascension. Ground their bones into the mortar of a salvation that was never meant to be shared.

        The Mountain Men were not soldiers; they were predators, and yet . . . they fell like prey.

        "...RETREAT!"

They never stood a chance.

        And as Haven waded through the wreckage—breath heaving, blades dripping—her eyes caught fleeting glimpses of the carnage. Blood stained her knuckles, streaked her forearms, and splattered across the once-pristine paintings on the walls.

        But it was scarlet. All of it.

        Not black.

        Not hers.

"Miller!" she shouted, not needing to glance backward to feel him. His presence loomed loyally behind her shoulder—an unspoken promise of protection as she prowled toward her next target. "It's red! I told you so—!"

"HELP ME!"

        At the blood-curdling cry, Haven's head snapped toward the sound, her eyes locking onto the source with laser precision.

"NO!" Fox cried hysterically. "NO! HELP!"

Her frail frame was caught in the iron grip of two Mountain Men, their armored forms ruthlessly dragging the sixteen-year-old toward the doors. Soldiers scrambled to retreat—some crawling their way out, others sprinting in desperation—but these two had found their prize, intent on delivering her to the Harvest Chamber.

One of them wasn't wearing a hazmat suit.

        His face was bare, twisted into a wretched snarl . . . every vile feature irreversibly scorched into Haven's memory.

        "EMERSON!"

        Instinct whipped his head around at the sound of his name, spat from Haven's lips like a curse birthed in fire. The syllables struck him with the force of a dagger—but it was the twin blades clutched in her hands that promised true annihilation.

His pupils blew wide, fear and recognition warring in his gaze as he stared her down.

        "Take me!" Haven demanded. "Take me!"

        Miller spun wildly on his heels, his brows catapulting to the furthest reaches of his forehead as he grasped her intentions. "HAVEN! Son of a—!"

        "Yeah! YOU, FUCKBOY!" Haven's voice didn't waver as she charged toward Emerson and the thinning cluster of soldiers near the exit. "Let the girl go and take me instead. I'm the one you want—not her." She menacingly tilted her head. "Unless you're too scared that I'll stab you. Again."

One beat passed. Another.

And then . . .

Fox was ruthlessly thrust from Emerson and his cohort's grasp, her body catapulting past Haven and crashing directly into Miller. Capitalizing on the sudden blur of movement, Haven deftly slid her knives into the waistband of her sweatpants . . . concealing them just as Emerson's grimy, gloved hands lunged for her instead.

"FALL BACK!" Emerson bellowed, his command ricocheting off the blood-streaked walls as he rallied the remaining soldiers. He wrenched Haven's arms behind her back and effectively restrained her by her wrists. "RETREAT! RETREAT!"

At that, Haven was dragged from the dormitory, her body thrown into the haze of the smoke-choked corridor. Black blood welled beneath Emerson's death grip on her forearms as he led her onward. Miller's once-pink button up was drenched, mottled with the violence of battle, but she didn't feel it—not the sting of freshly shredded stitches, nor the ache of her battered body. Adrenaline surged through her veins, bolstered by the lingering haze of painkillers, dulling her agony but sharpening her resolve.

The Smith girl's captors mistook her compliance for surrender. Their eyes were too dulled by their own arrogance, far too blind to recognize the solarstorm brewing beneath her exterior.

(She had another plan . . . kind of!)

"NO!"

Haven's head snapped back, her gaze locking onto Miller as he furiously raised his rifle, aiming at the retreating soldiers from afar. The sharp, hollow clicks of an empty chamber echoed through the corridor—a cruel mockery of his intent. Realizing he was out of ammo, Miller roared in frustration, hurling the useless weapon to the ground before charging through the doors.

His momentum only carried him so far before the final two Mountain Men intercepted him.

       "HAVEN!" he howled. "NO! LET HER GO!"

        "WE DID IT!" Haven shouted over her shoulder. The starfire seething in her eyes was a desperate plea—a silent assurance to Miller that she knew what she was doing. That he had to trust her. "KNOCK THEM OUT AND SEAL THE DAMN BARRICADE!"

Miller stared at her in utter disbelief, freezing mid-thrash against his captors. "YOU'RE FUCKING CRAZY—!"

"DO IT!"

No longer straining against the soldiers pinning him, Haven's breath caught as Miller seemed to wilt in their grip, his body slackening as if succumbing to defeat. The shift was subtle, calculated—a predator lulling its prey into a false sense of control.

        And then, he struck.

        With a sudden, violent eruption of movement, Miller tore himself free. His hands shot to the backs of the Mountain Men's necks, gripping them with a force that seemed almost inhuman. Then, he ruthlessly yanked them forward, slamming their foreheads together in an impact so sickeningly loud it echoed against the stone walls.

        Both soldiers slumped to the ground at once.

Unconscious. As fuck.

        Miller straightened, chest heaving, his lanky frame silhouetted against the lingering smoke. His eyes knowingly found Haven's, locking onto her with a look that was equal parts defiance and something dangerously close to faith.

        With the faintest tilt of his head, he nodded.

        Against all odds—a sharp, adrenaline-soaked laugh burst from Haven's throat. "GOOD!" she roared, beaming with reckless abandon as her eyes sought his through the smog. "GO! I'll be back before you know—!"

        "I don't think so."

        Before Haven could react, Emerson's grip shifted, one hand releasing her wrist only to seize her by the locs. His fingers coiled tightly, yanking her head forward with a violence that sent a sharp, searing ache radiating through her scalp. She hissed through gritted teeth, the first spike of true pain seeping through her adrenaline haze. But she refused to cry out. Her focus pierced through the agony, latching onto every detail—the sharp angles of the corridor, the faint flicker of light through the smoke—meticulously mapping the way back to the dorms.

For after she fucking killed him.

        "Yeah, well—I don't remember asking what you thought," Haven spat wretchedly. "Save the air while you still can, Emerson. It's running out for you."

        The venom in her tone was matched only by the calculating glint in her gaze as she surveyed her surroundings. Emerson and his lackeys weren't just dragging Haven further into Level Five—they were transporting her deeper. Somewhere worse. Somewhere she might not crawl out of. She caught the shift in their pace, the silent, insidious understanding as they hauled her toward Corridor 8. Her pulse skyrocketed as they rounded the corner, acutely aware of the faint, resurgent hum of power thrumming through the walls.

        They had reconnected one of the elevators.

        With a slow, mechanical hiss, the doors slid open—revealing the familiar sight of Tsing's corpse.

        "If it wasn't for how predictable you are—I might've found your defiance charming," Emerson sneered, shoving Haven into the elevator with a force that made her stagger. He resumed his menacing position behind her, forcing her to stand inches away from Tsing's lifeless body. "And since you took care of her for me... who do you think owns you now, sweetheart? Should've killed me while you still had the chance."

        Ownership.

        Haven clenched her jaw so tightly she swore she could taste the metallic tang of blood saturating her tongue. Her chest rose and fell with quiet, seething intensity—but she refused to grant Emerson the sickening satisfaction of an outburst.

        Not now. Not yet.

"There's a lot of minutes in a day," she answered flatly. "I'm just waiting 'til I lead you far enough from my friends first."

        Haven did not fight the iron grip on her wrists as the elevator lurched into motion, its silent march toward Level Three sealing her fate—or so they thought. She remained still, but her gaze drifted traitorously, locking onto the still-warm carcass sprawled beside her feet.

Blood had spilled across the elevator floor in obsidian rivers, crawling into every crevice and soaking into Haven's socks. It seeped steadily from the ragged slash across Tsing's throat—a definitive wound of finality from Haven's blade. The once pristine white of her lab coat was obliterated, swallowed whole by the inky stain of her failure, her control, her tyranny—reduced to ruin in a matter of seconds. Tsing's cheeks remained mangled, lips split, and nose shattered. Her eyes—glassy, empty—stared fixedly at the ceiling above, as if searching for salvation that never came.

        Perhaps Tsing had been untouchable—her body impervious to radiation, her confidence immune to doubt.

        But Haven's blade had cut through all of it.

        The doctor hadn't been immune to her.

        Haven refused to register the weight of the murder that thrummed through her blood-slick hands and gnawed at her conscience. There was no time to stare into the ichor mirror of Tsing's blood—her stolen blood—spilling across the floor. No time to watch the reflection warp, twist, and blur into something utterly unrecognizable. No time to linger on the monstrous void staring back at her or berate herself for the raw, devastating truth.

        Killing Tsing hadn't been self-defense.

        It was vengeance.

        A cold, calculated act of justice that roiled in Haven's stomach, threatening to unmake her. But she could not afford to feel it—not when the elevator groaned to a halt and the doors creaked open, revealing the next circle of hell awaiting her.

Most of Level Three remained treacherous, uncharted ground. The last time Haven had braved these halls . . . she had been spiraling—trapped in the crushing grip of a hallucinatory, panic-fueled HIBI episode. Her vision had fractured. The walls had warped into a kaleidoscope of horrors that bled the Go-Sci ring into every corner of her perception. Even earlier this morning, as Dahlia had guided her away from Tsing's lab and toward the elevator—she couldn't summon the courage to truly look. She had kept her gaze low, fearing the walls might betray her all over again.

But now . . . now the luxury of avoidance was gone.

        Her survival depended on fighting her way out.

        As the Mountain Men split and dispersed into Level Three, Haven found herself cornered—flanked by Emerson and two other soldiers. Gone were the sterile, whitewashed depths of the Quarantine Ward. Here, the walls were of raw rock, corroded and weeping from years of water damage and neglect. They glistened with a sickly green hue, as if the Mountain itself were rotting from within.

The groan of a massive steel door breaking its seal sent a shiver down Haven's spine.

Apocalyptically. . . the space beyond yawned open, revealing a private chamber that eerily resembled Tsing's lab. Empty cages lined the walls, their metal frames shimmering under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights. Monitors flickered erratically, their screens glowing with unreadable medical jargon. In the corner, the lifeless body of Julian Virek slumped against a discarded stretcher—his pale, sunken face was turned skyward. Lips frozen mid-silent scream. Blood seeped slowly into the hospital gown clinging to his hips, pooling beneath his body in dark, arterial rivers that stained the stretcher below.

Haven felt bile scorch her throat.

        Bone marrow extraction.

But even that grim reality was not the worst of it.

At the back of the room lay the pièce de résistance—a cold, unoccupied operation table. Straps hung limp, awaiting their next victim . . . while a blood-crusted drill sat menacingly on the tray beside it.

This wasn't just a room.

It was a graveyard of horrors.

And Haven was its next offering.

"I'll prep the table." one of the Mountain Men muttered, clinically approaching the operation table. The straps dangled as he adjusted the height to accommodate Haven's shorter stature. "Cage requests Smith as soon as she's finished with harvesting. Do whatever you want to her—but keep her alive."

Haven went eerily still.

Cage—?

"Copy that," Emerson replied. His free hand fisted the blood-soaked fabric of Haven's shirt, lecherously yanking her closer. A smirk scalded the back of her skull. "I'll strip her down."

No. Fucking. Way.

Revulsion razed through her like an earthquake, fracturing every nerve, threatening to collapse her from the inside out. But Haven remained still—eerily, deliberately still. For the first time since her interaction with Emerson began, she could feel the traitorous sensation of fear finally beginning to register.

Haven wasn't going to die like this.

        She would not lie docile beneath the hands of the men and allow them to violate her. She would not be another body broken beneath their ambition. She would not feel the cold bite of leather restraints as she was bound to the operating table, reduced to a vessel of marrow and blood. She would not endure the mechanical savagery of the drill, burrowing into her bones, harvesting the essence of her survival for the sake of their selfish salvation. She would not be another goddamn tool for another monster's ascent to glory.

They would not carve their future from her suffering.

        Before Emerson could rip the shirt from her body—Haven acted. She reared her head back and drove her skull squarely into his vile, leering smirk. The impact was staggering—a violent collision of bone and flesh that sent a jarring shockwave through her own senses. For a moment, her vision swam, but it was worth it. Emerson staggered backward instantaneously, an agonized grunt escaping his throat as the force of the headbutt crumpled him to the ground. As he fell, his grip on her shirt loosened, but not before it tore clean off.

        Haven stood there, stripped down to a bloodstained white tank, sweatpants . . . and an amalgamation of ripped sutures.

        Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

        She was bleeding. A lot.

        (But at least she couldn't feel it!)

        Once Emerson was sprawled across the stone floor, Haven did not hesitate. She drove her bloodied sock straight into his teeth with feral precision. One kick turned into two—then three, then six—each strike fueled by the molten rage rocketing through her veins. The impact of each blow reverberated through her hip, but she did not stop—not until his smugness was shattered beneath the force of her fury.

        Blinded by the blood seeping into his eyes, Emerson flailed, clawing blindly at her ankle.

        But Haven was faster.

        She raised her other foot and drove it into his forehead with enough meteoric force to snap his skull back against the floor. The sickening crack of bone against stone echoed through the chamber—and for a moment, the only sound was her own ragged breathing.

Emerson lay still. Unconscious. Defeated.

. . . Filth.

Spinning wildly, Haven's hand flew to her waistband, retrieving the twin blades she'd secretly stashed earlier. The other two Mountain Men lunged toward her—their monstrous, gloved hands outstretched and seeking to claim her. Her grip tightened. Her muscles coiled. The world narrowed to the beat of her heart, and she almost let the blades fly—each one destined to sink into their chests in perfect, lethal synchronization.

But then—something in her blood ignited.

        Bellamy.

A whisper of him surged through Haven's DNA with something far more elemental than gravity, tethering her to the earth, and forcing her to pause.

Haven could never explain it, but she had always known when Bellamy was near—felt it in the quiet alchemy of her blood, simmering like molten gold. His presence never failed to sear through her cells, as though her veins had been forged to house the sheer fire of him. An inferno that ignited with impossible fervor. She had ingested the sun itself the moment she met him five years ago, and its light had rooted itself in the marrow of her being ever since. Every time he was absent, it smoldered to embers. Every time he was close, it scorched to unfathomable brilliance.

She felt him. She felt him. She felt him.

But where—?

Click.

Haven spun wildly at the sharp, metallic snap of a safety being thumbed off—a sound she knew too well.

The formidable silhouette of a Mountain Man had stormed into the chamber. He stood as an impenetrable wall of iron, clad in jet-black riot gear that seemed to devour all light. His face was obscured by the soulless sheen of a visor—a faceless specter of death—his every movement rigid with purpose. He did not hesitate. He did not falter. The pistol in his gloved hand was already trained on her, its barrel steady as it pointed directly at her forehead.

FUCK.

Bullets were faster than blades.

Believe it or not, Haven knew when to fight and when to wait—and this was undoubtedly a moment to wait. Slowly, she raised her hands in surrender, her posture resigned but her mind sharpening to a lethal edge. The impromptu plan was simple: bide her time, let the soldier think he had her—then drop the fucker on his ass when he least expected it.

But something in the way he stood caught her off guard.

There was a fire in his movements—a strange, electric symbiosis that thrummed beneath the cold armor of the riot gear. It wasn't just his stance or the pistol trained on her—it was him. A magnetism she couldn't quite place, something unnervingly familiar. Her gaze fixed on the gun in his hands as it trembled—a betrayal so minuscule it could've been a trick of the light.

Then, as if by muscle memory alone, his ring finger tapped against the edge of the holster.

Once. Twice. Three times.

        Realization hit Haven like the splitting of galaxies—rupturing and colliding in a violent explosion before settling into perfect, agonizing clarity.

        She dropped her hands.

        The gun swiveled from Haven's forehead as the weight of death was seamlessly redirected. Two bullets snarled through the air in rapid succession, splitting the silence and tearing through flesh. Two bodies fell behind her, the Mountain Men reduced to nothing but corpses as shrapnel obliterated their skulls.

        Headshots. Clean. Fatal.

For a fleeting second, Haven could almost feel the universe bend and align itself around him. The boy she loved—both destroyer and savior—pulling her back to life in the only way he knew how. She could not deny the smile that overtook her, brighter than any solar light spilling beyond Mount Weather's suffocating stone walls. It widened even further as he pocketed his pistol, reached up to unfasten his helmet, and shook loose his crown of dark curls.

        The same curls she would recognize anywhere.

        Bellamy Blake stared at the girl he loved as though she were conjured from dreams.

        "Haven..."

        And then he was moving—soaring toward her with the kind of reckless desperation that obliterated all thought. His gloves were torn away, discarded as if they had betrayed him, his bare palms aching to feel the proof of her existence beneath them. Strong arms coiled manically around her spine as hers flew over his shoulders. He hauled her onto her tallest tip-toes, lifting her as though he could will her closer, higher, until gravity's cruel alchemy dragged her back down—but even that could not break his hold.

        He held her with a desperation that bordered on violence.

        Clinging with the same maddening devotion as flesh knitting itself around the plunge of a knife.

        A wound refusing to let the blade free.

        The blood that smeared across Bellamy's uniform was utterly meaningless. And if his grip bruised or his strength threatened to crush her, he could not bring himself to care. He was selfish, utterly unrepentant in the way he fused Haven to his chest. Deaf to anything but the heat of her breath warming the crook of his neck and the wild rhythm of her pulse beneath his fingertips. Alive. Alive. Alive. Alive. Alive. He sunk into her arms, bleeding into the lure of her orbit, so devastatingly heavy that Haven nearly staggered beneath the weight of him.

        "Bell," Haven panted. "Bell, are you—"

       "Are you hurt?" Bellamy cut in. Somehow, impossibly, he found the strength to loosen his grip, pulling back just enough to manically search her eyes—though the motion seemed to cost him everything. His hands rose to cradle her face. "Did they touch you? Did they bleed you—?"

        Haven jerkily shook her head. "No," she breathed out, oblivious to the saltwater eclipsing her eyes and bleeding down her cheeks. She hardly even noticed their existence until Bellamy's thumbs tenderly swept them away. "No. I-I'm okay. I'm okay."

He stared at her. Brokenly.

"Then what are you doing here, Haven?"

Something unspeakable detonated beneath the fragile confines of Haven's ribs, scorching through sinew and bone as she studied the boy she loved.

Bellamy was relieved to see her.

Always relieved.

But he was . . . furious.

It was not the kind of fury that erupted—it was the kind that imploded, carving unseen scars from the inside out. Bellamy trembled beneath the weight of it, shaking so profusely that Haven couldn't tell whether his rage was meant for her or for himself. She was not sure if he looked seconds away from collapsing into sobs or pulverizing the stone wall with his fists—perhaps both at once. His ribcage shook with devastatingly shallow breaths. Frantic, storm-lit eyes blazed with an outrage that seethed hot enough to warp steel.

        And yet, Bellamy's arms only tightened around her. It was ruinous, how he held Haven with both reverence and reproach—like she was the origin of his agony and the salve for it in the same, agonizing heartbeat. The only way his body could endure the enormity of his anguish—the only way it could retain its equilibrium—was by clutching the very thing that had destroyed him.

        Her.

Haven's tongue felt like soot. "I—"

"We have to go. Both of you."

        Jolted from her trance of terror, Haven's gaze wavered, barely managing to discern the hesitant silhouette of Maya stepping into the chamber. The Vie girl's wide eyes swept over the carnage—the lifeless forms crumpled on the ground, the grisly splatter of brain matter clawing at the walls—before finally resting on the nightmarish mosaic of red and black blood that marred Haven's body.

        She jerked her head towards the exit.

        "Let's get you some place safe."

• •

HIIIIII

HEY SIRI PLAY TURN IT OFF BY PARAMORE

i feel like i kind of edged yall with bellamy being all the way at the end 💀 SORRY
BUT I PRESENT TO YOU THE BEGINNING STAGES OF MOUNT WEATHER
✨FUCKSHIT ✨
14.1k words of chaos!!!!! holy cow girl
god writing action sequences is so fucking difficult and time consuming but im SO happy with the output. theres soooooo much that went down here... i dont even know where to start😭

....how do we feel about our girl's life expectancy 🫣

also.. tsing has been hinted at being a nightblood through sooo much symbolism for SO long yall. if you caught it, PROPS. more obviously with her greyness described at the end of chapter 67.
IT WASNT SUBTLY FORESHADOWED THAT HAVEN WAS GONNA KILL HER THO LOL I DID NOT CARE TO HIDE THAT SHIT.
tsing had it coming... but haven's first vengeance kill makes me ☹️
"YOU PSYCHOTIC SON OF BITCH!" is also what haven said to her when she busted out of her cage in the harvest chamber too🫣

i missed writing everybody back together again so much.
HAV AND MILLER!!! MY BESTIES FOR THE RESTIES. the entire mount weather gang is so near and dear to my heart but i am missing orion HEAVILY </3

bell and hav tho.... 😵‍💫
i will say next chapter is more damage but then damage control! you get destruction and then a little smooch on the forehead ✨ for balance!
my word count lately is actual FUCKIN insanity so chapter 71 is going to be a fluffy reprieve chapter (bell pov!!!✨) that i originally had planned for the second half of chapter 70... but the first half just got WAY too long so im cutting ✂️
dare i say its gonna be the last happy chapter of act 2... 😭

i have so much planned and i am so horrified !!!
doubting your writing capabilities hits extra hard when nearing the end of an act and suddenly i feel super overwhelmed and insecure about every plotline and every fckin word out of my mouth BUT! i shall persevere 😭 everytime i complete a chapter this long and eventful i get hit with the WORST burnout. literally like clockwork.
writing this note as proof so i can look back and be like damn girl. calm down you did it!!!!

ALSO.... I KNOW SOME OF YALL SAW FROM MY ANNOUNCEMENT ALREADY BUT I HAVE TO POST AGAIN HERE.
tara you are quite literally the love of my life and i am so lucky to have become friends through this silly little app.
LOOK AT WHAT SHE MADE!!! WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK 😭😭😭 domfikes2
it's being used in the new playlist cover for tff if you missed it!!!!

im going to cry. AGAIN.

anyway. my adhd author's note is complete. i love yall so damn much
THANK YOU FOR 120K AND THANK YOU FOR BEING MY BESTIES <3

SEE YOU NEXT WEEK!

haven's killcount: 14 (tsing + 4 mountain men)