• •

CHAPTER FOURTY THREE;

POUND THE ALARM.

• •

        "BUG, COME HERE."

        THE MOUNTAIN'S LIBRARY WAS AS SILENT AS A FUNERAL HALL—a stark and solemn contrast to the warm, pulsing heart of Factory's. Factory's library was a cozy warren where the shelves leaned close, sharing secrets, their narrow gaps a snug refuge often sought by Haven as a young girl. Yet here, amid the mountain's lofty scriptorium, the air was vast and cold, an endless cathedral of books where the soul could wander, dwarfed by towering shelves that stretched endlessly above. It was easy to feel insignificant here, and even easier to lose yourself amidst the literature—literally.

Haven had no clue where she was going.

        Yet, as she meandered through the labyrinthine aisles, the Smith girl chastised herself for not recognizing the signs sooner . . . her mother had been here from the moment Cage had ushered her through these doors. Dahlia's delicate hand was evident in every corner: bookends adorned with quaint figurines instead of the usual stark metal blocks, children's tales arranged in a kaleidoscope of colors rather than confined by genre. Despite these whimsical touches, the order was impeccable—not a single speck of dust marred the polished wood, nor did any book stray from its assigned nook.

It was perfect.

Yet, even its timeless perfection wasn't enough to distract Haven from the gravity of their dire circumstances—or the singular, overriding mission that surpassed all else.

. . . Getting the fuck out.

Haven had dismissed her mother's previous advice, choosing not to inform President Dante about her decision to volunteer at the library. Instead, she simply allowed Maya to escort her here. It wasn't as if Haven was on their payroll—so why the hell did Dante need to know her every move? The Mountain's staff obsessively tracked the teenagers' movements enough already, even maintaining spreadsheets that recorded mundane details like shower schedules. If the fourty-eight survivors were truly guests . . . why were they under such relentless surveillance?

"You really seem to dissociate a lot."

Haven blinked.

Before her, Dahlia stood as a pillar of quiet authority, her posture impatient as ever. One hand anchored itself on her hip, while the other offered a weathered novel towards Haven, gripping its spine expectantly. Her lips were not twisted into her usual frown, but pressed into a firm, contemplative line.

It was her eyes that stuck out the most.

The familiar pools of brown swept over Haven's features with an intensity that bordered on forensic, reacquainting herself with her own daughter's face, studying every line and shadow as though learning it anew.

Neither of the Smith women had adjusted to seeing each other, well . . . alive.

As Haven traversed the expansive corridors of the library, her gaze was inexorably captivated by the distinct silhouette of her mother. Hidden among the towering shelves, she had covertly observed Dahlia, each glimpse sending a visceral shockwave through her bone marrow. The sight of Dahlia's locs swaying gracefully behind her, the resonance of her voice permeating the hushed air, the piercing intensity of her gaze— each detail of Dahlia's presence cast a spell both mesmerizing and unnerving.

        And though Dahlia's gaze lay barren of sentiment, a ghostly void, Haven could still detect a subtle flicker of astonishment mirrored within their depths. She understood her mother's moods as though they were etched into her own psyche, alert to even the slightest ripple of change beneath her exterior . . . whether it bore tidings of joy, sorrow, or a tangled weave of both. This astonishment, a rare visitor in the corridors of Dahlia's expressions, revealed itself only once or twice—a fleeting apparition, yet undeniably real.

        Unless, of course, Haven was already descending into the realm of delusion.

        . . . Probably.

        "Take this one to the Fantasy section," Dahlia's voice pierced the library's quietude with a crisp, authoritative timbre, effortlessly shattering Haven's trance as if with a blade. "Fifth row from the back. Eighth shelf from the bottom. Author's name is–"

"Madeline Miller," Haven finished, "I know."

Finally wrenching herself from the depths of her introspection, Haven reached forward, accepting the book from her mother's outstretched hand. As her eyes caught the title emblazoned across the front, her lips curled into a subtle, almost secretive smile—a flicker of warmth in the cold expanse of their interaction.

The Song of Achilles.

        Dahlia blinked. "You had time to read in the Sky Box?"

        The real question remained unasked: when wasn't Haven reading in the Sky Box? Her days were a jigsaw of mandatory labor work, Earth Skills training, and tireless hours spent rotting amidst the clinical depths of Medical. Yet, amidst the rigid structure of confinement, reading remained her sole reprieve, a silent rebellion nurtured by an unlikely ally.

        Bellamy Blake.

        After her initial resistance and undying silent treatment following her arrest, Bellamy had discerned her fondness for books. As their relationship thawed, he began smuggling in literature, a clandestine exchange within the little moments of privacy afforded by their surroundings. He started with nonfiction and astronomy books, feeding her voracious appetite for the stars and the mechanics of the universe, aligning perfectly with her interests. But as time progressed, he started to slip in pieces of his own literary tastes—novels and tales that revealed more of his inner world.

        He'd gifted her his copy of The Iliad first.

        Months later, amidst the clutter of forgotten literature beneath his mother's bed, Bellamy unearthed a modern treasure, a creative retelling of the classic text: The Song of Achilles. Intrigued by its contemporary approach to the ancient tale, he thought it was a fitting continuation of their secret exchanges. And soon enough, Haven found herself presented with the plan he'd conjured: they would alternate possession of the book, passing it back and forth every five chapters to ensure a shared pace.

       The plan held . . . initially.

       But after Haven impulsively devoured the first half of the story in a single, feverish night—Bellamy's shock bordered on incredulous.

He stared at her as though she'd shot him.

       So—he had decisively snatched the book from Haven's greedy hands, and tucked it snugly into his utility belt. Later that night, Bellamy waged his own battle against time, surrendering to mere minutes of sleep as he raced to match Haven's progress, the story consuming him as completely as it had her.

        They finished it the next day.

        Together.

        It had been an exhaustingly long day in Medical. The EKG machine's printer had jammed, causing a severe backlog, so Haven and Bellamy found themselves waiting for hours in the adjacent room while Jackson repeatedly smacked the device. Eventually, his efforts coerced it back to life, churning out the long-awaited results.

During the seemingly endless wait, Haven clung to the book as if it were a talisman, claiming it sharpened her focus while reading. Of course, she was lying out of her ass. By insisting on holding the volume herself, she had knowingly crafted a quiet invitation for closeness—coaxing Bellamy to lean in far closer than reading required. Seated to her right, his head came to rest softly upon her shoulder, allowing their silhouettes to merge as they read, read, and read.

She didn't particularly mind when his fingers brushed aside the locs that fell across her eyes.

. . . And neither did he.

Fuck.

Haven shrugged. "I found a way."

"Hmm," Dahlia hummed, a flicker of suspicion animating her brow before it smoothed back into the customary mask of impassivity. "How'd your heart survive reading that one?"

        Haven resisted the impulse to mirror her mother's skeptical arch. "It didn't," she confessed, struck by the novelty of her mother engaging in actual conversation rather than issuing orders or maintaining her usual silence. "I'm, um, still recovering."

        Dahlia knowingly tilted her head. "Worse than Romeo and Juliet?"

". . . Nonsense. The story is only good because they both died. I don't expect you to understand that. My girl is still too young . . . "

        Haven had to forcibly choke back the nausea that roiled up from deep within as her mother's words reverberated through her, their distant weight resonating with a haunting familiarity. These were the echoes of that fateful conversation, lingering in the murky alcoves of her memory, rekindled when Wells was murdered and when she embraced her own end—forsaking the safety of the dropship for the desolate embrace of death, longing to dissolve into the dust beside Bellamy, their fates forever entwined as one.

        "Big time," Haven huffed.

        The way Dahlia looked at Haven nearly crushed her to the ground. There was a subtle shift in her mother's eyes, a softening of the usual sharpness that typically bordered on critical, now replaced by something almost . . . wistful. Her lips, too, hinted at longing, barely curving in a ghost of a smile. Despite their vastly different connections to the faded memory they shared, both had been part of it, entangled now not just by blood but by the deceptive, tender clutch of nostalgia that drew them together . . . while simultaneously tugging them apart.

It wouldn't last.

. . . It never did.

Shifting her focus to the true purpose of her visit, Haven decisively cleared her throat, an awkward tension in her movements as she fidgeted on her heels. "So, I was thinking..."

Dahlia refrained from rolling her eyes. "Spit it out."

        "Are you allowed to leave?" Haven ventured, her voice cautiously modulated to maintain a veneer of nonchalance. She paced slowly behind Dahlia, observing her mother's silhouette glide methodically up the aisle. "I mean, you're immune to radiation, just like the rest of us. You're also the only one who knows the land...besides us."

After Dahlia slid the second novel from under her arm into its place on the shelf, she stretched towards the next stack lingering on the nearby cart, her voice flat and detached. "I was part of the rescue team that brought you kids here."

. . . She was?

       Could this be the reason for Dahlia's icy composure during their hollow reunion yesterday? Perhaps Dahlia hadn't been unfazed by her estranged daughter's sudden emergence on Earth. She might have already steeled herself against the sight of Haven's bleeding form amid the camp's ruins. Or perhaps, more cruelly—Haven was simply grasping at straws, desperate to inject some semblance of warmth into the frostbitten wasteland that yawned between them.

        "That doesn't answer my question," Haven pressed on, stifling the instinct to wince as she realized her words might ignite her mother's temper. "Are you allowed to leave outside of...work?"

"Why would I want to?" Dahlia's retort was crisp, her focus unwavering from the meticulous chore of shelving books, sparing Haven from her customary glare. "This is where I'm needed. This is my home. I don't have to fight to survive anymore," she asserted firmly. "You seem to have a difficult time accepting that for yourself, Bug. You sound insufferably ungrateful."

        Although Dahlia's eyes were transfixed on the hypnotic ritual of sorting books, the iciness beneath her words was unmistakable, a stark warning for Haven to retreat and shield herself from the biting sting of outright rejection. Yet, beneath the surface frost—a subtle current of evasion flowed, detectable only to Haven's finely tuned senses.
       
        She was dodging the question.

        To deflect any suspicion from probing too deeply into her mother's specific roles, Haven tactically shifted her line of questioning, infusing it with a hint of vulnerability. "I'm worried about my friends."

"Why?"

"I think they're out there," Haven admitted. "I don't think they're dead."

"Why not?"

"Because I haven't seen their bodies."

The words erupted from Haven with an unexpected conviction, her eyes snapping wide with the force of her own declaration, just as Dahlia abruptly ceased her shelving process. A tense, electrified silence unfurled between them, thick and resonant with unspoken truths. Clutching onto the faint surge of courage that trembled through her veins, Haven held her ground, her voice ringing clear and defiant as she faced Dahlia's formidable stare.

"Isn't that what you said I should do?" she continued, "Ask for proof instead of taking somebody else's word for it?"

        The Smith girl's challenge resonated heavily in the air, a bold echo of Dahlia's own teachings, deftly hurling her mother's principles right back at her with piercing accuracy.

Dahlia's stare was forceful enough to cleave through steel. "They're dead," she declared flatly, narrowing her eyes into slits for a mere heartbeat before she decisively turned away, her movements brusque and final. "I saw them. Haven. Take my word for it."

        Yeah. Right.

        The same word that had fabricated just about every single truth . . . ever.

        It was a bitter, ancient certainty that Dahlia's word was as fragile as a trip wire. Perhaps in her own mind, it was solid as concrete, but to Haven—they were as insubstantial as smoke.

The ghosts of shattered promises haunted every corner of Haven's memory—soft murmurs of "just a few more minutes" in the library that morphed into endless lost evenings, each broken curfew casting long shadows over cold, forgotten dinners. She warped the truth about the origin of their shared blood type. Her declarations of love were barbed lullabies, whispered sweetly in one breath before delivering stinging lashes with a belt in the next—irrepressibly scarring Haven's spine for merely forgetting to say thank you.

She was nine.

The only shard of truth Haven could cling to about Dahlia was her undeniable connection to the Grounders, visible in the stark, elaborate tattoos that swirled like ancient scripts across her skin. Her mother's vanity was legendary; she would never mar her body with ink unless it served a profound purpose. It made sense, then, that Dahlia was part of the cadre that brought the survivors to the Mountain—her intimate knowledge of the land was not just advantageous, but essential.

. . . Wait.

If Dahlia had been a part of the team . . . if her eyes truly had witnessed the strewn bodies of her fallen friends . . .

Then she might have glimpsed Bellamy amidst the wreckage.

        Haven forced her breathing to regulate.

        "...Did you find me out there?"

"No." Dahlia's back remained turned, an impenetrable barrier as she strode ahead, her silhouette casting long, sinuous shadows that danced along the bookshelves. "Other guards were in charge of recovery. I led the team and planted the smoke bombs."

        "Right," Haven droned, "Drugging us."

        "Saving you."

At that, Dahlia spun on her heels. Her stop was so abrupt, so laden with potential violence, that Haven instinctively recoiled, her heart thundering with the intrinsic fear of being struck. The fierce scowl etched into Dahlia's visage was accentuated by the intricate tattoos that adorned her eyelids—each line and spiral not merely decorative but alive, pulsing, writhing in sync with her agitation.

        "You kids are lucky to be alive, Haven," she hissed through clenched teeth, her voice a serpent's whisper, venomous and biting. "We saved you. Instead of drowning in your righteousness, channel that energy into something worthwhile. Be useful."

        Once Haven's muscles uncoiled from their tense anticipation, warily accepting that her mother wasn't going to slap her—she straightened her shoulders with a defiant lift. "Useful?" she echoed. "Like Tsing's internship?"

        Dahlia merely shrugged. "If that's what you want," she muttered, exhaling a sharp, frustrated sigh as her posture softened, the tension gradually easing from her formidable frame. "There's also custodial duties, or the kitchen. The library's always open as well."

Haven blinked in astonishment. "You want me to work here?"

Silence electrified the air among them.

"...with you?"

A muscle in Dahlia's jaw twitched as she considered the prospect. "Not if you'll continue to pester me with a thousand questions."

Well . . . that wasn't necessarily a no.

Haven understood that nurturing hope in the barren soil of her relationship with her mother was fucking stupid. Yet, some stubborn, desperate part of herself clung to that fleeting ambiguity, that faint whisper of possibility in Dahlia's curt response.

Perhaps it was the unshakable longing for her mother's attention, magnified now by the hollowness of their recent interactions. Or perhaps it was the soft lamplight of the library, casting nostalgia, deceptive shadows that whisked her back to being fifteen years old. In the secluded in the corners of Factory's library, she had lingered in endless, aching waits, pleading for Dahlia to cast a mere glance her way—a glance that might soothe the searing scars of neglect.

Whatever.

It didn't matter anymore.

Not when Haven was preparing to haul herself and her friends to safety as fast as humanly possible—even if it meant dragging them by their fucking scalps.

        Just as she began to formulate a response to that, the grand, creaking doors of the library swung open with a flourish—slowly revealing the familiar figures of Jasper and Maya. Jasper, animated and gesticulating wildly, spun a tale with exaggerated enthusiasm, punctuating his narrative with dramatic sweeps of his hands. Meanwhile, Maya nodded along with genuine interest, her dark eyes soft with understanding.

       Oh, shit.

Haven connected the dots in seconds.

        . . . Jasper Jordan had a big, fat crush.

"Good morning, Dahlia," Maya greeted warmly, nodding towards Dahlia with a timid smile as Jasper, still caught up in his own world—wandered dreamily towards the children's section. "I'm just here to take Haven to breakfast."

        Dahlia clasped her hands together in acknowledgment. "Wonderful," she answered, returning Maya's nod with one of rigid formality. Then, with a brisk, dismissive flick of her wrist, she directed her gaze toward Haven. "Allow her to put this book back first. You can manage that much—right, Bug?"

Haven's response came with a grin that teetered perilously close to a grimace, her voice laced with a strain that barely masked her displeasure. "Of course."

        At that, she left.

        Each aisle of the library unraveled as an endless enigma, weaving around Haven like threads of some ancient, unsolvable riddle. The ceilings arched ominously above her, vaulting into shadows that danced with quiet malice, encroaching slowly, sinisterly, as if poised to swallow her whole. She clutched The Song of Achilles as if it were her sole anchor to reality, her fingers drumming a desperate, rhythmic cadence against its cover. Deprived of her locket to fidget with, her anxiety had manifested in incessant knuckle cracking—a habit Dahlia had already scolded with a stern whisper not once within the hour, but twice.

        . . . Even though Haven had picked up the habit from her.

Locating the Fantasy section was an unexpectedly straightforward affair, courtesy of Dahlia's deliberate instructions. Haven spotted the designated shelf looming overhead with little trouble, noting the whimsical metallic dragon figurine that served as a bookend—an item Orion would've undoubtedly stolen.

Stretching onto her tiptoes, she gripped a lower shelf for balance, her arm thoughtlessly ascending towards its goal.

Agony halted her movements at once.

A merciless blaze of white-hot pain erupted in Haven's shoulder, scorching through her with a ferocity that throttled her muscles into a rigid, unyielding clench. Time shattered into a thousand jagged shards that robbed her of breath, every cell of her being shrieking in protest—the weight of the novel now a punishing burden in her trembling grasp.

        She couldn't raise her arm past the height of her shoulder.

        It was . . . stuck.

        Panic ripped through Haven, a wild tempest that churned within her chest as she tentatively tried to lower her arm, only to be met with a sharp stab of pain that seemed even more intolerable on the descent. Desperation tinged her movements as she vainly attempted to lift her arm higher, seeking some angle of relief, but the effort proved too much. Her grip faltered, and the book slipped from her quivering fingers, tumbling down to strike the carpet with a muted thud.

        What. The. Hell.

Once the burden of the book was released, a fragile mobility crept back into Haven's shoulder, yet the agony clung fiercely, insatiable and ravenous. It seemed her stitches were ignited, every lattice and thread alive with a spiteful intensity. The pain in the muscle delved into abyssal depths, elusive and all-consuming, impossible to localize. It resonated through her entire frame, a haunting chorus of anguish that repeated endlessly, ominously, everywhere, everywhere . . . everywhere.

        It became alarmingly clear that Miller wasn't lying when he thought her arm could've fallen off—which meant that Tsing's insistence on physical therapy wasn't a lie, either.

        Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

        Battling the instinctive urge to succumb to tears, Haven miserably sank to her knees, her fingers stretching towards the fallen book in a fragile attempt to reclaim some semblance of control. Yet, just as her hand neared its target—another palm extended, gentle and eerily cold.

"Here," Maya whispered. "Allow me."

        Numbly, Haven dragged herself upright alongside Maya, observing as she effortlessly slid the novel back into its place on the shelf. The teenager's movements were fluid, seamless, her ease almost taunting in its contrast to Haven's agonizing attempt. Each graceful gesture highlighted the cruel disparity, mocking Haven with the simple ease of a motion her own body had vehemently denied her.

        "I've, um, volunteered here for quite some time," Maya offered hesitantly, almost withering beneath the intensity of Haven's stare. "Your mom's super organized."

The words escaped Haven's lips almost involuntarily, emerging from her lips in a low, biting mutter. "Super anal, you mean."

As Haven finally wrenched herself from clutches of her envy, her gaze sharpened on Maya, who flitted nervous glances over her shoulder like a sparrow sensing the shadow of a hawk—perhaps fearing Dahlia might overhear. Although Maya had extended nothing but kindness over the past day, it shimmered with a superficial sheen that scratched at Haven's intuition. It seemed as if Maya's gentleness was not born of warmth, but of fear—a brittle veneer that might crack under pressure. Haven suspected that, if push came to shove, Maya would be quick to sing to the authorities.

Yet, perhaps Maya regarded Haven through her own lens of suspicion as well—viewing her as danger embodied, a cosmic force primed to erupt, to clash, to overthrow any established order with unstoppable ferocity.

Haven didn't want to intimidate her.

But she definitely didn't trust her, either.

"...Why do you look like you're gonna snitch on me?" Haven probed, narrowing her eyes into suspecting slits as she studied the pale girl more intently. "She's my mom."

Maya vehemently shook her head. "I-I'm not snitching," she insisted, her voice a tense, quivering murmur. "She's just..."

"Scary?"

Maya bit her lip.

"Haven't gotten used to the crazy eyes, huh?" Haven teased, her voice dipping into a gentler register as she noticed Maya's cheeks bloom with a shy pink. "Don't worry. Me either. If she shoots you the look—just stop, drop, and roll."

        "Stop, drop, and roll..." Maya drawled. "Like a fire hazard—?"

        Haven nodded. "Bingo."

        Just as the faintest trace of a smile began to ghost across Maya's lips, a harsh, bone-jarring alarm erupted—wailing through the library's stillness like a death knell.

Haven went rigid.

Meanwhile . . . Maya seemed ominously poised to bolt.

"What's that?" Haven demanded, her voice lost against the incessant blaring of the alarm. The shrill was piercing, almost unbearable, driving her to the brink of wincing from its relentless assault on her ears. "What the hell is that?"

"Hey!"

Suddenly, Jasper burst from the far end of the aisle, his hands clamped tightly over his ears, panic laden in every sinew of his features. His eyes, wild with terror, flickered from shadow to shadow, fixating on the girls with frantic urgency.

"What's going on?!"

        "That signal means the Surface Patrol is back and somebody needs medical attention!" Maya shouted. With swift, decisive movements, she maneuvered around Haven's frozen figure and launched into a full-fledged sprint, effortlessly surging past Jasper at the aisle's end. "Get back to the dorm—now! Both of you! I-I have to go to Quarantine!"

Surface Patrol . . .

They could've found the other survivors.

This single, harrowing thought detonated within the Smith girl like a charge of dynamite, hurtling her into a wild, unrestrained sprint. Her heart thundered a frantic cadence, almost deafening in its urgency as she careened through the narrow library aisles. The shelves loomed like towering sentinels as she dodged past, her vision tunneled, seared with the devastating image of Bellamy—pale and bloodied, confined in a desolate Quarantine cell, his life force slowly ebbing away with each passing second.

"Haven!" Dahlia's voice thundered from somewhere in the distance, its authority battling against the cacophony of the blaring alarm and the crushing static that roared beneath Haven's skull. "Haven! Let Maya do her job! You're not finished with this stack of books!"

But Haven could hardly hear her.

Bellamy's suffering was an unbearable spur that lashed relentlessly at her will, driving her faster, deeper into the bowels of the bunker—desperate to breach the distance that fate had cruelly stretched between them.

        "Hav!" Jasper's voice pierced the tumult, breathless and urgent as he miraculously kept stride with Haven's supernatural dash. They burst through the library doors, a blur of motion, barreling after the fleeting glimpse of Maya ahead. "Hey! What are we doing?!"

Haven hardly spared the Jordan boy a glance as she thundered through the seemingly endless corridor. "Surface Patrol means they were on the ground, Jas! They might've found our friends!"

As the alarm's erratic flashing pulsed violently through the hallways—the trio's urgent forms blazed past the dormitory, casting elongated, quivering shadows over the unsuspecting figures of their friends. Clarke, catching a fleeting glimpse of Haven's locs whipping behind her, sprung from her bunk with a predator's instinct, her form a blur as she plunged into the fray without a second thought. Meanwhile, Miller, caught mid-laugh in a casual card game, jerked upright, his chair crashing backward in his haste. Cards scattered aimlessly to the ground as he thrust himself into motion, his actions raw and instinctive as he catapulted himself into their frantic pursuit.

       "Hav!" Miller bellowed. "What the hell—?!"

       "Don't ask!" Jasper panted back, his breaths ragged as he struggled for oxygen. Clarke rocketed past him, her form a determined streak of motion as she caught up with Haven, leading their wild charge. "Just move! I-I can't handle both of them at once! They'll gang up on me, and Haven's like, super scary when she's mad!"

Miller groaned. "Don't have to tell me twice."

"Guys! Guys! Come on!" Jasper's voice rose to a desperate shriek as he staggered to keep pace, his pleas drowned out by the relentless thundering of their footfalls. "I'm pretty sure we shouldn't just go w-wandering around—!"

        "SHUT UP!"

Haven and Clarke echoed the sentiment in perfect unison, their voices booming through the turmoil, synchronized and potent. They cast Jasper equally disdainful glares, eyes sharp and rebuking, before quickly turning their intense focus back to Maya. Together, they forged a formidable alliance—a daunting convergence of elemental wrath and icy command. Haven's eyes were alight with the embers of distant starfire, while Clarke's gaze bore the lethality of a thousand winters, a frost that threatened to freeze the very marrow in their bones.

Jasper helplessly glanced to Miller for assistance.

Miller shrugged.

        "What are we dealing with—?!"

        As the group followed Maya's urgent lead around the bend, they skidded to a sudden, staggering halt at the darkened end of the corridor. Yellow alarm lights throbbed against the brick walls, casting morbid shadows whilst illuminating the chaos before them. Staff, faces etched with urgency, scrambled into blue hazmat suits, their movements swift and desperate. Amid the cacophony of shrill alarms and frenzied shuffling, Haven's eyes narrowed, straining to make out the stark black letters against the sign bolted firmly to the wall:

RESTRICTED AREA
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

"They were attacked," A male staff member answered Maya. He was so engulfed in the immediate crisis that he hardly acknowledged the cluster of teenagers hovering anxiously behind her. "One dead. He's in room two. The other took off his gloves and mask to treat him. He's still in decon—but he'll need treatment as soon as he's processed through."

        "Who attacked them?"

        At the sound of Clarke's question, the staff members shifted their collective gaze to the teenagers, expressions shifting from focused to incredulous—as if they were encountering visitors from another realm. The majority of the team froze, zippers in hand, stuck mid-motion. Meanwhile, the man speaking to Maya twisted his mouth into a sneer, his contempt unmistakable as he eyed them—the outsiders to this tightly sealed world of peril and protocol.

        "What are they doing here?" he hissed.

As a staff member lurking dangerously close made a swift move to seize Haven's forearm, her instincts ignited, supercharged by the adrenaline born of countless escapes on Earth. In a seamless, powerful motion, she wrenched her arm free and unleashed a devastating kick to his groin, striking with crippling force. As the man doubled over in agony, Clarke capitalized on the distraction, swiftly and skillfully snatching the keycard from his hazmat suit.

"Holy hell," Miller breathed, his eyes widening with shock as he beheld the seamless act of violence. "Guess we're doing this now."

Then, he slammed his elbow into the man's face, effectively halting any futile attempts to rise.

"Hey—STOP!" the man's voice broke through, his hand brushing away the stark, ruby stream flowing from his shattered nose. As the group surged towards the nearby door, his voice cracked with desperation and fury. "I'll press charges!"

        Barely holding back the urge to unleash another brutal kick against his face, Haven's fists clenched tightly. "Boo-fucking-hoo!" she spat venomously, whipping around to urge Clarke towards the keypad. "Open the door!"

        "Listen to us!" The first man shouted from somewhere in the distance. "It's not safe!"

But Clarke was already on the move, her fingers deft as they swiped the keycard through the waiting reader. As soon as the entry light flashed a decisive green in acceptance, the massive metal door creaked eerily on its hinges, slowly swinging open to unveil a corridor cloaked in shadows. The dim light barely touched the concrete flights of stairs that wound upward, leading ominously to the Quarantine Ward.

        "It is for us!" she shot back. "Let's go!"

        Haven plunged into the ghostly corridor without thought, hot on Clarke's heels, their figures slicing through the murk as if drawn by an unseen force. Her footsteps pounded against the staircase as they tackled the flight in perfect sync—every step a sharp, echoing staccato in the oppressive silence. To her right, Miller's presence seamlessly merged into their rhythm, while Jasper raced begrudgingly from the rear.

        After a grueling ascent up two towering, gargantuan flights of stairs, Clarke, gasping for breath, hastily swiped the keycard against the lock securing the entrance to the Quarantine Ward and the upper echelons of Level Three. As the lock clicked open, the group burst through the door, only to be assaulted by the blinding brilliance of Medical. They were met with an almost blindingly bright space, its lights a harsh, clinical white that stood in haunting contrast to the murky, teal-shadowed gloom of the staircase they had just ascended.

        Haven could feel her skin crawl.

        There was no time for her to succumb to her hysteria as they darted through the labyrinthine passages of the Quarantine Ward. The path they had chosen, which began as just another sterile hospital route, twisted into an area that was bizarrely transformed. As they rounded a bend, they were confronted by a corridor strangely adorned with . . . artwork? Sculptures? Beneath the Mountain's shadow, the oddities no longer surprised her; the inexplicable had become the norm.

        No questions could unravel the enigma of the bunker's peculiar taste—nothing here made any fucking sense, and perhaps it never would.

"Clarke, Hav—slow down!" Jasper's voice strained, a desperate plea that echoed uselessly through the sterile halls. His breaths were ragged, each one a battle to draw enough oxygen as he labored to keep up. "Stop pushing so hard!"

        "Wrong move, Nuts," Miller shot back, his voice laced with smug satisfaction as he invoked the nickname he'd coined just the night before. "They're on a mission."

"Nuts—?" Jasper asked breathlessly. "Y'know what—whatever! J-Just stop! These people are..."

His words died on his tongue.

The moment Clarke ushered the group into the nearest hospital room, the air turned leaden, crushing the breath from their lungs. They froze, horror washing over them as they confronted the sight of a lifeless body sprawled across a stretcher. Enshrouded in a body bag, the figure's outline was veiled, yet its formidable bulk unmistakably suggested it was a man.

. . . Bellamy?

Haven was the first to bolt towards the body, her heart thundering in her throat, fingers trembling as she desperately yanked at the body bag near the man's face. Dead, unrecognizable eyes met hers, stark and cold, revealing a stranger in his thirties—offering a gut-wrenching yet sweet relief that this lifeless form was not Bellamy, nor any of her other missing friends.

"...are lying to us!" Clarke finished.

        Still fighting to regulate her breathing, Haven instinctively glanced to Clarke's incensed silhouette across the hospital bed. Planted firmly at the corpse's side, Clarke pressed her hands against his chest, her gaze meticulously dissecting the wound that ripped through his torso. She strained to trace its origin through the ghostly shroud of the body bag. As she probed further, a vivid, seething red wound bared itself, stark against the pallid flesh, eerily mirroring . . .

        . . . No.

        "That's a bullet wound!" Clarke declared, her eyes alight with a wild, urgent fire as they darted between the stunned faces around her. "Grounders don't use guns."

"Holy fuck," Haven panted. "Holy fuck."

Jasper's words emerged as a mere squeak. "Unless the Grounders got the guns from us—?"

"I don't think so." Clarke vehemently shook her head. Each step echoed a defiant strike against the cold, clinical floor—she paced relentlessly, waging war with her swirling thoughts. "I think our people are alive out there."

        A delicate spark of hope flickered to life within Haven's chest as she considered the implications. Clarke was right—the Grounders didn't use guns, favoring the raw clash of swords, the piercing thrust of spears, and the merciless dance of hand-to-hand combat. They waged war with a primal ferocity, devoid of the cold, deliberate strategy that marked Bellamy's band of Gunners. If the corpse laying before them bore the silent testimony of a bullet's kiss, rather than the brutal touch of Grounder steel—it could only mean one thing.

Survivors were out there.

They had to be.

Amidst the crushing silence, Miller positioned himself at Haven's right, his eyes briefly skimming the lifeless form with a grimace of distaste before locking with hers. Between them, a silent torrent of unvoiced thoughts and suspicions flowed. Holding her stare, he nodded slowly, knowingly—a friendly affirmation heavy with the weight of . . . I told you so.

        "GET THEM OUT OF HERE!"

        Haven nearly catapulted backwards, swept up in the seismic wave of Dr. Tsing's voice as it thundered across the sterile expanse of the hospital room. Wrapped from head to toe in the same hazmat suit as her colleagues, Tsing took on the aspect of a spectral figure, a cerulean blue apparition amidst the bleached walls. Her face, hidden behind a dense plastic veil, muffled her words but could not smother the raw, seething fury that bled through—charging her tone with an unmistakable edge of menace.

        Then . . . Haven saw him.

        Or rather, what was left of him.

        Two more staff members rushed into the hospital room, framing the ghastly sight of a man entirely shrouded in raw, seething welts that blistered and bloomed across his skin like a malevolent rash. His shivers were violent, convulsive, as he clutched at the air, lungs heaving in a desperate, futile search for clean oxygen. As they ushered him to the hospital bed adjacent to where the group stood, his condition eerily resembled . . . Atom, once smothered by the acid fog's yellow mist. Yet, this man's affliction was exponentially worse, each welt pulsating with the intensity of his unspeakable agony.

Radiation.

If the hundred weren't immune to its lethal embrace . . . that could've been them.

After cautiously positioning the afflicted man against the hospital bed, the staff turned with a swift, resolute motion towards the immobile group of outsiders. Each movement was deliberate, engineered to steer their numb forms towards the exit, far away from the harrowing reality they had just witnessed.

        "Wait!" Tsing shouted, halting the silent shuffle of movement abruptly. She thrust a pristine, gloved finger decisively toward Haven. "Not her!"

        Haven blinked in astonishment.

        . . .What the fuck?

"She can stay!" Tsing continued, offering a firm nod of reassurance to the staff who eyed her warily, struck by the odd directive. "I need her assistance!"

Haven instinctively recoiled, her movements swift as she sought to put as much distance between herself and the staff as possible. "Me?" she gaped. "With what?"

        "You can save him!" Tsing released Haven from the harsh aim of her condemning finger, smoothly redirecting it toward the agonized man writhing beside them. "Haven—the time to accept your internship is now! We can save his life ten times faster if you consent!"

        Through the fog of bewilderment, Haven found Clarke's wide eyes across the room, her heart sledgehammering against her ribcage. Apart from Dahlia, the Griffin girl was the only other person who knew about the cryptic internship. Their shared whispers threaded through the labyrinthine mysteries and eerie oddities of the Mountain, stretching their covert discussions until the late hours of the night.

So, when Haven glanced to Clarke for guidance . . . Clarke delivered a vehement shake of her head—a silent but forceful rejection of the daunting proposal.

Still.

Haven needed answers.

"S-Save him?" Haven stammered, her mind churning at a thousand miles per minute as she scrambled to latch onto any shred of comprehension within Tsing's proposition. "What am I even consenting to?!"

        "Jack shit!" Miller hissed. "That's what!"

        "Your blood!" Tsing insisted urgently, undeterred by Miller's scathing glare and Haven's incessant trembling. "Because you were raised in space, your circulatory systems developed the ability to filter radiation out of your blood. Now it's just a theory, but if we were to circulate his blood through your system..."

        "No way!" Clarke cut in. "She's not giving you people ANYTHING!"

        "Damn right!"

        Before Haven could draw another breath, Miller had surged protectively before her, his fists clenched so tightly that blood wept through the bandages wrapping his wounded hand. And although Jasper was quivering like a goddamn leaf, even he mustered the courage to step forward, uniting with Miller in an unyielding stance. Together, they formed a living, breathing barricade, their bodies a staunch fortress encircling Haven—instinctively shielding her from the unknown.

But she could hardly register their presence.

Her head was spinning torturously, bending and warping as it strained to assimilate Tsing's proposal. Silas had instilled the generations of women before Haven with the imperative to guard their blood type with absolute vigilance. Abby had mutilated her heart in her relentless pursuit of unraveling its complexities. Even the Grounders had stayed their lethal hands, bound by ancient lore that deemed her blood too sacred to spill. And yet, now . . . Tsing proposed the staggering possibility her essence could be harnessed for good, for healing—in ways that defied all ancestral understanding.

Slowly, Haven shifted her gaze to the man convulsing on the hospital bed beside her, his tortured screams reduced to muted whimpers, lungs scorched raw by the merciless invasion of radiation.

Alarms shrieked within every recess of her mind, a relentless chorus commanding her to run, run, run—but through the tumult, a darker, more sinister whisper wound its way, insistent and unyielding, demanding to be felt.

. . . She could save him?

"We don't have time!" Tsing thundered, shredding through the cyclone beneath her skull with piercing clarity. "Decide—now! He doesn't have time to waste!"

"That's not her problem! Let the freak die!"  Miller barked, forcefully utilizing his forearm to steer Haven back just as she shifted to advance. "Hav, I swear to god..." His voice lowered to a fierce, urgent whisper, tight with resolve. "...I will drag you out of here kicking and goddamn screaming—"

        "Stop trying to sway her!" Tsing cut in. "Her body, her choice!"

        At that, Clarke's jaw dropped, her mouth agape in sheer incredulity. "You can't be serious," she muttered. "You're the one manipulating her with that weird girl boss shit!"

        Wait.

       . . . Tsing had said circulatory systems.

       Plural.

       Dr. Tsing hadn't chosen the singular form of the word, even though her urgent plea had only singled out Haven, calling on her alone to save the stranger's life. But it wasn't only Haven; all her friends possessed the same inborn resilience to radiation . . . not just her.

But within the Smith girl, something more lurked; a singular anomaly in the crimson tide of humanity. Her veins, a network of shadowy streams, bore not the vibrant scarlet of life but an abyssal black, a fluid of the night itself. Engineered with the cold precision of science, her blood was a concoction of synthetic miracles, engineered to defy the very essence of radiation altogether.

And according to Cage . . . Tsing knew all about it.

Haven clenched her jaw. "Why does it have to be my blood, Tsing?" Her words were sharp, a weapon forged in suspicion, poised to catch the doctor in a web of her own deceit. "Why can't their blood be used as well? We're all from space."

        Tsing shook her head. "We can discuss more afterwards—"

        "No," Haven cut in. "Tell me."

        "I—"

        "TELL ME!"

        The words burst from Haven in a fervent, tempestuous shout, each syllable crackling with the agony of years shrouded in darkness and manipulation. Her chest heaved. Her eyes stung. This outburst transcended mere anger; it was the raw, accumulated outcry of enduring endless probing, exploitation, and dissection for the anomaly coursing through her veins. Her demand for clarity was not merely insistent—it was a primal, urgent clutch at the straws of sanity in a reality blurred by opaque motives and relentless half-truths.

If she could only pry one, just one, unequivocal answer from the murky depths of evasion—something concrete, not shrouded in riddles that twisted her mind into knots . . . she would seize it with both hands.

        She needed it.

"Your blood..." Tsing began, her tone tinged with a mixture of awe and clinical detachment. "It possesses an unprecedented ability to reject radiation altogether. You don't filter it. You don't circulate it. You bypass it entirely. You repel it."

Her words hung heavy, laden with implications far beyond the confines of any laboratory or medical hypothesis.

"Your blood is a key, Haven. A gateway to rewriting what it means to be human altogether. You are not just surviving in a radioactive environment—you are the blueprint for a new evolution."

         . . . Yeah. Right.

         Haven simply arched a knowing brow, her posture shifting into one of staunch defiance. Her arms folded across her chest like iron barricades, and her eyes narrowed into razor-sharp slits—twin pools of lethal resolve, poised to dismantle any further manipulation wielded against her now . . . or ever again.

Her words were sharp as glass.

"...How would you know?"

Tsing faltered.

Bingo.

At that, Haven uncrossed her arms and propelled herself forward, weaving through the human barricade formed by Miller and Jasper. Each step was laden with determination, shrinking the space between her and Tsing until the cryptic doctor was forced to confront the enormity of her presence—her everlasting rage, her bum shoulder, her white-knuckled fists, the glare that demanded to be seen, refused to be ignored.

She knew damn well that Tsing harbored a trove of medical secrets about her—diagnoses whispered like dark spells behind sterile curtains, each likely steeped in truth. But this, this transcended the cold, clinical confines of her existence. Haven was no mere specimen to be scrutinized under a microscope, no oddity to be catalogued and stored away in the annals of medical curiosity. She was done being a pawn in someone else's game, her unique biology exploited for aims far removed from her own.

She fucking refused.

Haven shifted her sights to the shell of a man lying beside them. "He'll still live if I say no?"

Through the transparent barrier of her hazmat suit, Dr. Tsing's form visibly shook, startled by the realization she wasn't in control anymore. "Yes, but—"

        "Good," Haven cut in. "Get to work."

        With that, the Smith girl decisively pivoted on her heels, sensing her friends' silent solidarity bolstering her from behind as she began her stride toward the exit.

"What a selfish mistake!" Tsing's voice cracked through the sterile air, laden with raw desperation as she scrambled to regain some semblance of control. "I would've expected more from the descendant of a GENIUS!"

The doctor's attempt to manipulate was almost pitiful, a desperate clutch at straws to reignite some sense of duty or guilt in Haven. But each frantic remark only cemented her resolve further, her back to Tsing as she continued her march towards the exit, the shadows of her companions echoing her every footfall—a unified front against the desperate barbs thrown in their direction.

         Once they were out of sight, shielded by the cold, nondescript walls of the Quarantine Ward's secluded corridor . . . the facade of indomitable strength that Haven and her friends had maintained began to crumble.

        "Fuck!" Haven hissed, the word sharp and explosive as she pressed her spine against the cool, rough texture of the brick wall. Her foot's rhythmic pounding against the tile served as a counterpoint to the rapid, dissonant beat of her heart, a physical manifestation of the anxiety that clawed at her insides. "Fuck, fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck—!"

"Okay," Miller, catching his breath, slid down the wall to slump next to Haven, mirroring her defeated posture. "Okay. We're fucked. Like, super fucked." His eyes then shifted to Haven, taking in her rumpled state with an undeniable glimmer of admiration. "But at least you're a total badass."

Jasper's energy crackled with a frenetic intensity, pacing back and forth unceasingly. "No, Miller!" he exclaimed. "We're not just super fucked—we're fucked backwards! Upside down! In the air! All directions possible!" His words tumbled out in a frantic cascade as he pinned the group with an incredulous glare. "W-What the hell, guys?!"

        Clarke met Jasper's wide-eyed glare with an intensity that seemed to multiply the force behind it a thousandfold. "Us—?!"

"Yeah!" Jasper's accusation was charged with panic, his finger thrust accusingly towards Clarke and Haven as if to physically direct his mounting agitation. "You two shouldn't have gotten us involved! This is way, way, way above our heads! I-It's none of our business!"

        "None of our business?" Miller rebuked, his mouth twisting into a harsh scowl as he pushed off from the wall, swatting Jasper's damning far finger away from the girls. "Are you serious?! They wanted Haven's blood, Jasper! Tsing already seems to know all about it, too!"

        "Bellamy warned us about something like this happening," Clarke reasoned lowly. "We promised to keep it quiet."

. . . He did?

Peeling her head from her hands, Haven jerked her neck upright, staring at Clarke through wide, searching eyes. "What are you talking about?" she asked. "When did he do that?"

"When...when you were unconscious for two days," Clarke confessed, her lip caught nervously between her teeth as she fought to banish the haunting echoes of that fateful day. "Everybody saw your blood when they carried your body back from the bridge. He said it was because of a genetic condition. Told us to tell the others it was a side effect of your meds on the Ark, if they asked." Her voice softened ever so slightly as she continued. "He didn't say anything about the radiation resistance."

As Clarke's words sank in, Haven's mind raced, stitching together the remnants of a memory nearly lost to the haze of urgency. She vividly remembered the moment Orion had caught the peculiar tint of her blood . . . when Murphy freed her and Jasper from the dropship's hold. At the time, her mind had been clouded with an urgent, singular focus—to save Bellamy—leaving Orion's observations to flicker at the periphery of her consciousness, barely noted.

Now, illuminated by Clarke's revelation, everything snapped into alignment. No one had questioned Haven about her blood type because Bellamy had already smothered their sparks of curiosity. He had woven a lie so seamlessly that it had shielded her from all invasive questions and suspicions, casting a veil of normalcy over her unique condition . . . always ten steps ahead of protecting her.

"He was telling the truth. He didn't know it was designed to withstand it," Haven answered quietly. "Neither did I."

Jasper's voice, tinged with alarm, broke through the moment of reflection, snapping everyone back to the grim reality of their situation. "Well, Tsing definitely knows!" he shouted. "Even the Grounders seem to freakin' know! And we've pissed both of them off—big time!"

        "So what?" Miller retorted. "We just stop protecting her because it's not a secret anymore? Turn a blind eye to all the other weird shit we LITERALLY just saw?"

        "My mom," Haven gasped, the words escaping her lips in a breathless, trembling whisper. The revelation crashed into her devastating clarity, ravaging her thoughts and tearing through her consciousness like a merciless battering ram. "Tsing has to know because of my mom. They all have to."

Jasper stared at her as if she were speaking in some cryptic, unintelligible language. "Your mom? What the hell are you talking about?"

As Haven silently held his stare, fighting the impulse to frown, Jasper's body locked in sudden, sharp realization. His eyes, wide with alarm, darted towards Clarke and Miller, scouring their faces for any sign of denial, any hint that he had misunderstood. But the expressions he met were stern, unyielding—confirming his suspicious rather than assuaging them.

        A beat passed.

And then . . .

"...YOUR MOM'S ALIVE?!"

        Haven winced. "You literally saw her in the library."

"I-I didn't know that was her!" Jasper stammered, collapsing forward as he planted his hands heavily on his knees, reeling as if the onslaught of revelations from the past five minutes was enough to make him physically ill. "Oh my god. Oh my god—!"

"Take it easy on him," Miller grunted agitatedly. "He was too busy sniffing Maya's hair and trying not to cream his pants."

Jasper stiffened at once. "Hey—"

"Welcome to the twilight zone, Nuts,"  Miller interjected, his voice laced with sarcasm as he waved his hands in the air, fingers splayed in an exaggerated jazz-hands gesture. The sight of his four fingers made Jasper's stomach lurch. "Finally believe Haven now?"

        Haven arched an expectant brow.

        Jasper audibly gulped. "I can admit this is like, super, super weird. But it looks like Tsing just wanted to help—"

        "Screw that!" Miller's rebuke was raw, primal, his words tumbling out with instinctive fervor. "Even besides their wet dreams about Haven's blood—we all saw that bullet wound! I know what they look like!"

        Clarke nodded. "We need to warn the others," she declared, her voice carrying a blisteringly cold defiance that matched the sharp, calculating movements of her eyes. "We need to figure out an escape plan—now. For all of us. And especially for Haven."

Haven slowly shook her head. "No."

"No—?!" Miller echoed.

Drawing in a deep, heavy breath, Haven centered herself before voicing the weighty thought that dominated her mind, overshadowing all else. "If something is going on here...our actions are only gonna have repercussions on our friends," she asserted gravely. "We need to keep this on the down low. There's no immediate threat to the others—yet. It's not worth putting them at risk until we have a concrete plan."

        "Holy crap," Miller breathed, his eyes rapidly flitting between Haven and Clarke—as if witnessing some mystic, unseen transformation. "That's a very Clarke thing to say. I thought you'd say we're burning this motherfucker to the ground."

Haven felt the ghost of a smile creep across her features. "We are...eventually," she agreed, meeting Miller's conspiratorial grin with a subtle dip of her head. "But first, we need a clear view of that wound. Once we're a thousand percent sure it's from a bullet—we'll bring in the others."

        Clarke hesitantly drew her lip between her teeth. "But...what about you?"

        All eyes in the group gravitated towards Haven, each laden with a grave understanding of the peril represented by her extraordinary biology. Adrenaline still thrummed violently within her onyx veins, yet Haven maintained an unnervingly detached sense of calm, seemingly disconnected from Tsing's morbid fascination with her blood.

        She wasn't scared of her. Not yet.

        After all, Dahlia had immersed herself in the fabric of this subterranean society for three years, intricately woven into their everyday lives as a government employee. If her blood was truly such a coveted treasure . . . surely they would have seized her mother first. Her history with the Grounders marked her as not just a target, but a conduit between two disparate worlds, perilously exposed to the machinations of both. Yet, despite the apparent value and accessibility of her blood—Mount Weather's scientists had left her untouched.

        At least . . . for now.

        This glaring omission ignited a spark of insight—perhaps they were playing a longer, more intricate game. It offered the group a fragile window of opportunity, a tense lull to strategize, all the while shadowed by the unspoken threat that loomed . . . ever-present.

"I'll be fine," Haven asserted firmly. "Tsing wouldn't be the first to try and kill me."

"Okay. Okay..." Clarke managed, her voice steadying even as worry continued to cloud her irises. She took a deep breath, gathering the shards of her resolve.. "I can arrange a meeting with Dante. I'll make him show me the wound more closely."

        Miller blinked skeptically. "How the hell are you gonna do that?"

        "It's not my first time forcing him to talk to me," Clarke muttered under her breath. "Haven's right. Everybody just...stay calm. Act normal. And stay the hell away from Tsing."

With a decisive nod of understanding, the blonde began to shepherd the group back towards their path of retreat, her own steps veering towards the elevator.

"We'll regroup after breakfast."

Miller offered her a shaky salute. "Aye, aye."

As Clarke vanished into the elevator, a tactical move to reduce scrutiny on their group, the others headed towards the staircase. Jasper surged ahead, his pace brisk, fueled by a simmering frustration that distanced him far away from his companions. Meanwhile, Miller and Haven followed at a more measured pace, maintaining a silent vigilance as they descended the winding staircase together—each step a quiet echo of their fucked-up circumstances.

"I can see why Bellamy's always saying his chest hurts," Miller joked, casting Haven a sidelong glance as they continued their careful descent. "I think you just took like, five years off my lifespan."

        Haven wasn't sure how to answer that.

        "Um..." she began cautiously, "Sorry—?"

        Miller waved her off. "Nah, it's cool. It's not a bad thing—you keep him on his toes," he admitted earnestly, eyes alight with a familiar trace of mischief. "But me? I'm not built like him. So...um, just give me a warning next time you go sprinting off and nailing people in the nuts." A wry grin tugged at his lips. "...Deal?"

        Haven softened as she absorbed the sight of Nathan Miller. His vigilant gaze darted through the dense shadows that cloaked them, a constant, restless sweep for hidden dangers in this underbelly of the earth. Despite the pressing gloom, he smiled—a quiet rebellion that flickered across his features, softening the hard lines of alertness. And although his words were lighthearted . . . beneath the humor was a sincere, almost pleading request for forewarning.

        She didn't want to scare her friends.

        She couldn't endure inflicting further trauma on them, not after all they'd already endured for her.

        Deliberately, Haven nudged Miller's elbow, her eyes briefly flitting to the void where his finger had once been—a stark reminder of the steep price of her survival. Her words, though softly spoken, resonated deeply in the shadowy stairwell, sealing their pact with a gravity that permeated the air . . . felt, more than heard.

        "Deal."

• •

HIIIIIII!!! early update because i will literally have no wifi connection tomorrow to update until late as fuck at night. 😎 then we going back to friday updates as normal!!

miller when haven starts beating people up

BUT ANYWAY....WHOS PROUD OF HAVEN FOR SAYING NO TO TSING???? I SURE AM!!! 😭🥹 && i hope this was edited properly lol
i have had the longest week ever and im so exhausted :))) my eye is twitching :))) and i am so behind on editing:))) but we move!!

next chapter is actually traumatizing tho. like, probably one of the most traumatizing chapters yet.  :/  i apologize in advance 😔 shit shall be hitting the fan

THANK YOU FOR 40k reads <33333  I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!!

9.4k words?!?!?!