• •

CHAPTER FOURTY TWO;

DARK MATTER.

• •

BELLAMY BLAKE'S GLARE SEARED HELLFIRE INTO THE HEAVENS THEMSELVES, his eyes smoldering with a dark, desperate fury as he cursed the stars above. He longed to pulverize them, to grind their silvery glow into cosmic dust under his clenched fists. If he could, he'd reach into the universe and wrench every supernova from its celestial throne, tearing through the fabric of the galaxies until they surrendered a path that led straight to the girl he loved. It was a cruel, merciless jest—the idea that such grand tools of navigation sprawled endlessly above him, yet offered not a single clue . . . not even the faintest whisper of where Haven had been stolen from him.

If the very constellations that the duo had poured over for hours, studying from the windows of the Ark, tracing their patterns during medical appointments that ran for hours—if those same stars could not guide him back to her . . . then why did they get to exist at all? What cosmic force had given them the audacity to shine so brilliantly, so mockingly, in a world without her presence?

It was wrong.

        Everything was fucking wrong.

Bellamy had always known it was possible to feel everything at once. His rage simmered alongside his sorrow, each feeding into the other in a vicious, unbreakable cycle. His grief intertwined with his own self-destruction, a dark dance that spun him closer to the edge with every twist and turn. Even his brightest moments were poisoned, perpetually shadowed by the inescapable specter of dread.

The only time Bellamy ever felt truly whole, where the storm inside calmed and the frayed edges knitted back together . . . it was with Haven.

        It was always with Haven.

       She was the light that reached into the darkest recesses of his soul, the parts of himself he had long banished to the shadows. She stared straight through his perpetual bullshit and forced him to confront the entirety of his existence—every raw, untempered emotion laid bare, free from the shackles of rejection or judgment. Her presence did not soothe the tempest of his emotions; rather, it stoked them, magnifying each facet of his being with ferocious clarity.

And yet, he didn't flinch away.

With Haven . . . Bellamy didn't shrink from himself. He didn't avert his eyes from the reflections she mirrored back to him. In her eyes, every shadowed corner, every fractured piece of his psyche was not merely observed but deeply acknowledged, embraced, and accepted—even if it meant she had to forcefully shove him into a riverbank to yank his head out of his ass. Her love was both a challenge and a balm—it spurred him to do better, to be better.

       He wasn't afraid of himself.
 
       Not anymore.

       But now, alone and confined within the dismal confines of a goddamn cell, its space choked with underbrush and tangled with dangling wires, Bellamy found himself shackled to a cold, unyielding pole beside Orion and Murphy. Here, in this shadowy pit of despair, a new, raw terror seethed within him—a fear not of himself, but of the terrifying lengths he might reach to claw his way to freedom, to find her.

        Hours had slipped by since Bellamy masterfully manipulated the dropship's ramp, executing a cunning ruse. He had tricked Kane's pack of idiots into believing he had barricaded himself on the third floor. Yet, as soon as their boots clomped upwards, he stealthily slipped from a concealed nook on the first floor and made his grand escape. His freedom was short-lived, however. Barely half a mile into the dense, whispering forest, as he resumed his desperate search for Haven and the others, the harsh reality struck him—literally. The icy, merciless crackle of a guard's shock baton jolted him not once, but six harrowing times, each shock more debilitating than the last.

        His limbs were seizing so uncontrollably that the guards had barely managed to put the cuffs on him.

        And now . . . he was here.

        Seething. Dying. Bleeding out.

        First, Bellamy had been hauled, half-conscious and wholly unwilling, into the camp's makeshift Medical tent. His head was a cauldron of agony, blazing with the aftermath of brutal trauma, while his heart ached beneath the weight of its own wreckage. He had braced himself, his fists clenched and ready to strike at the first sight of Abby—only to be greeted by Jackson's presence instead.

A thousand unspoken questions roared between them.

      But there had been no time to talk, no privacy to unravel the layers of trauma that had accumulated over the past year. The Medical tent was swamped with the aftermath of the Ark's harrowing descent to Earth. Each citizen sprawled against the curtain bore the scars of their brutal journey—sick and weakened, their bodies battered by the severe oxygen deprivation they had endured prior to landing.

        "I run my own practice now." Jackson had whispered discreetly, his eyes dilating with alarm as he observed in the sight of the blood that had seeped into Bellamy's eardrums. "I'll be overseeing your treatment—not her. I made sure of it."

As if that made any fucking difference.

Amid the murky revelations and shifting allegiances, Bellamy found himself wrestling with the unfortunate weight of Abby's survival, a burden that clung to him like a shadow.
Plus, alongside that, he had been oblivious to the fact that he was silently bleeding out from his back. The culprit: the arrow he had ripped from his spine during the clash of battle, the same arrow he had used to slaughter Haven's attacker. This treacherous wound was so cunning, so stealthy—he hadn't even registered its sting until he dragged his blood all over the floor.

       Jackson had bluntly informed him that he was also suffering from a subarachnoid hemorrhage—a sophisticated term for what Bellamy dismissed as just a stupid brain bleed. To him, it was nothing more than dumb headache. However, Jackson was relieved to learn that the bleeding wasn't within the brain itself, but presumably around it. He insisted that Bellamy's time confined in the cell was crucial to ensure a full recovery, to prevent serious complications like permanent damage, memory loss, seizures . . . blah, blah, fuckin' blah.

It all sounded the same to him.

They'd find another time to discuss Jackson's pivotal, life-saving actions on that fateful day.

But, until then . . .

Bellamy was trapped within this stupid cell.

        Driven by wild, restless desperation—he had exhausted just about every conceivable method of escape. The cuffs that bound him gnawed viciously at his wrists, staining his skin with scarlet, marking him with the ferocity of his struggle. He had even gone as far as to contort his own hands, attempting to dislocate both of his thumbs—a futile ploy to slip through the relentless grip of his shackles.

Yet, each seething attempt was met with the chains clamped tight to an immovable pole, and the intermittent, piercing glares of guards stationed at the door. They watched him like a pack of bloodthirsty hawks, circling, ever vigilant—waiting for him to finally snap and shatter beneath the strain.

        He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

        Not yet.

        Eventually, Kane made his entrance, dragging a chair across the room to position his arrogant, pompous ass directly opposite where Bellamy sat—shackled and confined. He began to interrogate Bellamy, prying for details about the Grounders' battle tactics, their weaponry, and their strengths and weaknesses. Kane, in his astoundingly misplaced confidence, believed that the Guard was sufficiently prepared to venture into the woods—a territory they knew jack shit about, yet Bellamy knew like the back of his hand.

        Still.
 
        Bellamy was barred from joining.

"A threat to others."

Those were the words Kane had used to describe Bellamy—spoken with such cold, casual authority that it nearly drove the Blake boy to lunge from his position on the floor and smash his fist into Kane's nose. But, alas, Bellamy remained bound to the cold ground, his features twisted in a visage of silent, seething fury. He knew too well that any act of defiance would only lengthen his confinement, shackling him even further from his desperate quest to find Haven and the others.

        Then came the admission that annihilated Bellamy to the marrow of his being.

        Kane had informed him that upon Alpha's landing, another search team had plumbed the stygian depths of the underground aid depot—the same cryptic vault Haven and Bellamy had once uncovered. The search team had found two additional barrels, each teeming with rifles, and a third, swollen with a vast, cold arsenal of bullets. This devastating find revealed a bitter truth—a trove of ammunition that, had Bellamy only delved just a little deeper . . . might have spared countless young lives.

Another mistake.

Another failure of his own creation.

Bellamy could have altered the camp's fate, handed their child soldiers a genuine shot at triumph and survival—if only he had probed the depths further, or simply tried harder. Instead, he had abandoned Haven in the gloomy bowels of the depot and retreated into a hallucinogenic abyss, reliving the darkest, most agonizing day of his life in a ceaseless, tormenting loop.

". . . It doesn't matter how hard you try, Bellamy!"

This time, it was Haven's scornful accusation that reverberated mercilessly within his skull, her words carrying a venom that eclipsed even the relentless throb of his brain bleed. She had flung them at him on the day he captured Lincoln, her voice shivering with a storm of rage, hatred, and hurt—all conjured by Bellamy's own actions. Moments later, she had collapsed, her body wracked by the first of many traumatizing seizures.

His heart had abandoned him that day.

Watching Haven teeter on the precipice of death for the sixth time had torn him wide open. Anticipatory grief was a cruel executioner; it had pried open his chest, wrenching his darkest sins from their bastions around his heart, and thrust him into the stark light of self-reckoning. How deluded he had been to imagine himself sculpted of stone, when the sight of her—fragile and convulsing on the cold floor—had the power to sink him to his knees in seconds. How stupid to have wasted time cloaked in pretense, denying his desperate wish to ascend beyond his mistakes, to try harder, to be better. How tragically blind he had been, to suppress the glaring truth that she was the only goddamn reason why.

The singular, undeniable catalyst, propelling Bellamy toward a redemption he hardly even believed he deserved.

"It's not enough!"

And . . . she was right.

As always.

       "KANE, IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, I SWEAR TO GOD—I'M GONNA ASSSASSINATE YOU IN YOUR FUCKING SLEEP!"

Right.

According to Kane, Jaha had chosen to remain aboard the Earth Monitoring Station, tasked with the manual launch of the Ark's satellites. In the eerie silence that followed their descent—no signals, no communications—Kane had seized the reins, appointing himself as the interim Chancellor. Now, he was determined to enforce the Ark's stringent laws upon the untamed earth beneath their feet.

       Bellamy wasn't particularly fond of Alpha's crash site being christened as Camp Jaha, nor was he keen on Kane's presence as the highest authority. However, he begrudgingly admitted that Kane's leadership was preferable to that of the actual Chancellor—the very man Bellamy had, y'know . . . shot.

        "LET! US! OUT!"

Somehow, Orion had taken their momentary imprisonment with far more fury than Bellamy. From the moment they were cast into the cell in the waning light of afternoon, Orion had launched into a wild assault on her shackles, a fervor not dimmed even as the stars began to whisper through a ceiling breach overhead. Chained to the same pole as Bellamy, she had inadvertently used him as a stepping stone—repeatedly—their cramped quarters turning every movement into a collision.

"Would you shut up already?" Murphy snapped, weary and strained as he leaned his head back against the cold, rough wall adjacent to them. "He's not going to—"

        "Suck my dick, Murphy," Orion scowled.

        "Um...that's bestiality." Murphy drawled, his voice as flat and serpentine as ever. He absentmindedly picked at the grime entrenched beneath his fingernails, his gaze drifting lazily from the task to meet Orion's seething fury. "I do have some morals."

Typically, Bellamy would've silenced Murphy's antics within seconds, his response sharp and accompanied by a swift, decisive punch to the jaw. But now, after enduring countless hours of Orion and Murphy's relentless, insatiable bickering . . . Bellamy found himself utterly depleted of patience. Every time he attempted to shut them up, Orion and Murphy redirected their barrage of insults, dogpiling their animosity upon him rather than each other.

        Orion merely scoffed. "But you're okay with killing people, then?" she hissed, tilting her head menacingly. "Kidnapping Haven and Jasper? Hanging Bellamy? Shooting Raven in her fucking spine?!"
      
        As if on cue, another wave of Raven's agonized screams tore through the stillness, ripping through the stale air of the cell. All three of them flinched simultaneously, their heads jerking towards the direction of the haunting cries, each echo a grim reminder of the pain just beyond their sight.

        Bellamy could only pray to the cosmos above that it was Jackson tasked with removing the bullet from Raven's spine. If Abby had somehow gotten to her first . . . if she had managed to lay her sinister, traitorous hands upon Haven's best friend as well . . .

        He shook his head in silent frustration.

        Meanwhile, after Orion visibly recoiled from the harrowing screams—she redirected the inferno of her gaze towards Murphy. "She's only like this because of YOU!"

        "I helped her in the dropship," Murphy grunted lamely.

        "Yeah," Orion shot back venomously, "After you fucking shot her!"

        A seismic shift flickered through Murphy's eyes as he absorbed the full brunt of Orion's seething rage, his lips curling into a faint, knowing smirk. "Damn," he mused quietly, a trace of realization dawning in his tone. "I see how it is."

Orion huffed. "See what—?"

"Looks like Orion Jae Vincetta's got a big fat crush our favorite birdy—the same one who's still in love with Finn fucking Collins." Murphy's eyes gleamed with mischievous delight, his eyebrow arching gloatingly. "Now that sucks."

        Bellamy blinked in silent astonishment.

        Discreetly, he cast a private glance towards Orion, only to find her caught in a rare moment of vulnerability—her cheeks were aflame with a deep flush of pink, contrasting starkly against the harsh lines of cuts and bruises marring her face.

        . . . Oh, shit.

        How the hell did he miss that?

        "Sucks for you, you mean," Orion retorted sharply, her voice fiery yet composed, belying the telltale blush that adorned her features. "Don't get too butthurt, serpent. You never stood a chance with me anyway. I'm astronomically gay."

"Again—bestiality." Murphy resumed his posture of casual indifference, leaning his head back against the wall with a dismissive tilt. "And who even cares about...that? You want me to pull a rainbow flag out of my ass or some shit? Congrats, Orion—you're gay and insufferable."

       "Y'know what, Murphy?" Orion's voice dropped to a colder tone as her eyes narrowed into calculating slits, pinning Murphy with a stare so intense it seemed to shred right through him. "You might have everybody else fooled, but not moi. I know what you are."

Murphy rolled his eyes. "And what's that?"

Orion burst into a wicked grin.

"A freakin' fruitcake."

At that, Murphy's eyebrows instinctively shot upwards, nearly vanishing into his hairline. For the first time ever—genuine shock painted his features, erasing his usual mask of indifference. His eyes widened in utter disbelief, a stunned silence lingering in the air before laughter burst from his lips, raw and incredulous.

"Huh—?"

        "You don't hate Blake for kicking the damn crate," Orion continued smugly. "You only hate him because you're secretly in love with him!"

        Murphy audibly grimaced.

Meanwhile, Bellamy's eyes bulged with horror, his neck snapping upright as he abruptly whipped towards Orion. His gaze, fierce and incredulous, pinned her with such intensity that it seemed to warp the very air between them. He hadn't encountered such unfathomable depths of shock since the day he'd seen Haven alive again . . . after a year spent mourning her. But this, this moment was different—it ignited within him a raw, visceral disbelief that forced his jaw to practically unhinge.

"What. The. Fuck—?"

        Orion burst into a raucous fit of hysterical cackles. "Look at him! All quiet and shit!" she taunted, attempting to point an accusatory finger at Murphy. Hindered by her shackles, her movements were clumsy—prompting her elbow to inadvertently jerk into Bellamy's cheekbone. "I'm right! I am so right! He's totally in love with you!"

        "Don't," Bellamy grunted, agitation evident in every sinew of his features as he briskly knocked aside Orion's elbow with his own. "Leave me out of whatever...this is."

       Murphy slowly emerged from his stunned silence, exhaling a long, exasperated sigh. "Oh, please—don't worry your thick fuckin' skull about it, Bellamy. I'd rather sleep with Wells," he huffed, raking his gaze over the Blake boy with his signature contempt. "And he's dead."

"Nah. I'm onto something here," Orion insisted, her eyes alight with mischievous glee as she succumbed to another bout of wild laughter. "That's why you hate Haven so much, too! You want Blake all to your freakin' self!"

That's it.

Bellamy was going to kill himself.

        He was going to take the stupid cuffs biting into his wrist and wrap them around his own goddamn neck—anything to escape the torturous, agonizing cacophony of their incessant bullshit.

Murphy shot Orion another incredulous stare. "Your imagination is wildly concerning."

        "Whatever," Orion hissed, her laughter abruptly cutting off as she regained her composure, her features twisting into her usual venomous spite. "You're just lucky I didn't get the chance to kick your teeth in—CUNT."

"I think you did enough damage already," Murphy winced, screwing his eyes shut as the sharp sting of her profanity echoed loudly within the confined space. "Now, you're gonna shatter my eardrums."

        "You got what coming to you," Bellamy rasped.

        "Hey–I'm looking out for you too, asshole." Murphy sneered. "Unless you want your concussion to kill you."

        Bellamy cast him a scathing glare.

"Unless the brain damage has already set in—?" Murphy taunted further, tilting his head with a cruel smirk, stupidly overconfident that the restraints would keep him safe from Bellamy's wrath. "Or maybe this is who Bellamy Blake has been all along—a braindead idiot who goes mute without his girlfriend to prompt him."

        . . . Probably.

        "Real creative, Murphy," Orion cut in, nearly salivating at the chance to fling another venomous jibe at the boy figure beside them. "At least Blake has someone who gives a shit about him. You wanna tell us what that's like?"

Murphy parted his lips. "I—"

"Oh, wait!" Orion's grin was wickedly cruel. "You can't."

"Real creative." Murphy's jaw clenched, a visible tick betraying that the barb had struck deep, the first time it had seemed to pierce his armor during their long hours of verbal sparring. "I'm not the only bastard child here."

        "Awww," Orion hummed sweetly, eyes glinting with faux tenderness. "Am I supposed to feel bad for you? At least my mom loved me."

        "Yeah..." Murphy drawled. "Too bad she's dead, huh?"

        "Watch it."

        As Bellamy spat out his warning, a thousand shades of red violently erupted across his vision, each hue searing and swirling—contorting his perception until the entire world appeared drenched in crimson and scarlet. Beside him, Orion's form became devastatingly rigid, her jaw quivering with a rage barely held in check. Meanwhile, Murphy's smirk only widened, soaking in the tumultuous reaction he had drawn from them both.

        "I mean...yikes." Murphy continued nonchalantly, "And what was it you got locked up for, again? Didn't you kill your own stepdad—?"

        "SHUT UP!"

        At the raw power of Orion's outburst, the very air in the cell seemed to freeze, as if holding its breath in the face of her ferocious wrath. A dense, suffocating silence descended, so thick it seemed to swallow every breath. Her body shook with uncontrollable rage, the chains binding her wrists clashing against each other in a harsh, relentless chorus of metallic clangs.

Yet, as Bellamy studied Orion more intently, he discerned a complexity in her trembling that transcended mere anger. Her quivers seemed almost primal, a visceral response to a deeper, unspoken dread. Within her tear-stricken eyes, he glimpsed the same raw, petrified terror that surfaced when she had frantically pleaded for a female guard's intervention . . . rather than the harsh grip of men. And now, as Murphy's cruel taunt evoked the ghost of her stepdad . . .

        . . . No.

        It took mere seconds to put it together.

        Bellamy wasn't the only one in the cell who had connected the dots. By the time he pinned Murphy with his relentless, threatening glare, Murphy's earlier smirk had completely dissipated. The coward's lips pressed into a hard line as he shrank back, desperate to escape the havoc he had unleashed, to hide from the reckoning that roiled in Bellamy's eyes.

Too fucking late.

"As soon as I get out of these cuffs..." Bellamy's vow hung heavy, a dark oath suspended between them, echoing with the grim certainty of a fate sealed by betrayal. "I'm snapping your goddamn neck. I swear it."

        Murphy merely grimaced.

       A shadow of concern briefly tamed the inferno in Bellamy's stare, softening his fury as he glanced towards Orion. The seventeen-year-old sat ghostlike beside him, eyes fixed unnervingly on the wall before them, her expression vacant yet betraying a tremble that coursed relentlessly through her limbs. Bellamy couldn't fathom what she horrors might've been reliving beneath her clouded eyes. So, he decisively cleared his throat, preparing to divert the conversation to safer waters, but before a word could pass his lips . . . the air was rent once again by Raven's agonized shrieks.

"Yeah, that was me at the Grounder camp," Murphy began gruffly, summoning a reckless audacity to speak again, as if the walls themselves hadn't just vibrated with Raven's torment. "You know, I did everything I could not to scream, but eventually—"

        "But eventually, you broke and you told them everything," Bellamy spat, cutting off Murphy's sentence with a venomous sharpness, his voice a serrated edge designed to slaughter. "Why are you still fucking talking?"

Murphy locked eyes with Bellamy, his gaze hollow, steeped in a deep, resigned darkness. "And you wouldn't have, because you're better than me."

        "Damn right," Bellamy declared swiftly. "I'm not a traitor. I didn't tell them where they could find us. I didn't lead an army straight to a pack of innocent children—"

        "And I did," Murphy cut in. "Yeah, I did—after they tortured me in their prison camp for three days." Fresh blood mingled with his spit as a wound on his lip, torn open anew by his sneering, began to seep. "But go ahead, Bellamy. Keep playing the hero. Keep believing you're the fuckin' man."

His next words were morbidly ironic.

        "Even if you're in here....just like me."

"Womp womp, serpent," Orion murmured, her voice hollow, as if echoing from a deep, distant void. She seemed to slowly emerge from her haunted daze. "Womp freakin' womp."

At that, Bellamy abruptly tore his eyes away from Murphy—unable to stomach the sight of his own reflection mirrored back to him any longer.

        Although Murphy's cowardice could never measure up to Bellamy's steely righteousness—the words still lacerated his spirit, wringing his gut into tight, unending knots. Bellamy's love for the camp's inhabitants burned with a sacred fervor; the mere notion of yielding under the brutal hands of torture was unthinkable, blasphemous to his very core. He would rather face a swift, definitive death at the hands of his captors than commit the ultimate betrayal of compromising the safety of his loved ones. In Bellamy's moral fiber, in the very strands of his DNA, there lay an indomitable resolve—a refusal to relent, to give in, to falter when the stakes were the lives of his makeshift family.

He loved them too damn much.

        But perhaps that was the difference between him and Murphy.

Murphy had the crate kicked out from beneath him by Bellamy's feet. Murphy had been exiled from the safety of camp's borders by Bellamy's own decree. Murphy had endured seventy-two grueling hours of relentless torture at the hands of their enemies, a sacrifice to shield a camp that had never loved him back . . . until, crushed under the weight of his agonies, he finally broke.

Whatever. Whatever.

It didn't matter if Bellamy felt a flicker of remorse for the orphaned boy in the corner.

Murphy had dug his own fucking grave.

Suddenly, the doors at the cell's threshold whispered open, accompanied by the light thud of footsteps. Bellamy kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the worn leather of his boots, rooted in place, deliberately ignoring the new stirrings. He attributed the sounds to nothing more than the nightly changing of the guard, their footsteps heralding only another set of cold, watchful eyes to maintain surveillance.

And then . . .

"Get up."

Bellamy blinked in bewilderment.

Swift as a shadow—Finn fucking Collins slipped into the room, his movements silent and precise. He approached the pole where Bellamy and Orion were chained, placing a pack of supplies on the ground and rummaging through its contents. Quickly, he produced bolt cutters, severing Bellamy's cuffs with a decisive snap before pivoting to offer Orion the same liberation.

        Orion's jaw practically unhinged. "What the fuck—?!"

        "Stop looking at me like that—both of you!" Finn hissed, his voice barely a whisper as he cast a wary glance over his shoulder, eyes darting to ensure their secrecy remained intact. His gaze, wild with adrenaline, locked onto Bellamy's with an intensity that burned. "We're going after them."

        Bellamy stared at Finn as though he had suddenly sprouted a second head—one that, remarkably . . . didn't ignite Bellamy's usual urge to pummel him. It took only a moment for him to grasp whom Finn intended to rescue, and there was absolutely no time to dwell on how the hell they had found themselves in rare agreement. Their typical animosity was now overshadowed by a critical, unified purpose—finding their missing friends.

        His words fell with the weight of iron.

        "It's about damn time."

        All at once, Bellamy thrust himself to his feet, immediately assaulted by a violent swirl of black and grey that warped his vision—a harsh reminder of the lurking brain bleed within. He swayed violently, the room spinning as if thrown off its axis, nearly sending him crashing back into the pole that had recently imprisoned him. Gritting his teeth against the disorientation, he fought for equilibrium, muscles tensing as he forced himself to stabilize.

        . . . Fuck.
       
        "Wait! Wait!" Murphy's whisper cut through the air, urgent yet discreet, straining just enough to catch the group's attention as they poised to depart. "What about me?"

        With half of her body already fading into the shadowed corridor, Orion glanced back into the cell, fixing Murphy with a piercing, incredulous glare. "What about you?" she mocked, "You're getting left behind...duh."

        Once Bellamy wrestled through the dizzying kaleidoscope clouding his vision, his eyes narrowed, following the trail of Orion's sharp glare, until they landed intensely on Murphy.

        In the dim, oppressive light of the cell, Murphy's eyes shifted rapidly between Bellamy and Finn, dark pools of anxiety and apprehension. His face, almost grotesquely contorted, straddled the thin line between fear and something far more profound—raw, sheer desperation. It was as though every strained feature of his countenance silently screamed for inclusion, for a chance to demonstrate his value . . . to help.

No.

Surely—his concussion was forcing him to hallucinate.

        Bellamy shifted to retrieve the bolt cutters.

        "Wait!" Finn's voice exploded across the room as a fervent whisper, his form a blur as he charged, closing the gap in mere heartbeats. He instinctively pinned himself between Bellamy and the boy cowering on the floor. "No! You're not killing him! There's no time for—"

His words faltered, evaporating mid-breath as Bellamy pinned him with a sharp, forbidding glare. Finn's jaw went slack, astonishment overtaking his features when Bellamy, contrary to every fiery impulse . . . freed Murphy. Agitatedly, Bellamy maneuvered the bolt cutters, shearing through the bonds at that tethered Murphy to the pole. Then, in a defining act of restraint, he dropped the cutters to the ground, abandoning them with a clang that echoed in the charged silence—choosing mercy over violence.

"What are you doing?" Finn breathed.

Bellamy proceeded to grip Murphy by the shoulders, abruptly yanking him to his feet. His hands clamped down, white-knuckling the collar of Murphy's jacket with a strength that hinted at far darker possibilities. Murphy flinched, his instincts screaming for him to brace against an imminent crash into the nearby wall—a brutal end he saw flashing before his eyes.

        But the brutal collision never came.

        Instead, Murphy stood there, quivering under Bellamy's iron hold, each second stretched taut with the anticipation of a blow that never struck.

Bellamy set his jaw. "He's coming with us."

Orion almost choked. "He's what—?!"

"I am?" Murphy squeaked.

Finn vehemently shook his head. "No way."

"He's been to the Grounder prison camp," Bellamy countered, his voice low and intense, each word laced with urgency. His eyes burned with the knowledge of the twisted horrors that skulked in the depths of the forest—horrors that likely ensnared their friends as well. "Plus, he can be bait."

        Murphy nodded enthusiastically. "He's right, okay? I-I can bring you there!" His words tumbled out in a rush, fueled by a surge of adrenaline. But as a beat passed, the gravity of Bellamy's plan finally seeped into his consciousness. "...Wait."

        Orion's smirk deepened, a shadow of amusement crossing her face as she observed Murphy's features shift from eager to ashen. "Now that I can get behind."

       "Hey—Sterling just signaled," Monroe cut in, her hand waving briskly as she beckoned the group towards her in the dimly lit corridor. "Someone's coming."

And then . . . they moved.

The ragtag band of survivors threaded through the winding corridors of Alpha, their forms ghostly whispers amidst the engulfing gloom. Finn and Monroe led the procession, their shadows merging with the darkness, while Sterling and Orion trailed from behind. At the rear, Bellamy's grip on Murphy was as unyielding as iron, an unspoken threat coiled in every tense muscle. Dark blood stained their makeshift bandages, seeping from wounds hastily patched but shrieking with the echo of last night's battle. Each step was a sharp bite, pain flaring like wild fire in their veins.

        Yet, despite the mounting agony, a deeper urgency drove them onward, indifferent to their own suffering in the face of the dire stakes—rescuing their friends was all that mattered.

Bellamy was in the dark about the specifics of Finn's hastily conjured plan, yet, by some miracle—it appeared to be working. They had melted into the darkness undetected, ghosting through the veil of night as if woven from the very air itself. Murphy, now their uneasy guide, was poised to lead them towards the suspected site of the prison camp.

However, a critical next step loomed, one as imperative as it was perilous—they needed to arm themselves.

The absence of his rifle rendered Bellamy's hands unnervingly barren. An even deeper chasm yawned within him, mourning the backup daggers he once carried for Haven, all now casualties of war. The only vestige of the girl he loved was his charred switchblade, the very tool they had utilized in a frantic attempt to resuscitate her. It lay tucked privately against his waistband, a tangible echo of their morbid circumstances . . . a haunting relic of what he vowed to never lose again.

He fucking refused.

As Orion adjusted her pace to align with Bellamy at the rear, he cast her a wary glance, his feet deftly attempting to dodge the betraying twigs underfoot and failing. "You think anyone saw us?"

       "If they didn't see us, they definitely heard us," Orion muttered under her breath, stooping to stealthily clear away the branches that obstructed their path. "Try to keep it down. You're stomping louder because of your concoction."

        Bellamy blinked. "Concoction—?"

        Orion's frustration simmered at the brink as Bellamy blundered across the branches she had just painstakingly cleared, the sharp snaps echoing mockingly in the silent woods. Her lips parted, a fiery torrent of curses poised to erupt—but she bit back her words, a sudden insight halting them. It was uncharacteristic of Bellamy to tread so recklessly when stealth was crucial. Observing him more intently, a cold suspicion crept over her; Bellamy seemed utterly oblivious to the noise he was making.

Almost as if he couldn't hear them snapping beneath his feet . . . at all.

        Even Murphy seemed vaguely concerned.

"Damn, Blake. Your brain is soup," she whispered. Her gaze, once sharp with irritation, now softened into a look steeped in . . . worry. "I said concussion, not concoction."

        "Shh!" Finn hissed. "Keep it down."

        Bellamy abruptly jerked his head towards the sound of Finn's voice, inadvertently colliding with Murphy, which prompted them both to crash into Sterling's rigid spine. The sudden impact sent them reeling, a wild tangle of limbs flailing in a desperate scramble to remain upright. Murphy's weight nearly dragged Bellamy down to the forest floor, his head seething from the strain of standing—until Orion and Sterling reached out, steadying his swaying form and securing him against the imminent fall.

        Dominoes.

        Bellamy, the epitome of lethal precision and undying ego—had nearly turned his group into goddamn dominoes.

        "Oh, shit."

        Barely anchored from his near descent to the earth's embrace, Bellamy shook the fog from his vision—yet again. As the world slowly regained its sharp edges, he sought out Orion's breathless whisper . . . only to come face to face with the devil herself.

Abby stood as a phantom amidst the shadowed foliage of the treeline. "You're late."

No way.

        No fucking way.

Bellamy's glare ignited instantly, his features hardening into a mask of raw fury, completely bypassing any trace of bewilderment. "What the hell is she doing here?" he seethed. "Finn, what the—"

"Giving you an opportunity to find your friends," Abby interjected, her voice ringing with a bold audacity as she regally lifted her chin—as if Bellamy couldn't fling her against the nearest tree trunk with his mere pinkie. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

    Rage smoked from Bellamy's ears.

He was certain of it.

        "Sorry," Finn offered gruffly, assuming the role as being the neutral communicator between Abby and the others. "Bellamy decided to bring company."

        What the fuck was going on here?

Truly, what nightmarish simulation had Bellamy been unwittingly plunged into? Here he was, facing the embodiment of his deepest fears, the very flesh and blood of all he loathed. If his suspicions held any weight, Finn had seemingly conspired with Abby, enabling the rescue team to depart from Camp Jaha. In doing so, Finn had inadvertently elevated Abby to the status of a goddamn hero—a mantle so undeserving it was blasphemous.

       Swallowed by a tempest of incendiary, venomous wrath, Bellamy's vision swam, rendering the guard beside Abby into nothing more than a shadowy wraith, barely discernible through the haze of his seething fury.

Orion was right.

He should've left Finn to die.

"You don't understand," Bellamy snarled, biting out the words through gritted teeth, his wild eyes flashing between Finn and the monster looming ahead of them. "We can't trust her."

        Murphy cast the Blake boy an odd glance. "Uh...why not?" he asked, blissfully unaware of the insidious knowledge Bellamy possessed about their supposed savior. His eyes bulged in astonishment as Abby drew a pistol from her waistband and handed it to Finn. "Holy shit. They're giving us guns? We hit the damn jackpot."

. . . Guns?

"Excellent question, Mr. Murphy." Abby's gaze shifted sharply towards Bellamy, the harsh glare of her flashlight nearly searing his retinas.
Her tone was incisive, laced with a knowing edge, the intense beam pinning him like a specimen under scrutiny. "Is there something you'd like to share?"

He was going to kill her.

He was going to kill her.

Bellamy menacingly tilted his head. "Where do I fucking start?"

"Stop trying to rile him when he has a brain bleed, Gabby," Orion interjected, smoothly stepping forward to prevent Bellamy from launching into a tirade he'd surely regret. Her gaze blazed with a ferocity that made Abby's flashlight seem dim by comparison. "Aren't you like, fifty—?"

        Abby merely grimaced.

        "Weirdo," Orion huffed.

Before the silence could congeal into something even more unbearable, the guard whom Bellamy had dismissed to the fringes suddenly stepped forward, shattering the tension with his startling familiarity.

Holy fuck.

. . . It was Miller's dad.

Sergeant David Miller had once been Bellamy's commanding officer aboard the Ark. It was to David that Bellamy reported at the beginning and end of each shift, his presence a rare beacon of warmth in the otherwise icy detachment that characterized the rest of the Guard. David had been the one to appoint Bellamy as Haven's guard, unflinchingly accommodating when Bellamy not-so-subtly requested extra hours . . . each attempt a quiet hope to linger in her orbit just a little while longer.

         David regarded the Blake boy with a knowing dip of his head. "Bellamy."

        Beside himself entirely, Bellamy felt an instinctive jolt course through him, compelling him to stand taller—his entire body tightening into a stance of instinctive respect. His grip on Murphy loosened, almost forgotten, as he adopted the rigid stance of a soldier under the watchful eye of authority.

"Sergeant," he answered.

        David's gaze settled on Bellamy with a depth that transcended mere observation, delving into the fragmented corridors of his psyche with lethal precision. His eyes, sharp and discerning, seemed to sift through the layers of Bellamy's resolve, weighing the mettle of his spirit against the grave responsibilities he was poised to entrust. Despite its intensity, Bellamy didn't recoil from being under his microscope—David's presence commanded a respect that was unique, the only semblance of authority Bellamy truly acknowledged.

Everybody else could eat shit.

        "Take this." David's command was sharp, decisively sliding the rifle from his own back and pressing it into Bellamy's awaiting hands. His stare was laden with unspoken trust. "Find my son. Find our people. Do whatever it takes."

Bellamy accepted the weapon graciously, the familiar weight of a lethal weapon in his grasp steadying his wardrum heart ever so slightly. His calloused fingers glided expertly over the barrel, checking for the reassuring click of a loaded clip, a gesture born of long habit. Adjusting the strap over his shoulder, he shifted the rifle, tilting it slightly to gauge its balance and feel the cold, hard metal against his palm. He scrutinized every inch of it, noting the fine craftsmanship and superior build—this was the Ark's finest lethal technology, a significant step up from the basic pistol and shock baton he had managed as a guard.

Then, Bellamy cocked the rifle upwards, aiming the barrel squarely at Abby's face—a vivid, red laser beam projecting starkly against the middle of her forehead.

"Okay—WOAH!"

"Bellamy, what the FUCK—?!"

"Put it down! Are you insane?!"

        All around him, the group scrambled into a whirlwind of frantic action. Abby froze, her body rigid as a statue, caught in the sharp grip of terror beneath the menacing red dot. Monroe and Sterling threw themselves to the ground, their bodies scraping against the dirt for cover. Finn, in a frantic attempt to mediate, dashed recklessly between Bellamy and Abby, hands thrust skyward, a living barrier pleading for reason. Murphy's jaw hung agape, struck by the surreal turn of events, while Orion stood resolute, hands planted firmly on her hips, unfuckingfazed and grinning.

"What?" Bellamy's voice seeped with feigned innocence, his grip on the rifle's barrel tightening—a wild, primal urge to fire simmering just beneath the surface. "I'm just making sure the scope is clear."

Abby remained utterly still under the deadly precision of the laser, her breath caught in her throat. For a fleeting moment, she went cross-eyed trying to catch a glimpse of the ominous red dot, before forcing her gaze back to Bellamy. Shock rooted her to the spot, so profound that she didn't even think to raise her hands in surrender, her entire focus locked as she stared down the barrel of her potential doom.

She was scared.

. . . Good.

Bellamy squinted one last time through the rifle's scope, the familiar bite of the metal pressed against his cheek offering a grim comfort, then slowly lowered the weapon to his torso. "Looks perfect."

As Bellamy lowered the rifle, a collective exhale swept through the rescue team, a release of breaths they hadn't known they were containing. Sterling and Monroe scrambled to their feet, hastily brushing off the clinging dirt, while Finn let his hands fall to his sides with a huff of exasperation. Murphy and Orion exchanged an odd glance, a flicker of shared amusement twinkling in their eyes. Abby, however, remained rigid, the echo of the barrel's threat still haunting her—even as the weapon was no longer pointed at her head.

And then . . .

David stepped forward.

        "Relax, everybody," he commanded, his voice a calm force as he surveyed the group with a firm nod of reassurance. His eyes then fixed intently on Bellamy. "Good precaution, Blake."

David methodically distributed the remaining weapons, offering Sterling the second rifle that had been secured to his waistband, and handing Orion her clunky sword, presumably recovered from the forest. His actions were measured, yet his gaze remained fiercely honed in on Bellamy. Those piercing eyes delivered a soundless, unmistakable command—a warning that resonated deep within the charged air, a stern order to never pull that shit again.

Bellamy offered him a silent nod.

"Bring them home," Abby declared.

The rescue team didn't spare the Councilwoman a second glance as they melded into the dense foliage, a silent procession behind Bellamy and Murphy. As Bellamy brushed past Abby, his shoulder met hers with a deliberate force, a subtle but unmistakable threat that echoed louder than any words could—resonating with the sharpness of a warning shot.

Abby might've survived the descent to Earth.

But she was a fucking idiot if she thought she'd last more than an hour beside Bellamy's undying wrath.

        Almost instinctively, Bellamy's gaze lifted to the celestial canvas above, where the stars burned with an ancient, serene luminance. The fury that had once raged within the oppressive walls of his cell still thrummed through his veins, but now it intertwined with something deeper. No longer confined to the meager view through his cell's ceiling, he could fully embrace the vastness of the cosmos stretched out before him.

Each star no longer seemed to mock him with its distant coldness, but instead whispered fervent promises of infinity . . . of reunion.

With a deep, deliberate breath, Bellamy sought to draw in the cosmic energy, siphoning it through his being. He exhaled slowly, infusing his breath with the star-strewn essence of the universe, silently calling upon the heavens for guidance—and the strength to reunite with the owner of his bleeding heart.

        At least they were under the same sky.

• •

          IF HAVEN NARROWED HER EYES JUST RIGHT, THE DUST CLINGING TO CLARKE'S BUNK OVERHEAD ALMOST CREATED THE ILLUSION OF STARS. She had been lying awake for hours, the bunk above her serving as a target for her restless imagination. As she tossed and turned, sleep eluding her, she traced constellations in the specks of lint and dust that floated in the dim light. Each particle seemed to twinkle, crafting a makeshift galaxy right there in the shadows—a silent, dusty universe that momentarily distracted her from the relentless churn of her thoughts.

        It only lasted for so long.

        Trapped within the confines of the bunker, Haven felt a deep ache of regret for taking the stars for granted. On the Ark, she had been accustomed to spending countless hours pressed against the cool glass of the windows, her eyes tracing the majestic swirls of distant galaxies, studying them, committing their intricate dance to memory. But once on Earth, the experience of seeing those same stars from a radically different vantage point was . . . strange. The constellations she knew so well appeared inverted, as if the sky itself had been turned upside down. It was wildly disorienting—yet enchantingly beautiful.

        It was a tragedy that Haven didn't look to them while she still had the chance.

       Once her friends started dying, the weight of her grief made it impossible for her to lift her head skyward. The simple pleasures of tracing constellations or finding solace in their swirling infinities became unthinkable. She feared that if she allowed herself to gaze into the vast, starlit expanse for too long, she might find herself utterly disconnected from the brutal reality below—adrift in a celestial escape, while around her, the world was consumed by war, enveloped in loss, and shattered by grief.

For now, the dark underbelly of Clarke's bunk served as a meager substitute for the night sky. With nothing else to occupy her during these nocturnal hours, Haven had few options besides staring blankly ahead. The doors leading to the rest of Level Five were securely locked at midnight, confining the delinquents to the dormitory and its adjacent rooms. Most of the teenagers had already surrendered to sleep, their deep, even breaths a testament to their contentment. They relished the rare luxury of actual beds, a stark upgrade from the crinkling discomfort of sleeping bags—simply relieved to be sleeping, at all.

        Haven hadn't slept since she had died.

        So . . . five days, if she were to count from the moment her heart stopped following the explosion at the bridge.

        And now, thrust into an entirely new environment all over again—the mere concept of sleeping felt like a distant dream. The cryptic Mountain offered no sense of safety, no whisper of solace that might allow her to surrender to rest. Haven barely had time to grow accustomed to her new tent back at camp—the same one Jasper had coldly barred her and Monty from reentering—before life and war propelled her forward at a dizzying, relentless pace. Even Bellamy's invitation to move her cot into his tent had come too late, unfulfilled before she was cruelly uprooted . . . yet again.

        It had been the most grueling month of her life, each day a relentless marathon, each hour an interminable battle—and through it all, she was wide fucking awake.

Dinner was . . . strange.

        The Mess Hall had been packed, lined row upon row with the inhabitants of the Mountain, numbering around three hundred, not counting the addition of the delinquents. At the forefront of the cavernous hall, a distinguished table was set apart for the echelons of power, the government's top brass. Here sat President Dante, exuding authority, and notably, alongside him—Haven's mother.

Cage was nowhere to be seen.

"For the past and the future we serve—we give thanks. Good health, good food, good company, and the blessing of new friends—we give thanks."

        Haven wasn't sure whether Dante's words were meant to be a prayer or a chant reminiscent of a cult ritual. But as the inhabitants of the Mess Hall reverberated his sentiments with startling volume, their hands clasped together in unison . . . she had leaned towards the latter interpretation. Positioned between Clarke and Jasper, she felt the vibrational force of the collective response as it ominously filled the room. Across the table, Monty and Jones had struggled to contain their laughter, their efforts failing spectacularly as Dante concluded his speech with a hack that sounded like his last.

He was old. Like, super old.

Besides the unsettling atmosphere, the food itself seemed hearty and ample. Haven, however, found herself barely able to swallow more than a few spoonfuls of the thick, steaming soup—her appetite had all but vanished. Meanwhile, her friends attacked their plates with a desperate intensity, as if each mouthful were part of a final, sumptuous feast before an impending doom. They had initially tried to uphold a semblance of civility and grace at the table, but all pretenses of that evaporated when Jasper, with a glint of mischief in his eyes, stealthily snatched a canister of whipped cream from the dessert buffet.

        He had knowingly squirted a smiley face onto Haven's plate as an apology for his earlier outburst.

In response, Haven scooped up a generous dollop of the white fluff and flicked it squarely onto Jasper's face. His reaction was instant and uproarious; he twisted his face in exaggerated, futile attempts to reach the creamy splatter with his tongue, and failed.

        At least they were on okay-ish terms.

        Everything else was fucked.

        Now, Haven lay in her bunk, her frustration simmering dangerously close to the surface. She was utterly exhausted by her body's relentless tension. Her eyes involuntary jerked toward the exit every few minutes, tormented by the looming dread that some malevolent entity might burst through to endanger her friends.

        Then . . . the doors did open.

        Instinctively, Haven shot upright, her heart thrashing wildly—only for her racing pulse to ease as a familiar figure appeared in the doorway.

"Miller?"

Nathan Miller eased the doors shut with deliberate caution, his wince visible as the lock's click reverberated ominously through the hushed dormitory. He paused, his eyes scanning the shadowed room, wary of rousing his slumbering friends—only to notice Haven's wide, alert eyes tracking his every movement.

        He offered her a warm, reassuring smile.

        "What's up, Hav?"

        "Miller," Haven whispered, her voice a ghostly murmur as she floated from her bunk, tiptoeing across the dormitory like a shadow chasing light. "Miller...oh my god."

Miller studied her warily. "Are you—"

All at once, Haven surged forward, colliding into his torso and effortlessly silencing him with a firm embrace neither had anticipated.

        "Don't," she insisted, her eyes momentarily fluttering closed in a wave of profound relief. Regaining her composure, she pulled back slightly, searching his face with insatiable worry. "Are...are you okay? Cage told me you lost your—"

        "Who the hell is Cage?" Miller laughed softly, retracting fully from the hug to set down a duffle bag brimming with clothes against the floor. "But my finger—? Yeah."

        Miller lifted his right hand, its flesh obscured by bandages tinged with the dark, unsettling hues of dried blood. As he waved, a jarring reality unfolded before Haven's eyes—only four fingers returned the gesture, the space where his pointer should have been was hauntingly vacant.

        . . . No.

        No. No. No.

        "I-I'm sorry," Haven managed pathetically. Tears glossed her eyes, shrouding them in a morbid veil as she shook her head, her entire being quaking with a visceral remorse. "I'm so, so sorry."

Miller shrugged. "Hey, I knew what I signed up for when I promised to keep you safe," he jested, the faintest detection of amusement flickering in his soft eyes. "You didn't force me to stick my hand outside the door. That was my call."

The Smith girl fixed him with an unblinking stare, her chest heaving under a tempest of emotions so gargantuan it was a marvel she didn't burst at the seams. Miller returned her gaze with a disarming serenity, absolving her of any guilt—as if her impulsive actions hadn't irrevocably altered his life, or precipitated his permanent injury.

        His finger was gone.

        Haven's chin wobbled. "Miller..."

        "Look, I'm just surprised I only lost one," Miller cut in. "Could've been a lot worse. I'm surprised you didn't take off the other four yourself."

        Haven instinctively frowned. "I wouldn't have."

       "You bit my shoulder like an animal," Miller countered, his lips curving into a wry smile as he recalled the memories from the night before. "Not gonna lie—I totally saw my life flash before my eyes like, three different times."

        He was smiling . . . as if it was okay.

        As if any of this could possibly be okay.

        Trembling beneath the enormity of her guilt, Haven fought to remain upright, refusing to let her knees buckle and allow the floor to swallow her whole—no matter how desperately she longed to vanish. It would be infinitely easier to dissolve into eternal shadows rather confronting the horrific reality of her deeds, especially those inflicted upon the boy sworn to protect her. Lost in the throes of untamed panic, she had thrashed in his arms, bitten him, scratched at his neck . . . actions that had inadvertently led to his finger being severed clean off.

"I'm sorry," she repeated brokenly, "I'm so, so, so, so sorry—"

"Hav...stop it." Despite his injury, Miller placed his wounded hand upon her shoulder, offering a gentle squeeze—as if to prove he was still whole. "I need to learn to shoot with my left hand anyway."

Haven felt herself shatter.

He had lost his trigger finger.

Shifting gears, Miller exhaled deeply, his gaze drifting over Haven's tense features before decisively settling on her left shoulder. "Glad to see your arm's still attached."

        Haven blinked. "Why wouldn't it be?"

        "Uh...because it literally looked like it was hanging by a thread," Miller admitted, his brow furrowing briefly in recollection before his expression shifted to one of wry astonishment. "I'm surprised it didn't fall right off."

        . . . It was that bad?

        Shards of memories pieced together at the forefront of Haven's consciousness as delved deeper into the fog of battle. She vividly remembered the Grounder's blade piercing her shoulder, the immediate numbness that ensued, yet the actual appearance of the injury eluded her. In truth, she hadn't even dared to glance at the wound—not with Bellamy dragging his battered form toward her, his condition so ghastly, so deathlike, that he seemed more spectral than human.

According to Cage's grim briefing, the injury had torn through three separate muscles. Tsing had further compounded the bleak outlook by stressing that intensive physical therapy would be crucial to preserve any semblance of mobility—a daunting prospect that Haven had vehemently shoved aside until now.

       "That's why you can't sleep?" Miller asked, his eyes shifting between her empty bunk and the lattice of stitches peeking out beneath the neckline of her sweater. "I got a fuck ton of pain meds. You need some?"

        "No." Haven shook her head, expelling a weighted exhale as Miller knowingly narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced by her dismissal. "I mean, yeah—it hurts like hell. But that's not...why."

        Miller glanced at her softly. "You wanna lay in the bunk they gave me?" he offered, keenly aware of her eyes repeatedly darting over his shoulder—drawn to the stifling, locked doors like a caged animal. "It's, uh...closer to the exit."

"It won't make a difference," Haven muttered lowly. "The doors are still locked. We're still trapped. Bellamy's still—"

Her breath caught in her throat.

Sensing the shift in her, Miller adjusted his stance, a quiet understanding in his movements. He bent over to secure his duffle with one hand, while the other reached out to gently touch Haven's shoulder, offering a fleeting comfort. Once he gathered his belongings, he guided her towards the vacant bunk closest to the door. His presence was a silent reassurance, trailing just behind her as she moved almost mechanically, sinking onto the mattress as if driven by autopilot.

        "Bellamy's still alive," Miller finished, cautiously sitting down on the bunk beside her. "I know."

And then . . .

Haven was crying.

Like a floodgate burst open, the horrors of the day surged through her quivering frame, silent sobs choking her until it felt as though the entire atmosphere conspired to crush her, suffocating her, pinning her beneath the unbearable weight of grief. Her forearms trembled as she slumped forward, sinking her elbows into her thighs, cradling her face in her hands. She clamped a palm over her mouth, desperately smothering the cries that seemed to claw their way out, threatening to shatter her from within.

One day.

Haven had been within the Mountain's depths for merely one fucking day, and already, she felt herself breaking. It seemed ludicrous, this rapid unraveling, selfish beyond belief. People had died—her friends had bled out. Miller had lost a finger. And here she was, crying in what was touted as a sanctuary, provided with cleanliness, clothing, nourishment, and care, even alongside her mother.

Yet, beneath these superficial trappings of safety . . . she was empty.

She was utterly fractured, isolated, feeling as though half of her body lingered outside the bunker's impenetrable walls, haunted by the conviction that she would never, ever find safety again—no matter where she was.

Not without him.

Bellamy was alive out there.

. . . But what if he wasn't?

"You believe me?" Haven choked out, her voice brittle with emotion as she futilely wiped at her eyes with the backs of her palms, attempting to regain some semblance of composure. "Everyone seems to think Clarke and I are nuts and bolts."

        "First of all—that's definitely Jasper and Monty," Miller quipped, tactfully averting his eyes as Haven continued to wipe at her dampened cheeks. "But of course I believe you. Even if he did die, he'd take a page out of your book and magically come back to life."

Haven sniffled. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Miller whispered, his voice thick with a resonant, unshakable conviction that almost coaxed Haven into believing him. "He'll find you, Hav. He'll find all of us. You really think he'd let a damn mountain stand in his way?"

"He's too stubborn."

Miller nodded in agreement. "Damn right. He's probably out there right now, cursing at the place like a freakin' lunatic. Thinking he's strong enough to beat up some rocks and make the whole mountain collapse." Although his words were laced with a teasing lilt, they still resonated with an undeniable truth. "You should've seen him when you were locked in the dropship."

The mere whisper of the day Murphy had bound Haven and Jasper within the dropship was enough to make her stomach churn. Fresh saltwater pooled at the brim of her eyes, teetering on the brink of release as the memories she had forcibly buried clawed their way to the surface all over again. The mind-numbing hallucinations. The sight of Bellamy's blue ears as he dangled lifelessly from the ceiling. The vile, sticky warmth of the blood that had coated her fingers as she plunged her blade into Murphy's flesh . . . again, and again, and again.

         Bellamy's screams were volcanic.

         But most of what he cried out was muffled by the dropship's impenetrable door, or drowned beneath the relentless wailing of his fists as they hammered against the metal.

"It was that bad?" she asked quietly.

"Dude...I think he invented seven different swear words," Miller mused, his lips curving into a knowing grin as Haven released her first laugh—a sound torn yet truthful, a broken melody of genuine mirth. "Not as creative as Orion's though. That girl is a beast."

        Orion. Orion. Orion.

        "...Why does this feel like the last time I'm gonna see you?"

         If Haven closed her eyes for long enough, she could envision the way her final embrace with Orion had felt—their cheeks crushed together, scorched by torrents of scalding tears, their arms wrapped fiercely around each other, as if clinging to salvation. She couldn't recall the moment Orion had burrowed so deeply into her heart, but the reality was inescapable: her love for the Vincetta girl was real, unshakable, permanent.

"I-I can't do this on my own!"

Orion could do anything.

. . . But that didn't mean she had to.

She was just a kid.

"Look...just take my bunk tonight, alright?" Miller suggested, sliding off the mattress beside Haven and easing his back against the stone wall beside it. "I can keep watch."

Haven blinked. "What? Miller, you need to rest."

"Can't. I'm wired," Miller admitted, nodding toward the stark white prescription bottle just visible beneath the partially unzipped duffle bag—evidently his pain meds. "I am sooo high right now...that I swear I hallucinated you out in the hallway. Except, you looked old. And tattooed—?" He shook his head as if trying to dispel a lingering fog. "Man, these pills are nuclear."

Haven could hardly restrain her grimace.

Miller gaped. "Wait..."

"....Yeah."

"No way. No fuckin' way!" Miller's voice was a fierce whisper. His eyes, wide and wild, almost seemed to bulge from their sockets as he surged upright, detaching himself from the wall and scouring Haven's features for truth. "...Was that your mom?!"

Slowly, Haven nodded.

Miller's shoulders sagged ever so slightly as he beheld her lingering frown. "You don't look happy."

Somehow, Haven managed to huff a dry laugh, the sound brittle and fleeting—like the fragile crack of thin ice just before it shatters. "Neither did she."

         At that, Miller studied Haven—really, truly studied her, as if seeing her for the first time. They had hardly crossed paths in the Sky Box, divided by the cold metal of different cell blocks. He had recklessly wagered on Vampira's fate far more times than he dared to admit—a callous game that now churned his stomach with revolting shame. Because now, as he truly saw her—the girl before him today, the girl he had sworn to drag to safety, the girl who bore the scars of traumas so profound they defied even his darkest imaginings, his heart . . . broke.

        "Damn," Miller whispered breathlessly, his posture softening as he blinked in soundless astonishment. "Damn. You definitely need the rest—not me."

        Haven vehemently shook her head. "No."

        "Yes."

        "No."

        "Abso-fuckin-lutley."

        "Miller..."

        "Nuh-uh," Miller interjected firmly, his voice escalating slightly above their whisper-shout to underscore his finality. He then waved his four fingers in the air with exaggerated importance. "Involuntary-Amputation-Card being pulled right...now."

Well . . . fuck.

Haven grimaced. Again.

"That's what I thought." A smug triumph flickered across Miller's features as he crossed his arms. "Now shut your damn eyes. I'll even take the top bunk if it means you'll stop fighting it."

        Haven barely stifled an eye roll as she fought to muster one final protest, the words teetering on the tip of her tongue, yet slipping away just as her lips parted to voice them. Utterly defeated and profoundly exhausted, she exhaled a deep, resigned sigh—begrudgingly allowing her head to sink into the pillow below.

"Fine," she relented.

        Slowly, Haven tugged the blanket from the foot of her bed up to her chest, curling onto her side and drawing her knees as close to her torso as humanly possible. She coiled into herself with such intensity that it felt as though the fabric might swallow her whole. Her eyes flickered anxiously between Miller and the distant exit a few yards away, wary and alert, until the familiar, groaning creak of the ladder signaled that Miller had ascended to the top bunk.

        Only then did Haven let her guarded eyes drift closed, her body finally succumbing to the uneasy respite, cocooned in the tenuous safety of her friend's watchful guard from above.

Until . . .

Something stirred.

Haven cracked an eye open, her vision instinctively honing in on the doors, bracing for the worst. Instead, she found that Miller had silently descended from the top bunk and now sat rigidly against the wall, just inches from her pillow. His head was angled strategically towards the exit, his eyes piercing through the dimness with an intensity born of unwavering vigilance. Every muscle in his body seemed coiled, primed to react, as he sat there—watching, waiting . . . protecting.

        "Miller?" she whispered.

        "Yeah?"

        "...Thank you."

       Miller nodded. "Anytime, Hav."

. . . A testament to the unbreakable vow that bound him to his duty, a duty born out of respect and admiration for the boy who had risen to lead their camp, a vow he intended to honor—in life, and now, in death . . .

"Anytime."

• •

orion rn

annnnd if anyone caught it, Orion's middle name is Jae like a jay bird..... raven is also named after a bird...haven calls her birdy....THE LOVE IS WRITTEN IN THE STARS I FEAR ✨✨✨ it'll be slowburn as fuck but 🤭 birds of a feather will be their songgggg!!! they claim it!!!

but ANYWAY HELLLLO!!! guys idk how the word counted ended up this fuckin long but here we are!!!!! again!! 10.7k words???😭😭 I TOTALLY SHOULDVE SPLIT THIS BUT IDC. i literally dont care. i love this chapter so much and i hope you did too!! <333

LET ME JUST SAY I AM A NATHAN MILLER STAN FIRST AND HUMAN SECOND!! he was so underrated in the show & i definitely will be including him more into the plot this act. especially with hav! that's her bodyguard now 🤭  also just like a reminder that he's super gay like this is NOT another romance plot...i dont think anybody thought that but just putting that out there lol

alsooooo this seperation angst is killing me so lets make it worse by adding this quote 😌 im not suffering by myself yall gonna join too

THAT BEING SAID, i am so so so thankful to the readers sticking around for the reunion !! not too much longer yall. your comments and votes keep me going <33 i know updating weekly can drag things out a bit and the fact yall are still here makes me so happy and motivated!!!! your patience doesn't go unnoticed at all and im so appreciate of it ✨🫶

ACTION CHAPTERS START NEXT WEEK 😈

LOVE YOU!!!!!