• •

CHAPTER FOURTY FIVE;

THE APPLE AND THE TREE.

• •

        THE STENCH OF BLOOD HAD WOVEN ITSELF INTO THE VERY FABRIC OF HAVEN'S EXISTENCE, as indelible and familiar as the crescent moon scars that marred her palms. She knew the metallic, pungent scent of her own life force and, even more intimately, that of her friends. Amidst the frequent injuries their camp sustained, she had come to recognize their blood as distinctly as her own—each scent a heavy, lingering presence that saturated her senses.

        Now, the iron-laden aroma permeated everything, triggering an instinctive jolt of dread that tore through her slumber—a relentless siren call that rang clear and sharp in the stillness of her mind.

        Slowly, ever so slowly . . . Haven drifted back into the corporeal confines of her flesh and bone.

        Almost immediately, she recognized a peculiar heaviness in her limbs, as if gravity had conspired against her overnight, magnifying its pull. Merely lifting her fingers to rub away the remnants of sleep felt like hefting mountains. Her head was a cacophony of pain and fog, buzzing with such intensity that it seemed to warp the peripheral of her vision, forcing the world to bend and blur at the edges as she attempted to blink it into clarity.

A profound cold had infiltrated her bones; it prickled her skin as her bare feet made contact with a cold, metallic surface, the sound echoing oddly in the tight space around her. Her abdomen, exposed and vulnerable without its usual covering, tensed sharply—a physical flinch from the unaccustomed bareness and the biting, iron-scented air.

. . . Wait.

What the fuck?

        Haven recoiled sharply, a gasp slicing through the pungent air as her eyes snapped down to her near-naked state. Gone were her sweater and skirt, inexplicably replaced by mere fragments of fabric—a white tank top stretched taut across her chest, barely concealing anything, and a pair of briefshorts that offered no comfort or warmth. The rest of her body lay bare, her skin peppered with goosebumps, trembling from both cold and shock as it made contact with the icy, unfamiliar metal beneath her.

. . . She was in a cage.

She was in a fucking cage.

        A visceral, stomach-churning dread knotted itself tightly within Haven's lungs, forcefully crushing the air from her throat as she faced the morbid nightmare unfolding around her. This was not merely a cage—it was a prison for the damned, designed for a beast yet occupied by a human.

        And . . . she wasn't alone.

Bodies upon bodies were mercilessly jammed into narrow aisles of metal crates, arranged in sinister, parallel rows and stacked atop each other like exhibits in an Earthen zoo. The haunted forms within these cages were reduced to shadowy outlines beneath the eerie, teal gloom that shrouded them—an oppressive, sinister light that seemed to drain life rather than reveal it. Limbs protruded restlessly through the cramped gaps, reaching out into the void with a desperate, jerking motion. Eyes, glowing with a haunting, apocalyptic light, flickered with the dying embers of hope and rebellion.

        Yet, there was a profound weariness in their movements—a resignation to fate—as if each soul had fought too long and too hard against their relentless confines and could muster no more strength to resist.

Haven was shaking.

A ruthless onslaught of memories assaulted her mind's eyes as she recalled the events that led up to now. She and Clarke had been executing a carefully laid plan to infiltrate Medical—a scheme that had careened disastrously off course. Somehow, Haven had slipped into a . . . panic attack? No. A panic attack that forced her to hallucinate and catapulted her headfirst into the throes of a seizure. Then, just as abruptly, she was ejected back into reality, thrust into the initial panic once more—as if the harrowing journey through her mind's broken corridors had never ended.

        But how . . . how did she get here?

        Was she still fucking hallucinating?

        "Drink this. Both of you."

         Dahlia's words reverberated like a ghostly whisper in the depths of Haven's mind. Recollection slowly pieced together the moments that followed—her grogginess had crept in soon after she had accepted the water offered by her mother. Undoubtedly exhausted from the violent ordeal of reliving her darkest fears and convulsing on the stretcher, Haven hadn't even registered the strange, immediate heaviness that blanketed her senses after just a few sips.

        Had her own mother drugged her?

        Had her own mother drugged her with the intent to soothe her swirling panic . . . or was there a more heinous plot at play, a premeditated scheme crafted in the shadows of maternal guise?

        Haven already knew the answer.

        Yet, despite the clarity of betrayal that crystallized within her, she still harbored a desperate plea to the universe beyond the bunker's ceiling—to be wrong, to find some other explanation than the stark, terrifying one that resonated within her gut.

Still . . . the reality of her situation demanded attention.

If Haven had been drugged, the passage of time had become a blurred, indecipherable mess—minutes could have stretched into hours, or even days. The dried, obsidian blood caked beneath her fingernails suggested that it hadn't been too long, as did the fresh ink seeping through the bandage wedged between her collarbones.

There was no time to unravel the motives of betrayal or to ponder the depths of her entrapment—every moment spent in inaction was a moment too long.

She needed to get the fuck out.

        Now.

        Just as Haven began to maneuver towards the metal bars of her cage, her eyes—wide with a raw, panicked urgency—snagged on a sight so morbid that it snatched the breath from her lungs and cemented her limbs in place.

It was a body.

. . . Hanging upside down.

Bare except for a stark pair of white underwear, the unconscious form of a man was suspended ominously by his feet just a few yards beyond the cages, dangling from the ceiling as though he were live bait. His stillness was unnerving, deathly, rendering it impossible to tell if breath still animated his body. Blood trailed through an intricate network of tubes and lines that burrowed into his flesh at his arms, hips, and chest, flowing into metallic conduits embedded into the nearby wall.

The sight was nauseating, the implications horrifying, as if the man were nothing more than a human reservoir—his vitality being siphoned in a cold, calculated matter.

        And then . . .

        Haven's gaze locked onto the ink sprawling across his skin—dark, intricate tattoos that declared his identity unmistakably. The man was a Grounder, his body marked by the symbols of his tribe, etched into his flesh as deeply as their meanings were carved into his heritage.

        Frantically, her eyes darted to the other captives lingering in the crates beside her. Tattooed hands clawed at the bars of their cages; faces streaked with the remnants of war paint stared back at her. As the eerie teal light cast its ghostly glow over them, it revealed a grim revelation: every discernible body, every tortured soul suspended in this metallic purgatory, was a Grounder.

        All of them.

DANGER
PROTECTIVE SUITS REQUIRED BEYOND HARVEST CHAMBER

       As the Smith girl discerned the warning sign plated against the doorframe in the distance—her horror only intensified. Mount Weather's intentions were laid bare, the sinister truth revealed not merely in their actions but now unmistakably in written warnings. From the moment they had been forcibly brought into the bunker, the operation had been shrouded in secrecy, cloaked under the guise of sanctuary. But it wasn't her people who were immediately targeted by the Mountain Men; instead, it was the Grounders.

        This . . . this was a targeted culling.

But for what?

        Instinctively, Haven hurled herself at the lock outside her cage, wrenching herself from the shadowed embrace of the iron walls that had become her cradle. Beneath her, the frigid metal gouged ruthless patterns into the flesh of her kneecaps, etching each painful welt as a symbol of her tenacity. Every attempt to wedge her fingernail into the heart of the mechanism became a more frantic, more feverish plea to the indifferent gods of freedom.

        With every failed endeavor, her spirit didn't falter; it flared, burning hotter, fiercer, fueled by the raw, spiteful need of liberation.

        But the lock remained unmoved.

        . . . Nothing.

        "No," Haven hissed beneath her breath, frustration swelling within her veins with the devastating force of a firestorm. "No, no, no, no—!"

        "We already tried that."

        Startled half to death, Haven abruptly ceased her attempts to claw open the unmoving lock, pivoting her head towards the familiar occupant curled within the cage beside her.

        Anya blew out an exasperated sigh.

        "It only opens with a key."

Haven studied Anya breathlessly, her eyes piercing through the dimness as if she were staring into the abyss itself—half-expecting it to stare back, or vanish like a specter at dawn.

        Anya, the warrior with a presence as sharp as a blade's edge, now seemed but a shadow of herself, her usual lithe and predatory grace dissolved into the slump of utter depletion. Cuts and bruises adorned her cheekbones and temples, evidence of the battle—yet, it was the dimming of that incandescent fire in her eyes, the void where once burned an indomitable spirit . . . that struck Haven the deepest.

"A-Anya?" Haven choked out pathetically. "What the hell is going on?"

Anya merely clicked her tongue. "You should've run," she murmured dryly, leaning her head to rest against the back of her entrapment. "I gave you the opportunity, Natblida. Now—you're stuck here like the rest of us."

"Natblida—?" Haven's voice shook as she repeated the title, a word imbued with echoes from the past, from the harrowing battle at the dropship where it had been both her shield—and her peril. "What does that mean? What are they doing to your people? How long have you—"

        "It's a tale as old as time," Anya cut in bitterly. "The oppressed versus the oppressors. The unsuspecting versus the greedy." Her voice held a harsh, rhythmic cadence, punctuating the age-old conflict that continued to unfold around them. "How else do you think the Mountain Men have endured this long? How else would they have survived the touch of the world they cannot inhabit?"

        As Haven studied Anya more intently, her keen eyes managed to discern the bloodied bandage fastened just above her heart—an eerie mimicry of a dialysis shunt's insertion.

        And then . . . it clicked.

        Each previously fragmented piece of information now slotted into place with dreadful, devastating precision.

The Mountain Men, more than mere captors, had revealed themselves as parasitic predators—driven not by the mere instinct to survive but by a remorseless, calculating cruelty.

They had transformed the Grounders from free beings into nothing more than living reservoirs, hanging them like marionettes, their bodies mere vessels to be tapped at will. It was an act of cold-blooded exploitation, leveraging the Grounders' natural resistance to radiation for their own personal gain—a sinister twist of survival, turning a physiological gift into a cursed commodity. They weren't merely surviving the irradiated environment themselves; they were using the stolen blood of the Grounders to fuel their transfusions, to heal themselves.

        But the Grounders weren't the only survivors upon Earth who carried the unique biology suited to withstand it.

        . . . So did her friends.

Haven's words emerged as a shaken whisper. "They're using you."

"And discarding us into dumpsters when they're done. Bombing our villages. Gassing our children," Anya finished, her voice a low, ragged drawl. She attempted to muster her usual piercing gaze, an attempt to cloak her vulnerability—but her physical exhaustion betrayed her. "It appears you aren't special enough to make the cut."

        Haven shook her head. "These are acts of genocide," she declared, curling her fingers into tight fists, the knuckles whitening as she grappled with the grim reality of their situation. "I know our people are at war, but the Mountain Men...they're exterminating you."

"Welcome to Earth. We're all the same in their eyes at the end of the day." Anya's attempt at levity, a grim jest in the face of their dire circumstances, fell flat, morphing into a strained cough that echoed hauntingly in the cramped space. "Anything with a pulse will suit their monstrous desires and necessitate their blood magic. Now that I've seen this for myself...our worst suspicions were correct after all."

Her next words were wicked.

"I suppose we can thank your mother for that."

        . . . Fuck.

        Haven resisted the urge to grimace at the mere mention of Dahlia, the effort almost painful in its intensity. Her thoughts spun wildly, each revelation unwinding yet another thread of the complex web that Dahlia had woven around her life. If her understanding of the term Natblida—linked, perhaps, to her own blood—was correct, then the Grounders' knowledge of it's abnormal hue could only have come from one source.

        Her goddamn mother.

        Every cryptic phrase Anya had uttered, every odd interaction since their first encounter on the bridge . . . it had always been because of Dahlia's ever-present shadow.

"Haven," the woman cut in, her tongue coiling around the Smith girl's name as though she longed to smother it. "We know. I'm Anya."

        "You knew." Haven stated, her eyes carrying the weight of betrayal yet void of any real shock—already resigned to the reality of her mother's treachery. "All of this time. You knew she was alive."

"You're her spitting image. Her echo is in your very bones. It wasn't difficult," Anya huffed. "How unfortunate that she's a traitor."

Now, Haven did grimace. "So I've heard," she muttered, turning away to fumble at the lock once more. Her movements were laden with weariness but propelled by a desperate need for action—anything to distance herself from Dahlia's perpetual bullshit. "Where do they keep the keys? What does the person in charge here look like? Maybe I can—"

"Fought her way out of Trikru to conspire with our enemy," Anya seethed, slicing through Haven's shift in conversation as if it were mere shadow, her simmering resentment for Dahlia starved for release. "Since her betrayal, the number of abductions within our clan has multiplied by the hundreds. Some die here and never return. Some survive, but become death itself."

        Haven went rigid.

        Perhaps that was how her mother had eluded the cruel grasp of the Mountain Men, despite bearing the same radiation resistance as the Grounders.

She could've traded her safety at the expense of her people's livelihood.

Trikru, it seemed, had spared her, educated her, integrated her into their lives as one of their own . . . only to be repaid with deception. Her mother had walked through their world untouched, shielded by a cloak woven from the very lives she had sacrificed. This must have been the dark price of her unscathed existence among the Mountain Men—trading the futures of others for her own present, a brutal currency that Dahlia had spent without a second thought.

. . . Wait.

"What are you talking about?" Haven's voice was a hushed whisper, tension tightening her features as she continued to manipulate the lock between her fingers. "What do you mean by...becoming death itself?"

"Repears." Anya answered grimly. "Their tunnels connect from the dumpsters to the ground. They're the leftover waste. The abductees turned abductor, victims turned victimizers. They've become mutilations, cannibals—feasting on the flesh of their own people."

. . . Ew. Ew. Ew.

No wonder the other enemy clan that Haven had summoned during the battle appeared so . . . demonic. As if they were cruel phantasms, creatures wrought by night's merciless hands—mangled, marred, and malevolently reforged. Although the origin of their monstrous creation remained unsettlingly cryptic, all other facets faded into insignificance the moment Anya spoke of the tunnels leading to the ground.

        She needed to find that damn dumpster.

        "And your people call you the Vampire," Anya mused wryly. "Clearly—they haven't seen them."

Was that a compliment—?

Suddenly, the jarring clash of metal against metal reverberated through the floor, sending tremors through the cages and jolting the hostages from their desolate reverie. Haven twisted urgently within her confines, desperate for a glimpse of the intrusion, but the scene was veiled by the Grounders. They thrust their trembling arms through the iron grates, their ashen hands clawing feverishly at the oppressive air, desperate to ward off the looming shadow that approached from the helm of the aisle.

And then . . .

Haven gasped.

"Clarke—?"

        There, just beyond the steel bars of her cage, was Clarke Griffin—breathless, disheveled, her eyes flashing with an untamed urgency. She crouched low, her right hand wrapped tightly around a crowbar, gripping it so intensely that the metal seemed to thrum with the pulse of her resolve.

        "Haven—?!

        "Oh my god," Haven panted, pressing herself against the cold bars of her cage with all the force her body could muster, every fiber of her being straining to be closer to the sight of her friend—alive. "Are you okay? How did you get here?"

        Clarke sprang into action, the crowbar in her grasp now a desperate key to salvation as she attacked the lock that held Haven captive. "I-I woke up in the Med-Bay. Langston was beside me. I followed the tubes from his transfusion through a vent," she confessed, her words tumbling out in a torrent of remorse and resolve. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry I got you into this. I'm so sorry I made you—"

"Clarke," Haven cut in, tearing through the clangor of metal as Clarke relentlessly assaulted the lock. "Stop apologizing. I'm a big girl, okay? I made the choice, and I'm not mad at you. Neither of us could've known this would've happened. But now—you need to get out."

Clarke halted. "What?"

"You have to get out," Haven insisted, her voice a low, forceful whisper that crackled with fierce conviction, casting her in an almost supernatural light, as if her voice alone could bend the obstinate lock to her will. "Take Anya with you. Warn the others. Now. They're harvesting Grounder blood for the transfusions—not their own." Her words were punctuated by a sharp intake of breath. "Ours could be next."

"Yours could be next!" Clarke retorted, summoning the last reserves of her strength to finally pry the lock from the door. Once it had successfully creaked open, Clarke pivoted towards Anya's cage beside her, attacking its lock with renewed fervor. "Y-Your mom drugged us, Haven! Her and Tsing had to have put you in here!"

Haven could feel her heart fracture. "That's exactly why we need to keep them away from our friends," she whispered urgently. "Anya says there's a tunnel system—you have to get to the ground and bring reinforcements. I'll stay here."

As Clarke forcefully dislodged the lock from Anya's cage, allowing it to crash to the ground with a resonant clang, she lifted her gaze to meet Haven's. Their eyes locked, laden with a tumult of unspoken emotions—a vortex of fear and trembling anticipation of the murky depths that awaited them. Yet, beneath the roaring swell of their shared trepidation . . . a single truth crystallized with devastating clarity.

Haven was right.

Splitting up was not just a choice; it was their most strategic move, a necessary sacrifice to safeguard their friends and disrupt the dire schemes unfolding around them.

Clarke shook her head. "I—"

Before the words could fully form, a sinister creak shuddered through the blood-drenched halls of their grim purgatory—the sound of a door groaning open and slamming shut. This disturbance, ominous and foreboding, awakened the prisoners, their bodies coiling with tension in their cages. No longer merely curious, they were incited, their pent-up resentment boiling over into a raw, voracious rage.

Tsing.

Clarke hurled herself into Anya's cage.

Meanwhile, Haven simmered with barely contained fury, her eyes narrowing into lethal slits as she observed the doctor loitering ominously ahead. Every fiber of her being thrummed with a cold, calculated wrath, her gaze piercing through the distance with a deadly promise. It took all of her formidable willpower to steady her breaths, to restrain the primal urge to tear through the bars of her cage right now—slaughtering the treacherous doctor herself.

        Her suspicions had been right all along.

        Drifting like a wraith through the depths of the Harvest Chamber, Tsing paused to observe the ghastly sight of the Grounder—the same one suspended upside down—his pale form a grim chandelier in the shadowy gloom. With an eerie calm, she reached into the icy embrace of a storage box, her fingers closing around a packaged pint of blood—a crimson trophy. Each cold, calculated movement laid bare the horrifying realization: Tsing was not merely a participant in this covert, underground hellscape . . .

. . . She was the fucking ringleader.

"Clarke," Haven hissed, her voice a taut thread of urgency that barely stirred the air between them. She flicked a furtive glance towards the girl cloaked in the shadows of the neighboring cage. "Get out of here. I'll distract her, okay?"

        Clarke stared at her through wide, unblinking eyes. "No. No," she breathed out vehemently, shaking her head in protest, careful not to rattle her cage as she did so. "Haven...I can't just leave you in here."

        "You aren't leaving me—this is my choice," Haven insisted, momentarily tearing her gaze away from Clarke to scan the area, ensuring Tsing hadn't crept closer to their cages. Returning her focus to Clarke, her eyes stung with unshed torment. "I can't leave our friends behind. I-I just...I can't. We need to do this."

"They'll kill you—"

"They'll die trying," Haven shot back, the decree silencing the argument like a guillotine blade, laden with the solemn weight of inevitable sacrifice. "Get out. Get us out. Blow this fucking mountain to dust if you have to." Her voice cracked ever so slightly. "I'll take care of the others, okay?"

        Silence roared. Apocalyptically.

        "Your friend is correct," Anya murmured, her voice a fragile whisper, threadbare from fatigue yet laced with grudging . . . respect. A glint of admiration sparkled in her feline eyes, piercing through the gloom. "She's not as foolish as I thought she was."

Haven mustered a shaky smile.

And then . . .

Tsing began to approach.

All at once, the cacophony from the cages swelled, a chorus of desperation and fury rising from the throats of the imprisoned Grounders. Hands, gaunt and trembling with wrath, reached through the bars, clawing at the stale air. Some grasped for freedom, their fingers curling in vain, while others, fueled by a darker intent, seemed ready to throttle the life from her should their hands brush her snake skin.

        Yet, Tsing remained cloaked in cold indifference, weaving between their outstretched limbs with clinical ease—untouched and undisturbed by their apocalyptic wails and pained pleas for release. She continued her grim procession, unflinching, straight towards the heart of the aisle.

Wait.

. . . The locks.

Both of the locks that Clarke had managed to shatter with the relentless force of the crowbar now lay exposed at the foot of their cages. There, unmistakably evident and accusingly obvious, they sprawled in a jumbled heap directly before Tsing's path—impossible to miss in her direct line of sight.

Haven's breath seized in her throat.

There was no longer any luxury of time to debate or deliberate—not with Tsing's footsteps echoing ominously nearby. If their plan was to have any chance of success, Clarke needed to vanish, to become a ghost invisible to the prying eyes of their captor. That meant Haven needed to create her diversion, a spectacle to draw the cruel doctor's attention . . . and she needed to do it now.

Tsing neared closer, closer, closer . . .

Inhale. Breathe. Exhale.

And then . . .

"YOU PSYCHOTIC SON OF A BITCH!"

With the fury of a supernova unleashed, Haven hurled open the door of her prison, its iron clashing violently against Tsing's unsuspecting shins. The sharp sound echoed thunderously through the chamber as she bent to peer into the dim recesses of the lower cages. Seizing the moment, Haven exploded from her crate, her bare feet barely touching the icy floor. She surged forward, driving Tsing back with such ferocity that the doctor reeled, compelled to retreat toward the shadowed beginning of the aisle—far from the hidden forms of Clarke and Anya.

        Breathless, Tsing stumbled back, her efforts to regain her composure in vain as she retreated further toward the head of the room. "Haven," she began shakily, smoothing over her disheveled hair and straightening her lab coat. "It's regrettable that it had to come to this. If you were simply compliant...we could've accomplished beautiful things together."

Summoning every ounce of her everlasting rage, Haven coiled her good arm back and thrust her fist directly into Tsing's jawbone—a sickening thud marking the impact.

"The only thing that's regrettable is not killing you sooner!" Haven spat, shoving the bewildered woman backward once more, her force nearly careening Tsing into the Grounder's silhouette that dangled from the ceiling. "You're...you're fucking crazy!"

Haven's relentless advance on Tsing was driven not solely by fury but by calculated strategy. Each step she forced Tsing towards the entrance not only cornered the doctor, but also opened a wider window for Clarke and Anya to slip away unseen. It required little effort for Haven to terrify the doctor—her fists trembled with restrained power, her eyes gleamed with the lethal promise of retribution, and the raucous cheers of the Grounders in their cages, hungry for justice . . . it was child's play.

        Tsing never stood a chance.

"And you're unhinged," Tsing wheezed out, her words drenched in raw fear as she staggered. Desperately, she attempted a feeble maneuver to the left, aiming to circumvent Haven, but her movements were pitifully predictable—she was met with a brutal strike to the shin. "I was terribly mistaken about you. You're no genius, dear. You're as merciless and inept as the savages themselves—"

        Another punch cleaved the air, silencing Tsing's words mid-breath as Haven's fist found its mark squarely between Tsing's treacherous eyes—knocking her out cold. Utterly devoid of consciousness, Tsing's body crumpled against the stone wall beside the exit, collapsing into the floor like a severed marionette.

       . . . Bitch.

        Although Haven's fierce blow was not meant to be fatal, the collision of Tsing's skull with the hard stone floor ensured she would remain unconscious for a considerable stretch of time. Unflinchingly, Haven spun on her heels, her eyes slicing through the teal-hued shadows, searching fervently for signs of Clarke and Anya's escape.

        Their cage stood empty.

In the heartbeat that followed, Haven pivoted back towards the exit, her muscles primed and poised to seize Tsing's key-card. Her intent was clear: infiltrate the main levels of the Mountain, warn her friends, and fuck shit up. But as her hand reached out to grasp the card from Tsing's still body—the chilling scrape of the door swinging open echoed through the chamber, halting her in mid-motion.

Dahlia's silhouette loomed ominously in the doorframe, a specter wreathed in shadows, her chest heaving with the exertion of running. Her arms were crossed, radiating a fury as deep and impenetrable as the night itself . . . standing directly beside the goddamn President.

. . . Oh, shit.

Yikes. Yikes. Yikes —

"Miss Smith," President Dante pronounced, his tone smooth yet carrying an undercurrent of something darker. The smile he offered was a masterful mimicry of cordiality, sculpted perfectly yet devoid of any genuine warmth. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Haven needed to figure out how the hell she was going to navigate this—like, now. The absence of the familiar gleam of cameras didn't lessen the certainty that her actions were certainly being monitored. Her mother and Dante were before here—in the flesh—solid and imposing barriers to the freedom that pulsed just beyond their reach. Her eyes darted between them, searching for any sign of hesitation, any weakness she could exploit.

        Their presence was a clear message: there would be no easy passage, no gentle concessions.

. . . She did not want to kill this old man.

But, fuck.

        "I wish I could say the same," Haven seethed. "I was fine until your doctor threw me into a goddamn cage with the rest of the people you're bleeding dry."

        Dahlia shook her head. "That was me, Bug."

        "Of course it was you."

        Haven's words carried a venom she had never dared to let surface before. Typically restrained by timidity and a deep-seated fear of repercussions, she had always tread carefully around her mother. But now, trapped and betrayed, her blood set to be harvested like some fucking crop, she was beyond caring. Dahlia's deceptions, once shadowy implications, were now stark, morbid betrayals that transformed her from protector to predator.

        "I was an idiot to think otherwise," Haven spat.

Dahlia was fuming.

Meanwhile, Dante dared a tentative step forward, his hand raised, palm outward in a gesture that feigned peace and goodwill. It was a calculated display, almost theatrical in its insincerity—as if he could obscure the grim purgatory that lurked just inches from her shoulders.

        "Rest assured..." he began. "We are not—"

"I appreciate the sentiment, Dante, but stop fucking assuring me!" Haven cut in, her fingers twitching incessantly at her sides, vying for an outlet of release. "I've seen it for myself! You're vile—all of you!"

"Haven Grey Smith," Dahlia hissed beneath her breath. "Watch your mouth."

Dante, on the other hand, seemed remarkably unmoved in the face of her profanity. "That's quite alright," he murmured to Dahlia, his hand gentle yet firm upon her shoulder—a calculated gesture of support and control. Then, his expression hardened into something more probing, more accusing. "Have you not also killed the savages? Spilled their blood by your own hands?"

Haven scoffed. "That is not the same."

"Isn't it?" Dante probed. "We have all done things we are not proud of in order to survive, to carry on the legacy of our loved ones."

White-hot rage seeped into the marrow of Haven's bones as she weighed the President's words. His question was deliberate, aimed to unsettle, to invoke a moral ambiguity that he hoped might sway her resolve. Had he spoken those words to Haven on the night she had taken the lives of five Grounders, perhaps she might have found a sliver of sympathy for his perspective.

        The Grounders were their common enemy, after all, and she had spilled their blood in the heat of battle—willingly, unflinchingly.

However . . . the hundred had only acted in direct response to aggression, their violence a desperate bid for survival in the face of unrelenting attacks by the Grounders. They were child soldiers on a battlefield, coerced into confrontation, facing certain death if they refused.

In contrast, the Mountain Men's actions sprang from a different root—greed and desperation, not necessity. They hadn't been provoked or threatened; they chose to become predators. Their incursions weren't about survival, but about conquest and exploitation. They ventured out of the safety of their bunker not to defend but to dominate, to harvest resources from those who had never posed a threat to them. Villages were razed, innocents slaughtered, all to harvest their blood—a gruesome payment for the Mountain Men's ambitions to reclaim the world outside.

        This fundamental difference scorched through Haven's mind as she faced Dante, his justifications for their actions ringing abundantly hollow. The moral lines were clearly drawn; there was no ambiguity here, only the cold, hard truth of exploitation and the brutality of unchecked desire. The Mountain Men, encapsulated by Dante's manipulative rhetoric, were not reluctant participants in a cruel world—they were its fucking architects, willing to sacrifice humanity for a glimpse of the sun.

And even if the teenagers were enemies with the Grounders. . . innocent blood didn't deserve to be stolen, harvested, and exploited.

It was barbaric.

She would not be swayed by his bullshit.

She would not falter.

"We didn't abduct them from their villages," Haven retorted, her lips contorting into a snarl so drenched in scorn it nearly twisted her entire visage. "We didn't exploit them for their blood. We would have never fought them if they hadn't tried to kill us first! Nobody fucking wanted this! N-Nobody wanted to kill anybody! My friends...they're just..."

She drew in a shuddering breath.

"They're just KIDS!"

"Do you think I take pleasure in utilizing the savages?" Dante's voice was low, his head shaking as his features morphed into a semblance of . . . remorse. "It's simply inhumane. I'm well aware. But it is also a grim necessity to ensure my people's survival. We really aren't so different, you and I."

Haven nearly clocked him upside his bald head.

"Really?" she asked. "Are my friends next?"

At her words, Dante exhaled a slow, weary breath, as if the facade of his composure was finally beginning to crumble under the gravity of their conversation. His energy seemed drained, his once firm stance now revealing the solemn, fractured lines of his resolve.

"I will do everything in my power to prevent that."

"Prevent—?" Haven echoed incredulously. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Where do you draw the line for humanity, Mr. President?" Her chest swelled with burgeoning anger, her hands flung skyward in an exasperated gesture, as if trying to grasp the fleeting straws of reason. "Y'know what? Forget it. You're probably overjoyed to be playing god with the bodies of children—"

"Enough with the theatrics, Bug," Dahlia warned.

"Theatrics. You call this theatrics?" Haven scoffed, her words a raw, jagged edge. "You heartless, psychotic monsters want to kill my friends! You could've saved the ones who already died! You drugged me! You threw me into a fucking cage! I-I'm..."

        Her voice faltered, unraveled by the sheer force of her emotions, fraying into fragile whispers. Unnoticed, tears had begun their silent assault, stinging her eyes before tracing hot, bitter paths down her cheeks.

        "I'm your daughter!"

"And what a curse it is to be your mother."

        A thousand fragmented specters within Haven's ribcage stirred, levitating as if caught in the grip of a dark sorcery before shattering anew. Each sliver drove mercilessly into the tender flesh of her heart, embedding themselves as cruel, maternal shrapnel. Even the strongest vestiges of her fury failed to shield her from the venom of those words. Dahlia's utterance was an eternal haunt, a malevolent spell that echoed through the chasms of time, resonating with a lethal, unending echo.

        Perhaps curses ran in the bloodline.

        "I'll take it from here, Mr. President."

        Then, Dahlia reached into the back of her waistband, revealing the familiar, obsidian heft of a pistol.

        . . . She pressed the barrel to Haven's temple.

        Before Haven could grasp the unfolding horror, Dahlia deserted her post at the doorframe and spun Haven with ruthless precision, slamming her spine against the icy cage of her chest. The gun's barrel, cold and unyielding, pressed unerringly against Haven's temple, a silent promise of doom. With her forearm snaked around Haven's chest, preventing any methods of escape, she marched Haven's prone form through the exit. . . thumbing off the weapon's safety with an ominous click.

        Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Haven had no choice but to walk straight ahead—her mother's unexpected vigor propelling her forward, the harsh, lethal press of the gun against her temple brooking no defiance. Her mind spun frantically, clawing for any sliver of escape, but the corridor stretching beyond the chamber was eerily alien, its sterile walls offering no clues, no bearings. The labyrinthine sprawl of the Mountain obscured what Level they tread upon, cloaking their destination in shadowy uncertainty, leaving Haven utterly fucking senseless.

         Still . . . her wrath remained insatiable.

         "What have you gotten yourself into, Bug?" Dahia hissed. "You were never supposed to—"

        "You lied to me!" Haven's interruption erupted as a shrill, piercing cry, cutting through the sterile corridor like a gunshot. If she was to be shot—she would ensure her presence echoed to any hidden ears. "You've been lying to me from the moment we were dragged here against our will—by your hands! This isn't a sanctuary! It's a fucking psych ward for YOU lunatics!"

"Selective truths," Dahlia retorted, tightening her iron-clad grip around Haven's chest as they veered around a corner, her hands glacial against the heat of her daughter's collarbone. "Enough is enough—"

"You traded your life for theirs and put your people in cages!" Haven's accusations erupted with raw, unrestrained fury, each word hurled at her mother like a sharpened dagger. "They're innocent! They're scared of you! You're trashing their bodies into dumpsters and turning them into cannibals! Y-You're MONSTERS—!"

"Enough, Haven! You have no idea what you're speaking of—and you've already fucked things up spectacularly!" Dahlia whispered agitatedly. "Watch your—"

"–ALL OF YOU!"

At that, Dahlia sharply stowed her gun back into her waistband, swiftly releasing Haven from the impenetrable hold of her arm across her chest. But the relief was momentary; Dahlia's hand shot up with cunning, deliberate menace, her arm coiled like a spring—aimed to unleash a fierce slap across Haven's face.

If Haven remained the same skittish, dependent fifteen-year-old her mother had known aboard the Ark, she might have welcomed the sting across her cheek, embracing the sharp, familiar pain like an old, melancholy friend. In those days, any lash from Dahlia's hand would have been a perverse gift—a cruel, twisted morsel of attention, agony masqueraded as affection. At least then, Dahlia's icy gaze would have met hers, granting her a fleeting, torturous semblance of recognition—her existence acknowledged only through the language of suffering.

But Haven wasn't fifteen anymore.

. . . She knew how to fight the fuck back.

She sidestepped the strike—effortlessly.

"You don't get to beat me anymore," Haven declared, each syllable laden with the vengeance of a thousand scorching stars. "If you want to hurt me—take out that gun and try."

Dahlia arched an amused brow.

"So be it."

As her mother's hand veered towards the pistol, Haven spun with the grace of a tempest, her heel a silent comet streaking through the air and colliding directly into Dahlia's forearm. The impact was brutal—a fierce, resonant blast that jarred the gun from its deadly trajectory, freezing Dahlia's motions in a stark, suspended moment of shock. This explosive interlude granted Haven precious, fleeting seconds to dodge Dahlia's reactionary strike of fury.

"Is that all you've got, Bug?" Dahlia's taunt hung suspended, a venom-drenched challenge in the thickening air. She effortlessly matched Haven's pace as she backpedaled towards the closest door in sight. "A half-assed kick—?"

Haven launched another kick towards her mother's legs, colliding harshly with her left kneecap and prompting Dahlia to hiss in agony. The kick wasn't just an act of aggression—it was strategic, allowing Haven to observe how Dahlia's body recoiled, hunting for vulnerabilities in her defenses. Fighting without a knife felt like fighting without a limb—clumsy and incomplete—but if she wanted to find her friends, she knew she needed to return to her roots.

With gritty resolve, she readied herself for the next move, tapping into the raw, primal skills she had honed long, long ago.

Bellamy had taught her hand-to-hand first.

        Knives came second.

        "Don't act like I don't know what you're doing," Dahlia seethed, rising from the blow to her leg with a venomous stealth. Her stance shifted, coiling into a defensive posture as lethal as it was guarded. "That foot won't last you long. Let's test the resilience of that shoulder, shall we?"

Haven's retreat was a flash, her movements a blur as she pivoted, desperately shielding her vulnerable shoulder. Yet, Dahlia's cunning outmatched her caution; her strike veered at the last moment, smashing into Haven's abdomen with brutal precision. The impact was a detonation, a thunderous blow that reverberated through her body, stealing the breath from her lungs and igniting a fierce, stabbing pain that clenched her muscles.

. . . Fuck.

"If they tell you their next move, either they're stupid—or you're stupid enough to believe them."

Haven could almost feel the smugness of Bellamy's phantom smirk burning into her temples as she straightened herself. She staggered from the impact, but refused to fold. His training echoed fervently in her mind—a reminder that to buckle could be fatal. Eyes watering, lungs pleading for air, she maintained her stance, ready to parry whatever next assault Dahlia planned.

She needed to get to that damn door.

"At least you can take a hit," Dahlia cooed, her voice a sinister lullaby as she viciously swung another strike towards Haven's temple. Swift as a wraith, Haven dodged, her body weaving through the air and evading the secondary blow. "But I suppose I already knew that—"

"Shut the fuck up!"

Seething with righteous fury, Haven channeled the full scorch of her anger into a precise, devastating strike that targeted the cleft between Dahlia's shoulder and bicep. The impact was surgical, a sharp jolt that immobilized her mother's arm, halting her mid-strike. In the brief flicker of hesitation it took for Dahlia to recalibrate—Haven pounced again, her blow mirroring the first, aimed at the corresponding cleft near her mother's opposite arm.

Dahlia gasped in agony. "Motherfuck—!"

Both blows landed with bone-jarring accuracy, each one seeding throbbing agony that radiated intensely through Dahlia's limbs, crippling her ability to execute her next moves. And although Haven didn't want to harm her mother, the stakes left her no choice. Her strategy was stark and unforgiving: incapacitate, dominate . . . and run for her fucking life.

As Haven surged toward the shadow-veiled door at the corridor's end, she maneuvered with desperate agility around Dahlia, exploiting the precious, fleeting seconds her earlier strikes had secured. Dahlia, nearly incapacitated, attempted a desperate ploy to trip Haven using her legs, her arms hanging uselessly at her sides. The attempt was clumsy and futile, marked by a strained grunt of pain as Dahlia failed to connect.

        Then . . . Haven noticed her weak spot.

Her hip bone.

        Just as Haven's left arm hung limply, rendered useless and tucked defensively against her chest, Dahlia's right hip displayed a similar impairment. Every attempt Dahlia made to trip Haven as she darted past was not only unsuccessful but also clearly agonizing, as evidenced by another tortured grunt that forced its way through her clenched teeth. The weakness was vital information—a strategic ace that might just tip the scales in Haven's favor as she surged towards her only route of escape.

"...Where'd you learn how to fight anyway?" Dahlia wheezed out, her voice finally clawing back strength as Haven's fingers grazed the cool metal of the door handle. "The girl I knew was afraid of dust mites."

        "The girl you knew died—seven fucking times!" Haven shot back, futilely yanking at the door handle, only to be met with the stark blink of a red light at the lock—a harsh rebuke denying her escape without a keycard. "You left me there, remember?"

Before Haven could pivot from the locked door—Dahlia lunged forward, her teeth bared in a primal snarl. Seething, she wrapped her arms around Haven's waist from behind, claws digging into the bare flesh of her daughter's abdomen in a savage attempt to restrain her.

        But Haven refused to be caught.

        Fueled by cosmic wrath, she ruthlessly slammed her right elbow back into Dahlia's gut, loosening the encircling grip before it could fully secure her—slipping out of her grasp with the fluidity of spilled ink. She then delivered an aggressive, sweeping kick to the backs of Dahlia's knees—a devastating blow that sent her mother tumbling to the ground.

        As Dahlia's body began its descent, Haven, with the cold precision of an executioner, snatched her keycard from the thin air . . . just before her mother hit the stone floor.

        Haven bolted for the door.

        "Impressive," Dahlia groaned, her voice echoing off the corridor walls, a grudging admiration lacing her tone as she lay crumpled on the ground. "You fight with the knowledge of a man, but with the instincts of a woman."

Haven cast a final, haunting glance over her shoulder, her eyes meeting Dahlia's as she tapped the keycard against the lock. Their gazes locked in a silent, eternal clash, each moment suspended between them like the fragile strings of a spider's web. Around them, the air thickened with the weight of unspoken histories and raw, seething emotions—a tempest that threatened to crush her to the ground beside her mother's body.

"You fight like a Grounder."

        Then, she vanished through the door.

        . . . Only to end up back in the Harvest Chamber.

Disoriented beyond comprehension, Haven stood immobilized, her entire body rigid against the swell of bewilderment engulfing her. As she examined her surroundings more closely, she realized she had re-entered through a door at the chamber's rear—not the front exit they had previously used. This revelation struck her with the cold, twisting irony of their journey; the only thing her mother had accomplished by marching Haven out of the chamber was to drag her into a pointless, cruel circle.

But for what—?

"Perfect. You passed."

Spinning wildly, Haven pivoted back towards the door she had originally entered from, only to find Dahlia lingering in the threshold—again. Her hands were planted firmly on her hips, her brow arched in a knowing, almost triumphant curve as she approached her daughter.

        Haven gaped. "Passed—?"

        Dahlia nodded.

        And then . . .

        . . . She shifted to retrieve her gun.

        "NO!"

        Like lightning encapsulated, the form of Nathan Miller bolted through the threshold just before the door slammed shut, sealing their fates within. His arm swung frantically, colliding with Dahlia's hand as it closed around the grip of her pistol. The force of his blow sent the gun spiraling out of her grasp; it discharged a wild bullet, screeching as it ricocheted off the iron bars of a nearby cage and skidded to a halt on the cold stone floor.

        Haven gasped in astonishment. "Miller?!"

But Miller was utterly deaf to the echoes of the chamber, his senses narrowed to the singular focus of locating the fallen gun. He swooped upon the weapon in mere seconds, his movements a blur of undying purpose and precision. Within the span of a heartbeat, he was back on his feet, positioning himself as an iron barrier before Haven.

        The gun, now secure in his left hand . . . was aimed unflinchingly at Dahlia's head.

        "MILLER!" Haven shrieked. "Just wait—!"

        "You fucking imbecile!" Dahlia scolded, venom poisoning her every syllable, her tattooed features contorting with scorn as she raised her hands in a desperate plea of surrender. Each tremulous movement was shadowed by the focus of Miller's lethal aim. "Put the gun down!"

Miller merely adjusted his grip. "Or what?" he taunted lowly. "I'll shoot you, lady! We already thought you were dead once—and I don't give a flying fuck if you're her mom!"

At that, Miller stepped backward, aligning himself beside Haven's paralyzed form, no longer shielding her but standing as her equal in the fraught standoff. His fingers trembled with the unfamiliar weight of the gun in his non-dominant hand, yet his aim remained steadfast, laser-focused—even as he dropped his voice to a panicked whisper.

"Please don't make me shoot your mom, and please tell me there's a reasonable explanation for...this!"

He gestured wildly to the occupied cages.

        "There is!" Dahlia cut in, her words prompting Miller to tighten his grip on the gun, muscles coiling beneath his skin as he took another daring step forward. "If would've let me finish—you would know that I'm trying to get Haven out of here!"

        Haven went rigid.

        "You're what—?!"

       "I was giving her the gun—not shooting her!" Dahlia's voice erupted, tinged with a fiery agitation as her hands catapulted upwards, not in surrender, but in a vehement display of annoyance. "Now, she only has three bullets left, all because you wanted to play the goddamn hero!"

         Alarms blared incessantly in the recesses of Haven's tortured mind, shrieking through her consciousness with merciless intensity, obliterating all other sensations. The past day's events were a vortex of madness, each moment more incomprehensible than the last. Her mother's deeds had mutated from perceived loyalty to unspeakable betrayal, unleashing a horrifying slaughter of hundreds, perhaps thousands of Grounders. The notion that Dahlia was now facilitating her escape seemed fucking absurd—nothing more than a cruel jest.

With Haven's blood holding the coveted secrets that the Mountain Men dreamed of . . . how could her mother simply let her go?

        "You're...you're lying!" Haven's accusation burst forth, a breathless shout laden with fervent denial. Her heart pounded furiously against her ribs, each beat a hammer strike of panic. "Y-You put me in here!"

        "To get you out!" Dahlia exclaimed, her eyes flaring with a wild intensity as she faced Miller, gesturing frantically toward the lethal weapon clutched in his hand. "Give her the gun, Nathan!"

        Miller hesitated, his voice trembling, marred by a surge of confusion and suspicion. "H-How do you know my government name?!" he demanded, eyes darting shakily towards Haven, seeking some semblance of reassurance or agreement in her gaze. "That's really, really weird, man! Why should I—"

        "NOW!"

        "O-Okay! Okay! Jeez!"

        Miller's response was a stuttered rush of compliance, his movements sluggish with reluctance. He carefully lowered the gun from its menacing aim at Dahlia's forehead, his fingers meticulously thumbing off the safety as he let the weapon hang by his side—still within grasp, not yet ready to fully relinquish his hold.

        "But she can't shoot," he finished.

        Dahlia shook her head. "What?"

        "She doesn't know how!"

        As her mother's glare shifted from Miller to her, laden with irrefutable disappointment, Haven fought the urge to wince. Determining whether Dahlia was speaking truth or fabricating lies had become a grueling ordeal, layers of misinformation and deceit pelting her weary mind like hail.

Yet, amidst the torrent of confusion, one truth rang out with devastating clarity—she did not know how to fire a gun.

        She should've listened to Bellamy in that goddamn bunker.

         Dahlia pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "Well, this is just fantastic," she hissed. "I finally execute the plan—and you're even more useless than I thought you were."

        Haven felt herself shrink involuntarily.

        Meanwhile, Miller's stare at Dahlia hardened, his eyes narrowing menacingly, each blink casting a shadow of disdain. It was as if, within mere seconds, he had tapped into a deep, age-old certainty—his gaze cutting through the surface to discern an ancient, undeniable truth.

        "You're a real bitch."

         Dahlia dismissed his words with a nonchalant shrug. "She'll learn," she muttered, begrudgingly nodding towards the gun resting at his left side. "Just give it to her."

         Slowly, Miller's gaze shifted towards Haven, piercing the silence as he scrutinized the wide, uncertain depths of her eyes, seeking even the faintest glimmer of consent. As his eyebrow arched questioningly, she returned the gesture with a fragile nod—accepting the weapon as he carefully guided it into her right hand.

        It was . . . cold.

        Although the pistol was no larger than the size of Miller's hand, its heft was undeniable, anchoring itself unexpectedly in her hold—vastly different from the elegance of the dagger she had so often wielded. Even as she tried to transmute the metal into the familiar gleam of a blade in her mind, the weight of iron resisted, asserting its nature irrevocably. It was no mere extension of her will—but a stark, unyielding instrument crafted solely for death.

        She hated it.

        But she needed answers.

        Slowly . . . Haven raised the heavy instrument, feeling its weight slither through her arm, a slow and sinister dance of muscle and metal.

Then, she aimed it squarely at her mother.

        "You're not gonna shoot me, Bug," Dahlia droned. "Out with it."

        "Why—"

        "I brought you back here to repair your shoulder—instead of abandoning you in the woods to bleed out and die," Dahlia interjected, her words laying bare the cold calculus of her actions, effortlessly intercepting the torrent of Haven's silent inquiries. "I had to make sure I could trust you. I had to make sure you were capable. I had to test you, provoke you, convince you that this place wasn't a purgatory...all so that I knew you could handle what's to come. To see how far you were willing to push."

        Her dark eyes glimmered with something indiscernible, something eerily resembling the faintest trace of . . . pride.

"I had to make sure you wanted it."

        As the truth unfurled, the ground beneath Haven seemed not just to shift but to quake, destabilizing everything she believed about her mother's role within the dark heart of the Mountain. Each twisted thread now wove into a dark tapestry of manipulation that, in some strange, convoluted way . . . made sense.

Her mother had crafted a web of deceit from the very beginning, each lie a calculated thrust to sharpen her survival instincts. She had drugged Haven and thrown her into the visceral terror of the Harvest Chamber to face its horrors with her own eyes. She had led her far away from Dante, orchestrating their path in endless circles until he withdrew. The clash in the hallway was yet another trial by design, a test of Haven's agility and resilience . . . all while Dahlia cunningly steered her back to this pivotal moment, declaring the promise of escape.

        The dumpster had to be nearby.

        If her mother was telling the truth . . . it had to be her way out.

Dahlia was grinning.

"Like I said, Bug. You passed."

Haven shook her head. "You're working against the Mountain Men—?" she whispered, the weight of the gun easing as she lowered it. "I thought you fought your way out of Trikru. I thought this was your destiny."

"The Commander has tasked me with being her insider. My destiny is to be here..." Dahlia's words trailed off, the edges of her grin curling into something far more wicked. "...to burn this motherfucker to the ground, and to save my people."

Recognition slammed into Haven with the force of a freight train—each of her mother's cryptic words from their first conversation in the Med-Bay now resonating with startling clarity.

" . . . I immersed myself in their culture . . . walked among them like I was one of their own . . . then, I fought my way out."

Haven had unknowingly been aware of her covert operation from the very beginning.

Her mother had fucking told her.

        "Burn this motherfucker to the ground..." Miller's words faltered, his jaw hanging agape as his eyes darted between the Smith women in sheer astonishment. Their resemblance in this moment of revelation made it almost impossible to distinguish one from the other. "That's...that's exactly what I thought Haven was gonna say earlier this morning."

        Dahlia smirked. "You're getting out of this shithole with a mission."

        Before Haven could even catch her breath, her mother was propelling her forward, inked hands gripping her shoulders with an urgency that brooked no resistance. They weaved swiftly through the shadowed maze of cages, the air thick with the echo of distant, unsettling moans and wails. Abruptly, they arrived at a towering metal door embedded in the right wall. Tucked beneath a cluster of nondescript lab coats, a backpack lay concealed, prompting Dahlia to retrieve it and sling it over Haven's shoulders.

Time seemed to compress around them as they approached a square, metallic room, each second pulsating with heightened intensity. The script on the door blurred into obscurity, barely grazing Haven's consciousness as she was guided forward. Her movements were automatic, almost robotic, as if her conscious mind had been sidelined—propelled only by the formidable force of her mother's will.

END
CONTAINMENT AREA

"Don't look back. Take the tunnels—one leads back to your camp," Dahlia ordered, her words echoing commandingly in the confined space. She forcefully adjusted Haven's stance, ensuring her feet were planted squarely on a rusted metal panel that groaned beneath their weight. "Find your people."

Her people—?

They were . . . alive.

They were fucking alive.

Haven was barely able to stitch together words amidst the whirlwind of unfolding events. "Y-You're seriously just letting me go?"

Dahlia scoffed. "Would you like to stay—?"

        Meanwhile, Miller planted himself firmly at the doorway, arms tightly crossed—eyeing Dahlia's every move with utmost scrutiny. "How do we know you're not leading her into a trap?"

"Quiet, Nathan," Dahlia hissed, casting him a scathing glare over her shoulder that prompted him to wither beneath its intensity. Then, she reverted her attention to her daughter. "You're going, Bug. Once you find your people, you must locate the Commander as well. Lincoln will know her as Heda. Your people will know her as Lexa." She yanked the straps of Haven's backpack, ensuring it was secure, then hastily stripped off her own boots and shoved them onto Haven's bare feet. "Tell her that things are about to get bad. I'll need reinforcements—now."

        "But...my friends," Haven stanmered, her voice quivering under the crushing weight of the revelations thrust upon her. "What about—"

"There's no time for this, Haven!" Dahlia's scolding was a sharp, piercing force that cut through the air, echoing violently off the cold metallic walls and hammering into Haven's senses. "This isn't just about us or your friends—it's about survival! You must reach Lexa, you must warn her—lives, countless lives are at stake—"

"I can't just leave them behind!" Haven cut in, her voice escalating into a frantic crescendo as Dahlia ominously positioned herself beside Miller, lingering at the door's threshold. "I-I can't! I can't let them end up here—!"

        "They won't," Dahlia declared. "I'll do my best to keep them safe."

        "I'll make sure of it."

        Purposefully, Miller closed the distance between them, enveloping Haven in a fierce, unyielding embrace. It was as though he sought to meld his strength into her very bones, as if the sheer intensity of his grip could forge an armor around her—a protective shield woven from his resolve that would guard her . . . even in his absence.

        Tears annihilated Haven's eyes.

        "Miller..."

        "You're getting the hell out of here. You can do this, Hav," he assured, retreating from the embrace to remove the gun from her clenched hand, stowing it securely in the depths of her backpack. "Keep the safety off until you're ready to shoot those bastards in the head. Finger on the trigger, steady the guard with your opposite hand—"

        "Miller."

        "Don't fear the recoil. Don't hesitate. It's heavier than it looks, but you can do it—"

        "Miller!"

        "Find Bellamy. Find our friends," Miller finished, his tone unfathomably soft, yet laden with enough conviction to fortify a thousand armies. "...And stay the fuck alive, alright?"

As Miller receded into the shadow of the door's threshold, Haven remained alone in the center of the cramped room, a stark figure against the dim light. It was only then, in the silence left by his retreating steps, that her gaze caught on something new—a fresh bandage wrapped tightly around his wrist. Dark blood stained the white gauze, blooming across the fabric in stark, spreading crimson . . . a silent testament to the lengths he had gone to reach her.

He had hurt himself to get into Medical.

. . . He had gone after the girls anyway.

        "Can we wrap this up?" Dahlia cut in flatly. "Thanks to your gunshot, the guards will be here any second—and I'll have to lie to cover for your incompetence."

        Miller merely grimaced.

        "I..." Haven rasped. "I don't..."

        "You're going," Dahlia declared.

        "I don't trust you!"

        "You don't have a choice, Bug." Dahlia merely took a calculated step backwards, yanking Miller by his shirt collar to ensure they left the threshold starkly empty. "This is bigger than you are."

        As they stood framed by the dark outline of the threshold, Dahlia elevated her chin, her eyes meeting Haven's with an intensity that bridged the gap between them. She offered her a slow, solemn nod, deliberate as the passing of centuries, laden with the weight of unspoken stories and ancient respect . . . a salute to the warrior she needed her daughter to become.

        "Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim."

        Haven blinked in bewilderment.

        "What—?"

        "May we meet again."

        Her fist pounded against the button on the wall.

        And then . . . the world tilted, reality shifted, and Haven was falling, weightless, airborne—the floor vanishing beneath her feet, plunging her into a free fall.

• •

anybody see that coming????? 🤭

FIRST!!! check out this super insane poster my now bestie Tara domfikes made for the book!!! i gurantee you have read and laughed at her comments st some point while reading!!! i dont even have words. HOW FUCKING COOL???? i criedd???

i love when people message me (discords in bio) and if you ever wanna chat or feel compelled to SHOW ME SOMETHING YOU MADE (?????!?! how is that real) please feel free!!! i am honored :,)))

continuing on....WHAT THE FUCK IS UP!!!!!!! i had heart palpitations writing this. action is what i live for!!! any residual questions will be answered eventually. you're still supposed to be confused, but i sincerely hoped u enjoyed reading this as much as i did creating it. i fucking loved loved loved writing this!! and you know what else i love more....

✨ BELLAMY POV REUNION CHAPTER NEXT WEEK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ✨

guys i cried so much :,)) i wont say anything else. we've been in this seperation together ya'll. BUT WE'RE SO CLOSEEEE! i think its also one of the longest chapters yet...and everything has been long recently 😭😭😭😭😭

but on a far more serious note, i also believe that its INCREDIBLY important to address the ongoing gen0cide and violent 0ccupation occurring in p@lest!ne—right now—especially as we delve into the themes and plot for the remainder of season two. it would be incredibly tone deaf to write an act of fiction while this very real, very violent ethnic cleansing has been happening for decades, and continues to escalate in real life—CURRENTLY.

if you aren't familiar already, an easy way to directly offer assistance to families affected is to interact with operation olive branch on tiktok. the l!nk in their bio has multiple calls to action you can do as an individual from the phone you're reading this on! furthermore, they have a spreadsheet of countless families in drastic need of finacial, medical, nutritional and housing support. if you're unable to donate, you can make videos for the families on the spreadsheet yourselves as well! interacting with these posts EFFECTIVELY (watching the entirety of the video, reposting, commenting more than nine words related directly to the video instead of spam commenting, boosting all four buttons on the side), as well the posts from the families themselves, will push these videos further into the algorithm and broaden exposure to those who CAN donate. small actions that have a direct impact are bigger than inaction itself.

from the river to the sea 🍉

https://www.tiktok.com/@operationolivebranch?_t=8oDxB8D3KKE&_r=1

LOVE YOU! SEE YOU NEXT WEEK! <3 I CAN'T WAIT!!!!