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CHAPTER FOURTY EIGHT;

THE GRIM REPEAR.

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"YOUR BOYFRIEND'S TAKING TOO DAMN LONG."

THREE HOURS HAD ELAPSED SINCE HAVEN'S INTERNAL ORGANS were rearranged by none other than Bellamy Blake. The duo had succumbed to another hour of uninterrupted sleep, worn out yet utterly serene, before showering themselves off and heading their separate ways. Bellamy had escorted Haven to the back gate shadowed behind Alpha's exoskeleton, his hand warm in hers until the sight of Orion and Raven beckoned a subtle release. Reluctantly, he had disappeared into the carcass of the fallen satellite once more, setting off to steal more ammunition for their trek to the Grounder village.

Considering their secret operation would likely venture well into the next day, the trio of girls found themselves engaged in the rhythmic habit of rationing supplies, each movement steeped in the bittersweet nostalgia of days past—days of hastily prepared emergency packs back at the dropship.

It felt . . . normal.

       Working alongside her best friends . . . Haven's soul found its solace, knitting itself back together through the simple, mundane act of preparation. Raven had not only disabled the back gate's electricity, but also masterfully smuggled an entire duffle of weapons right under the vigilant eyes of the guards. Meanwhile, Haven and Orion meticulously packed the lesser essentials: compact food rations and tightly rolled sleeping bags.

       She caught herself staring at them.

       A lot.

Truth be told, Haven was mildly surprised that Orion had yet to reproach her for the relentless scrutiny, the way her eyes incessantly clung to their forms. She absorbed every nuance of their expressions, every shift in their stances, the subtle interplay of light and shadow that illuminated their familiar features—savoring the living proof of their existence, together, a universe apart from the suffocating gloom of Mount Weather's crypt.

        Yet, the acrid stench of blood still clung stubbornly to Haven's senses, and the ghastly visions of bodies upon bodies stacked in cages like discarded dolls seared her mind irreparably. She could still feel the icy grip of the metal bars that had imprisoned her, and the ghostly imprint of the pistol against her temple by her mother's own hand. Her thoughts unceasingly wandered to Miller, Jasper, Monty, Leo . . . all those she had been wrenched away from, flickering through her mind like mournful ghosts.

Though the Mountain lay far in the distance, it was nowhere near far enough to smother the echoes of trauma—nor close enough to ease her fears for the safety of her friends still caught in its shadow.

       After casting her fifth trembling glance over her shoulder in the brief span of ten minutes, Haven swiveled her focus back to the girls beside her, releasing an elongated breath. "He's not my boyfriend."

        They both shot her a look.

       "What? He's technically never asked me." Haven answered simply, her shrug masking the underlying turbulence beneath as Raven's gaze sharpened, dissecting her with silent, intense scrutiny. "Not a boyfriend, not a friend. Just... kinda like that strange, third thing—?"

"Oh, right!" Orion nodded. "A bitch."

Raven snickered in amusement. "Y'know what? Good for you, Hav," she said, delving into the contents of the duffle bag to retrieve another dagger. With a flick of her wrist, she sent it spiraling towards Haven, who fluidly snatched it with the grace of her right arm. "Finn never asked me to be his girlfriend—and look how that turned out. Better to put a label on it and know your worth."

         "Objection," Orion cut in, her hands maneuvering swiftly to zip up the final supply pack. She heaved it onto the growing pile of prepared gear with a thud. "Blake may be a bitch—but he's definitely not a slut like your murderous, fugly, fucklet of an ex."

        Raven merely grimaced. "Thanks for the reminder. He's still family."

Meanwhile, Haven's keen eyes lingered on the interaction for another heartbeat too long, drinking in the familiar dance of Orion's sharp-tongued invectives and undying disdain for the ghost of Finn's misdeeds. Yet, beneath the surface . . . something appeared to have shifted. It wasn't the customary stormcloud of irritation that darkened Orion's features that caught Haven off guard; rather, it was the way her gaze softened—a tender flicker of remorse revealing itself as her eyes darted to Raven.

        Suddenly, that single unguarded moment illuminated countless others previously unnoticed or unremarked upon. Orion had always wielded her words like daggers, sparing nothing and no one—especially Finn fucking Collins. But now, this subtle nuance in her gaze unveiled a quiet fragility, a crack in her formidable facade. It wasn't the lethal cut of her remarks that betrayed her . . .  it was the lingering, almost imperceptible traces of concern for how those words might land upon Raven.

Wait.

Haven blinked.

. . . Oh, shit.

As her mind spun with realization, her gaze instinctively drifted back to Raven, finding the brunette entirely unaware of the subtle currents of emotion that had just rippled through Orion. Raven continued about her tasks, untouched by the quiet storm of regret that had momentarily darkened Orion's eyes—a storm unseen, unnoticed.

. . . Oh, shit.

Orion had a crush.

. . . But Raven was devastatingly, wholly, utterly fucking oblivious to it.

Haven kept her tone light, almost airy, as she spoke, masterfully masking the brewing excitement that threatened to spill over from her recent discovery. "It's, um, not necessarily a bad thing," she continued casually, her voice steady and devoid of the squeal that danced at the edge of her lips. "I don't really care about a label that much. It's just funny to dangle it over his head."

        "Real," Orion huffed, toying with a switchblade while leaning nonchalantly against the gate's wires, now harmless with the electricity cut. "Plus, I think he'd literally kneel over and die without you. Almost already did. I think making him sweat over it is the perfect way to humble him."

Haven went rigid.

"...What?"

Orion stared at her blankly. "What?"

"What do you mean..." Haven edged closer ever so slightly, arms crossed instinctively over her chest, stance tightening—a line of concern etched deeply between her concerned brows. "...he almost already did?"

        Orion's grip faltered, the switchblade—a dingy shard of betrayal—slipping from her fingers to tumble into the dirt with an abrupt thud. Her body recoiled instinctively, tension coiling through her as Haven moved closer, each step marked by a predatory grace. Her eyes, dark and piercing, metamorphosed into obsidian daggers—sharp, calculating, each glance meticulously aimed to shred through layers of deception.

        "Uhh..."

"Don't," Haven pressed. "Don't lie to me, Ori. You suck at lying."

"Lying—?" Orion managed to force out the words as a near wince. "I hardly know her!"

        "She means that he was emo for like, four days straight," Raven cut in, fluidly slipping into the conversation just as Haven's questions began to sharpen, threading the needle between levity and the stark undercurrent of their situation. "Basically non-verbal, from what I've heard. He's just been...stressed." Her eyes softened. "And he definitely won't admit it—but his concussion's slowing him down a bit."

        . . . Concussion.

        Haven drew her bottom lip between her teeth as she mulled over Raven's explanation. The sincerity she saw in the Reyes girl's eyes provided a fleeting measure of solace, yet the implications of what was shared were almost incapacitating. She recalled all too clearly Bellamy's labored ascent from the sofa bed earlier that morning, his movements sluggish and strained as they prepared for their shower. The way his eyes narrowed, almost wincing beneath the harsh bathroom light . . . now took on a far graver significance.

The disclosure of blood in Bellamy's ears, as tended by Jackson, tightened the coils of concern, strangling Haven's heart even further. Concussions were not strangers among the delinquents; the brutal adjustment to their new life on Earth demanded its toll in bruises and blood. Yet, the scope of Bellamy's symptoms seemed to transcend the typical aftermath of a cranial trauma.

None of the other teenagers had experienced symptoms as severe as bleeding from their fucking ears.

        "Today seems to be better. But it has been slowing him down a lot." Orion's voice dipped into a quiet murmur as she bent to retrieve her switchblade from the dirt, brushing it off before slipping it securely into her waistband. "Probably why he's taking so long now. I think he forgot his right from his left two days ago."

        Haven's expression locked into a vacant stare, scouring Orion's face for the faintest flicker of jest, a subtle curve of a smile—anything to suggest the shadows in her words were merely a twist of dark humor. Yet, as the seconds stretched on, saturated with unvoiced questions and the weight of silent anticipation—the truth that there would be no such relief hit her with the devastating force of a bullet.

Orion uncomfortably shifted on her heels. "I'm...uh, not joking."

        . . . Fuck.

        Uncrossing her arms, Haven shifted her weight, slipping her hands beneath her jacket sleeves to discreetly crack her knuckles. "I'll go find him in a sec," she murmured, exhaling a breath intended to anchor her fraying nerves. Yet, the breath only seemed to twist in the air, amplifying her gnawing apprehension rather than soothing it. "How's your leg, birdy?"

        "Still can't feel shit," Raven huffed. "So, not great."

        Once again, Haven found herself locked in yet another agonizing trance, unable to shake the habit of familiarizing herself with her best friend . . . and her newfound injury.

Last night, nestled in the safety of Bellamy's arms, Haven's eyes had instinctively traced the uneven rhythm of Raven's limp as they trudged back to Camp Jaha. The gritty reality that Raven had survived a bullet lodged perilously close to her spine was nothing short of a miracle. Yet, the victory was marred by a grim aftermath: the bullet had wreaked havoc within, severing nerves and stripping sensation from swathes of her left leg. Now, Raven's mobility was cobbled together with a shoddy knee brace and makeshift crutches—her fiery independence cruelly curtailed by the whims of a stray shot.

Haven had left her behind.

        And now . . .

        Raven was partially paralyzed as a result.

        "Don't start apologizing," Raven cut in sharply, halting Haven's impending cascade of regrets before they could even manifest. Her voice carried a firm, yet oddly comforting edge.  "It's not your fault, Hav—the only motherfucker to blame is Murphy." Her lips twitched into a fond smirk. "But it looked like you already handled him."

Right.

. . . Stabbing him.

        According to Bellamy, Murphy had miraculously survived the cruel etchings of Haven's fury, staggering—half a ghost—to the dropship's shadowed remains. A cruel twist of fate awaited him there: Raven, pale and rendered nearly lifeless by the bullet birthed from his own gun, sprawled alone, untouched by the Mountain Men's grasp. As he knelt to mend what he had marred, his return summoned no words, only the fierce, primal justice wrought by Orion and Bellamy's clenched fists. Each punishing blow was a visceral expulsion of wrath, the physical manifestation of their smoldering grievances—a firestorm unleashed for his ceaseless treacheries.

Yet, in the murky aftermath, Murphy had seemingly begun a strange odyssey towards . . . redemption. His hands, once agents of havoc, now toiled to stitch together threads of salvation—saving Orion's life once, and Bellamy's twice.

Haven remained unmoved.

        The grim reminders of his destruction—the rope burn still etched harshly around Bellamy's throat and the cruel paralysis that now gripped her best friend—soured any notion of forgiveness in her heart.

Not now. Not yet. Not ever.

. . . Probably.

Haven clenched her jaw. "That was before I knew he shot you," she confessed, her head shaking slowly, laden with seething contempt. Her fingers twitched, aching to curl around her blade once again—to finish the saga that had begun in blood and betrayal. "I'm not done with him yet."

"I personally think stabbing him was good character development for him." Orion's lips curled into a wry smirk as she weighed in. "He's like, two percent less insufferable now. Still deserves to get majorly fucked, but for him—that's a wide margin."

"Yeah," Raven agreed flatly. "You guys need to find him and Finn before that changes. Octavia and Clarke should be here any minute now."

Haven felt another piece of herself fracture irreparably as she glimpsed the transient sorrow shadowing Raven's eyes. It was an unbearable truth that Raven was infuriated by her enforced stillness—a grenade reduced to mere spectator in their search mission. The wild around them was a maw of unseen threats, a realm fraught with peril that she could no longer navigate with her usual speed, hindered by the cruel twist of fate that had stolen the full use of her legs.

       It wasn't fair.

       Why was Haven granted the freedom to roam, her legs unencumbered, when she herself had consigned Raven to the shadows beneath the dropship's floorboards? How could she glide through the world with ease, knowing her decisions had led to Raven being shot? Why was it acceptable for her to continue unscathed, to persevere, while Raven's life was irrevocably altered, her autonomy stripped away by a moment's lapse that would haunt them both forever?

        . . . It wasn't fair.

Haven offered the girls a solemn nod.

"I'll get Bellamy."

Swallowing the jagged lump in her throat, Haven spun on her heels, the soles of her boots transitioning from the gritty kiss of earth to the cold metallic floors of Alpha.

Her first mistake was choosing the wrong door.

        Instead of the main entrance that would lead back to the dormitories and Mess Hall, Haven had inadvertently used the rear entrance—the very one Bellamy had once covertly guided them through. This path, if misdirected, branched towards the Medical wing. Although Haven knew this section of Alpha as intimately as the scars upon her heart, what had once been a familiar, sterile landscape had morphed into a territory laden with unspeakable trauma.

        She had died in that corridor.

       Five times.

        Lingering like a phantom, Haven stood immobile, frozen at the threshold where past and present collided. Her eyes roved the corridor with feverish intensity, half in dread, half in desperate hope of glimpsing Bellamy's form in his guard uniform—the singular beacon in a timeline marred with anguish. Each corner seethed with the suppressed cries of hidden agonies, every shadow pulsed ominously with the dark memory of torment, warping the very air until it was thick with the weight of her own spectral past.

If she allowed her gaze to fixate on the hallway long enough . . . the past began to resurrect itself around her. She could feel the rapid thud of Bellamy's heart, pulsing against her ear as he had sprinted, carrying her towards what they both believed to be salvation. She could hear the thunder of his footsteps echoing against the metal floors, relentless and urgent. She could see the looming figure of Abby materializing in the shadows, her scalpel gleaming—a grim reaper waiting to mutilate her heart once more.

"What? No!"

Haven's trance abruptly shattered at the sound of Clarke's disembodied voice echoing down the corridor, a stark and sudden tether to the present. It yanked her from the swirling depths of her dark reverie, sharply redirecting her focus to the opposite hallway, where the urgent echo of Clarke's plea seemed to hang, resonant and demanding attention.

"You can't just cut them loose!"

. . . Yikes.

Clarke sounded royally pissed.

"If you can't spare the guards—we know the terrain, we have a map. We can do it our damn selves." Bellamy's voice rose from the unseen depths next, scorching through the muffled discord with the raw intensity of hellfire—a declaration wrought with iron-willed defiance. "All we're here for is ammunition, then I'll be thrilled to get you out of my sight."

        Haven went rigid.

        . . . Bellamy was also royally pissed.

        If there was one immutable truth Haven grasped about the camp's co-leaders, it was that their fury often ignited between them like fire and frost. Clarke, ever the strategist, wielded her logic like a cold scalpel, dissecting dilemmas to save whom she could. Opposite her, Bellamy seethed with incandescent emotion and an undying devotion that dared to defy the very notion of the impossible, striving to rescue everybody. Their leadership, though potent, was a tempestuous dance of wills—often erupting in fierce, wretched clashes that scorched and froze in equal measure.

        Yet, this time . . . the tumult of voices carried a different tone; this argument wasn't the familiar clash between two forces of nature—it was an external confrontation.

        They were arguing with somebody else.

And by the sound of Bellamy's violent, muffled cursing and Clarke's rapidly waning patience . . . it was clear that the situation was about to get ugly.

        "—the hell is on her shirt—?!"

        "Bellamy, we need to go—"

        "Stay out of this, Clarke."

        Casting one final, lingering glance down the shadowed corridor of the Medical wing—Haven peered into its formidable depths. She stared, her gaze unwavering, just long enough to assure herself that Abby's spectral presence had fully dissolved into the darkness. Only then did she allow her lungs to fully inflate, drawing in a deep, steadying breath, as if emerging from beneath the weight of frigid, pitch-black waters.

        Inhale.

Abby wasn't there.

Breathe.

Abby couldn't hurt her anymore.

Exhale.

Summoning every vestige of her strength, Haven decisively strode in the opposite direction, leaving the oppressive ghosts of the Medical wing to languish in her wake. Driven by the disembodied voices of her loved ones, she cut through the dim corridors, her heart beating erratically as she sought the source of their calls.

"She already gave us our answer—"

"I said to stay out of this!"

Haven's heart sputtered, jackhammering violently beneath her ribs as Bellamy's fury reverberated through the corridors, a storm gathering strength in the distance. She rounded another corner, her steps swift and sure, navigating the familiar maze that led to the Council's chambers—the sanctum of power where they lived, deliberated, and decreed fates, choosing who would live and who would be vacuumed into the void of space. Though she had traversed these hallways only once before, during the grim ceremony of her sentencing, every turn, every echo was seared into her memory—an eternal imprint of the day her fate was irrevocably bound.

        "—only going to rile yourself up, okay?"

        "I don't care! I-I don't fucking care!"

If Haven had to speculate about the root of the argument, she'd bet that Bellamy had likely been caught trying to smuggle the extra ammunition, an act that risked exposing their clandestine operation entirely. Yet, his rapidly escalating wrath struck her as unusually intense. Bellamy was not one to resort to such unhinged vulgarity without severe provocation—his fury had to stem from a profound, seething rage, signaling that the stakes were higher and the situation far more dire than a simple misstep.

"BYRNE—RESTRAIN HIM, NOW!"

. . . What the fuck?

Echoes of conflict continued to thunder down the corridor, a cacophony of muffled shouts and savage curses amplifying with each of Haven's desperate strides. Ahead, the ominous drumming of boots on metal fused with the authoritarian barks of guards converging in a brutal display of power. Commands to arrest Bellamy ripped through the air, interwoven with the grim preparation for . . . shocklashing.

Haven launched herself into a sprint.

        "Bellamy! Come on!" Clarke cried out frantically, her voice desperate and strained as it cut through the rising tumult. "We need to go! Let's not make this any bigger than it has to be—not with her, not now!"

"She made it bigger the second she put on that goddamn PIN!"

Locs thrashing wildly behind her, Haven's legs surged with unmatched ferocity as she tore into the final curve of the serpentine corridor. Before her, a tumultuous sea of guards clashed, their figures blurring into a dark whirlwind of suppression, barricading a shadowed figure trapped at the corridor's end—while others fervently wrestled to restrain Bellamy.

        "Hey!" Haven shouted. "GET OFF HIM!"

Bellamy lay sprawled upon the cold metal floor, flat on his stomach, his body pinned under the oppressive weight of authority. It appeared he was utterly deaf to Haven's arrival amid the escalating conflict. He writhed with primal fury as guards attempted to shackle his wrists behind his back, their efforts countered by Clarke's piercing cries and forceful shoves against their armored bodies. Her swift intervention created a necessary diversion—a fleeting opportunity that lent Bellamy the sliver of chance he needed to slip from under the oppressive boots on his spine.

Roaring with rage, he erupted from the ground, a hellhound unleashed from its infernal chains. He bulldozed through the wall of guards, each step fueled by raw, seething hatred and a primitive need for vindication. His chest heaved with labored breaths, each exhale a furnace of scorn as he jabbed an accusing finger through the tumult, singling out the shadowed figure hidden behind the phalanx of uniforms.

"You might be the Chancellor for now, Abby, but I swear to god—I will make your life hell until the day I finally fucking KILL YOU!"

Haven felt her heart capsize.

        . . . Abby?

Time stretched into a cruel eternity as she ventured another step forward, her sudden presence cleaving through the wall of guards, their ranks parting with a startled recognition. Clutching at the last strands of hope that she had somehow misheard Bellamy's dreadful vow, she surged forward, elbowing her way to the forefront and skidding to a halt beside Clarke.

        There, Bellamy stood, his back to them, an outline hewn from the deepest shadows, his frame racked with tremors. Each shudder emanated a ferocity so intense it seemed to ignite the very air around him. His rage seethed as a towering inferno—wild, rampant, a force that scorched the atmosphere, rendering it searing, cauterizing, utterly untouchable. Wrapped in this cyclone of fury, he was completely blind to Haven's presence, wholly submerged in the hellfire of his own conjuring.

"Bell—?"

The Blake boy went rigid.

. . . No.

No. No. No.

Inhaling a tremulous breath, Bellamy spun on his heels, rising before Haven like a dark monolith. His towering presence eclipsed her form entirely, shielding her view as if to protect her—or perhaps to obscure the figure behind him. His eyes, vast pools of inky blackness, were so expansively dilated they seemed to devour all light, all clarity from the room. It was as if the shadows themselves had found refuge in his gaze, nearly ensnaring Haven in their unfathomable depths.

But she refused to be sucked in.

"Move," Haven whispered. "Move."

Bellamy vehemently shook his head, his fists rhythmically clenching and unclenching at his sides as his breath shifted, transmuting the hot flames of rage into the chill of irreparable devastation. He sidestepped her, a silent sentinel blocking her every attempt to bypass his formidable frame. When Haven finally mustered the strength to wrench him aside, their eyes met in a cataclysmic flash—a millisecond that held the crushing weight of collapsing stars, conveying a depth of regret his words failed to capture.

. . . I'm sorry.

       Slowly, Haven managed to glimpse over his shoulder . . . only to find herself staring straight into the eyes of the woman who had orchestrated to kill her.

        Abigail Griffin.

Alive.

Like a wraith conjured from the chasms of Haven's most sinister nightmares, the treacherous doctor stood cloaked in deceitful tranquility, belying the cruelty lurking within. Her arms, hanging listlessly at her sides, and her meticulously neutral visage failed to mask the subtle sheen of sweat on her brow. The unnatural warmth coloring her cheeks starkly contradicted the icy calculation glittering in her eyes, marking her not as a phantom swallowed by the flames of the Exodus ship crash, but as a corporeal entity—tangible, menacing . . . and brandishing the Chancellor's pin as if it were a cross.

Haven couldn't move.

She couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't.
       
        Maybe Tsing's grim diagnosis of HIBI hadn't been fabrication. Maybe the tales of hysteria induced seizures and mild schizophrenia were not just clinical myths, but rooted in harsh reality. Perhaps, this was the harrowing onset of another seizure, her limbs shaking with uncontrollable intensity, her heart pounding with such erratic ferocity that it seemed poised to rupture her chest and scatter into a starless void. It had to be an episode; it had to be, because the alternative—that Abby could still be breathing, still be alive—was a truth too shattering to confront.

        It wasn't real. It wasn't.

. . . It couldn't be.

        Abby parted her lips. "Haven..."

        "Don't."

Bellamy's shift was swift, a fleeting glimpse of the devil given before he realigned himself, his back a monolithic barrier between Haven and Abby. He stood immovable, a titan amidst the tumult—a resolute protector against the looming threat. Even from behind, Haven could discern the irate tension in his jaw, the muscles grinding like millstones with every tense inhale. Each deliberate clench was a silent, formidable challenge hurled at the apparition before them, daring her to stir the volatile fury smoldering within him.

"She'll tell you when you can talk."

Abby tried again. "I—"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Just—"

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up."

        Struck into mute submission, Abby sucked in a sharp, quivering breath, then clamped her jaw tight.

        Haven must have been hallucinating.

        Cold, immobilizing terror clawed its way up her throat, infiltrating her bloodstream and corrupting her veins into snaking tendrils of black ice. She trembled so violently that it was impossible to tell whether it stemmed from fear or shock. Almost involuntarily, she took another step forward, edging closer to the ghostly outline of Abby, only for Bellamy to shadow her movements with predatory vigilance—permitting her proximity, yet sternly preventing her from crossing to his front.

        But Bellamy wasn't the only one who refused to abandon Haven's side.

        . . . Clarke stood as unmoving as stone.

        Together, Bellamy and Clarke forged an impenetrable barricade before Haven—a living fortress that both shielded and allowed her to test the reality of Abby's existence. As they advanced, the remaining guards dissipated like shadows at dusk, swept aside by the subtle command of Abby's hand, until, at last . . . they halted, standing only three feet apart.

        "Move."

        At the faint echo of Haven's whisper, Bellamy turned, his gaze shadow-drenched, sweeping over her figure haloed in low light. She stood transfixed, her gaze unflinching as it bore into the monster before them. The dark circles beneath her eyes swirled like cruel thunderheads, her mind a tormented whirlwind, desperately trying to untangle reality from the clutches of a relentless nightmare.

        "Bellamy..." she warned. "Move."

        Although every particle within his goddamn body revolted against the prospect, Bellamy found himself relenting, moving aside with a reluctant obedience. Eventually, Clarke mirrored his actions, opening a gateway for Haven—sharpening her view of the abuser that embodied her deepest fears.

        Now . . . Abby was trembling.

        In a desperate attempt to break through the illusion that she feared might be trapping her, Haven lifted her hand, struggling to still its relentless trembling. Driven by a force that felt beyond her own volition, her finger slowly reached out, quivering as it hesitantly grazed the warm, undeniable reality of the woman's collarbone.

        . . . Real.
       
        Given that Haven's finger hadn't passed through Abby's form as though she were a ghost, feeling warmth instead of empty air, the veil of disbelief began to tear—this was no nightmare, no hallucination, nor a twisted anomaly in a timeline seemingly bent on her endless torment.

        This was achingly real.

       Abby was tangible, flesh and blood, staring back at Haven with lips quivering on the cusp of speech. The doctor, once so skilled in the art of deception, now struggled with each syllable as though they were fragments of shattered glass, her whisper an ironic, brittle echo that pierced the silence with its treachery.

        "What a miracle it is that you're alive."

        And then . . .

        Haven smacked her across the face.

In that singular moment, the force of Haven's strike resonated as a definitive declaration, more powerful than any words spoken could ever be. The impact of her hand against Abby's cheek split the heavy air like a clap of divine retribution, its resonance booming through Alpha's stark corridors, a sonic wave that seemed to ripple through the very fabric of reality. It was a crack not merely of flesh against flesh but of a dam rupturing beneath the weight of suppressed fury and forged histories—its echo penetrating even the deepest layers of the earth, challenging the very bedrock of their existence.

        Abby gasped in horror.

        But Haven was already gone.
       
        She refused to witness her tormentor's face contort with the audacity of pain—a vile paraody, as if Abby's momentary suffering could ever fucking compare to the five years of agony beneath her medical tyranny, a cruelty forever carved into the flesh of Haven's heart. She fled, her steps swift against the cold floor, blind to the guards' poised rush, halted only by Abby's sharp command. All external sounds faded into nothingness, drowned out by the insatiable, pulsating roar of her own blood.

Her chest began to heave.

       "Haven," Bellamy called out. "Haven!"

Bellamy's voice was the sole beacon to breach the firestorm raging in Haven's ears, a solitary anchor attempting to tether her to reality . . . yet it faltered, unable to provide the usual solace she sought. His footsteps, desperate and echoing, chased the fading ghost of her silhouette through the oppressive corridors. The light touch of his fingers on her forearm was met with an instinctive recoil; she yanked her arm away, retreating into herself instead—her nails burying into her palms with such ferocity that she felt the cruel sting of blood.

"Haven—wait! Just hold on!"

She refused.

Even if a part of Haven longed to turn back, to collapse into Bellamy's embrace and dissolve into the torrent of sobs that her soul shrieked to release, her decision had already solidified. It was irrelevant that she could sense Bellamy's presence haunting her steps, feel his desperation to offer solace, to utter apologies that now sounded like distant echoes across the void. She needed space, to sever ties with everything that bound her to a shattered past, driven by the desire to control at least one aspect of her existence.

        "Hav...."

        Tucking herself into the nearest vacant room in sight, Haven continued to ignore his pleas, slamming the door behind her to lock herself in and Bellamy out. Her vision was torturously blurred by tears that scalded her cheeks like acid, each breath fought against the sobs strangling her throat as she plunged deeper into her own abyss, relentlessly pushing away from Bellamy, away from her past . . . away from a life that no longer felt like her own.

It never had been.

        It never would be.

"...Please."

        The violence with which Haven slammed the door set the nearby bookshelf quivering, its structure finally succumbing to the tremors and collapsing with a loud, resonant crash beside her. Desperate for a distraction from the sharp, jagged breaths that tore at her lungs, she grasped for control, tangibly righting the bookshelf with trembling hands. But as she reached to gather the scattered books, her fingers, stained with the blood from her torn palms, marred their covers. Her arm, a treacherous betrayal of flesh and bone, refused to rise above her shoulder . . . all over again.

        And then . . .

        Haven was disintegrating.

        Fracturing like a constellation under siege, she crumbled against the doorframe, her back scraping against its cold support as she slid down into her own desolation. The sobs erupted violently, unrestrained, tearing through the silence—again and again, each outburst ravaging her weary frame into ruin. Despite her hysteria, she could still feel Bellamy's presence mirroring her own despair on the other side of the door, his spine flat against the metal. Desperate fingers stretched beneath the door's narrow threshold, seeking to bridge the distance with a whisper of comfort.

She didn't reach back.

• •

THE JOURNEY TO THE GROUNDER VILLAGE HAD BEEN EXCRUCIATINGLY SILENT. Octavia and Clarke, tense and alert, led the way, while Bellamy lingered at the rear, a silent sentinel. Between them, Orion and Haven maintained the middle, each step heavy with unspoken thoughts. It had become abundantly obvious within the first thirty seconds of the group's solemn return to the gate that something was amiss, yet no one dared to break the silence with questions. An instinctual understanding flowed among them, granting Haven the space her silence seemed to demand . . . but it was Bellamy's voluntary distance from her that unsettled them even more.

They hadn't exchanged a single word since Haven had opened the door between them.

After her tears had finally ebbed, Haven moved past Bellamy, who stood anxiously waiting on the other side of the door. Her steps were mechanical, driven by the numb resolve to join the others at the gate as they had initially planned. She avoided any conversation with him, her heart too weary to withstand it, yet as she passed, Bellamy had silently slipped two daggers into her back pocket. His actions were careful, deliberate—no touch, no words—just a quiet respect for the boundary she had emphatically set, while still ensuring her safety for the challenges that lay ahead.

Once she had left, Bellamy lingered behind, assuming the solitary task of cleaning up the room. He meticulously wiped down the blood-stained books, ensuring no trace of inky black remained. Methodically, he gathered and ordered the chaos strewn about, reshelving each item with a careful hand into the closest semblance of order he could manage . . . because that's who Bellamy Blake was.

        A man who rebuilt, who protected . . . even in the echo of solitude and volatile aftermath of his missteps.

        Haven wasn't mad at him.

        Even if she was, her anger could never sustain its flame—not when she understood Bellamy as intimately as she did now. Looking back on this morning, she was able to pinpoint exactly why he had interrupted her lovesick advances, an attempt to sidestep the shadows of the same mistake he made a month ago. He had once withheld the serpent coils of Abby's deceit, letting them fester unseen; this time, his revelation came swift, borne from a deep-seated fear of history repeating itself.

        . . . He did try to tell her, after all.

But she didn't want to know.

Truth be told, Haven felt no regret for not pressing Bellamy further in that heated moment, nor for the intimacy they shared afterward. In an ugly corner of her heart, she almost wished Bellamy had kept the truth of Abby's survival veiled longer, or concealed her existence entirely—selfishly, just to spare herself the searing agony of it all. Although she had navigated the five stages of grief with unsettling speed . . . it did little to protect her from the debilitating, mind-numbing devastation of this.

A sicker part of herself wasn't surprised that Abby had miraculously managed to defy death; the ruthless doctor was merely the latest phantom to rise from the crypt of her past, each one a revenant returning to haunt her with their unresolved sins.

Dahlia was alive.

So . . . of course Abby was alive, too.

Because why the fuck not?

        Throughout the early hours of their journey towards the village, Haven found herself ensnared in a harrowing gauntlet of unanswerable questions and suffocating self-pity. Why was she the chosen bearer of such ceaseless torment? Why was it impossible to bury any fragment of her past in peace? Why did every tormentor from her history not only return to haunt her . . . but to crush her beneath the weight of their corporeal presence?

        How was it fair?

        How had eighteen out of the hundred youths dispatched to Earth by the Council met their ends before even reaching the battlefield at the dropship? How had twenty-eight more fallen during the combat itself? How were the forty-seven survivors left to face death within the oppressive confines of a mountain . . . while Abigail Griffin continued to breathe, to live?

        Fate didn't exist.

        Luck didn't exist.

        But maybe curse did.

        Perhaps Haven was eternally fucked, fated to watch everyone she held dear dissolve into shadows, doomed to wander a landscape haunted by the ghosts of her tormentors.

        Yet, still . . . she sucked it up.

        There were more pressing matters than the quiet obliteration of Haven's inner world—it wasn't as though she was handling it any differently than her usual, tortured way of coping. The deluge of information flooding her neurons was too overwhelming to process; she couldn't absorb it, she could only feel the raw agony of it. It was simpler to let the pain fester, allowing it to seep into her bloodstream like a venom, corrupting her very essence until it dulled into a catastrophic numbness.

         She felt everything at once.

         Intrinsically. Eternally. At all times.

         . . . Until it all seethed into nothingness.
       
        Now, Haven was thoughtlessly captivated by the mesmerizing flicker of the firepit flames, time slipping away unnoticed in the haunting glow as the search group made camp for the night. She lay atop her backpack, repurposed as a makeshift pillow, with Bellamy's jacket serving as a thin veil of warmth, though her body was mostly swallowed by her sleeping bag. He had delicately breached their unspoken boundary to cover her with it, before withdrawing to the firepit's opposite edge—a spot where Orion had periodically flicked pebbles at his forehead—and insisted she'd aimed for the fire instead.

        She could feel his eyes on her.

        . . . She could also feel his remorse.

       They had slept so peacefully together just the night before; Bellamy's arms instinctively tightening around her as he dreamed, while Haven nestled closer into his chest until their skins seemed to merge into one. But alas, their ephemeral ascent to cloud nine had burst, shattering into silvery shards of meteor debris streaking coldly across the cosmos . . . and now, the chasm between them yawned wider than the heavens themselves.

        Bellamy was scared.

Even from afar, Haven could feel the blistering sense of worry emanating from the boy she loved. The remorse for sending Finn and Murphy to the village unaccompanied. The gnawing fear of the havoc they might wreak or the dangers they could encounter. The stark horror of failing to rescue their friends trapped within Mount Weather in time. The crushing guilt of delaying his warning about Abby. Each unvoiced terror scorched her skin, weaving their emotions into a tight, indistinguishable thread, until she could no longer discern where his anguish ended and hers began.

Every second could be their last.

He knew it. She knew it.

Time was a luxury they couldn't afford; not for Haven to wallow in her own torment . . . nor for her to keep Bellamy at arm's length.

       It was more draining than anything.

       So, Haven intentionally held Bellamy's stare for a heartbeat longer than usual, feeling the familiar warmth of his eyes caress her features for the five-hundredth time. Across the dance of flames, he seemed to hesitate, caught in the flicker of uncertainty. Only when she silently granted him permission with a slow, meaningful nod did he begin to bridge the gap between them, each step tethered to the tug of her gravity.

        He reached her side in seconds.

Slowly, Bellamy descended to the earth beside her, easing into a seated position near the crown of her head as she lay curled beneath the stars. His legs stretched toward the firepit, hands clenching and unclenching in his lap, restless with unspoken thoughts as he studied her silhouette against the amber light. He remained silent, caught in the tumult of uncertainty—unsure if she wished for words, if he should cut out his goddamn tongue, or if she merely tolerated his presence, not yet ready to welcome his voice into the quiet night that enveloped them.

One heartbeat passed. Another.

Then . . . Haven nestled her head into the sanctuary of his lap.

In that moment, Bellamy finally allowed himself to exhale—a breath he had been holding hostage through ten hours of silent agony.

He surrendered his hands to the magnetic pull of her presence at once, his fingers smoothing over her hair, his thumb tenderly tracing the delicate contours of her temples. The arid stretch of four days without her touch had morphed into a desolate void. Yet, refraining from touching her while she was hurting had scorched his soul more deeply, a crucible far fiercer than the ninety-six hours of purgatorial emptiness that had come before.

        "I'm sorry," Bellamy whispered, shaking his head with unfathomable remorse as he sought her eyes from above. "I'm so, so sorry that I didn't tell you sooner."

        Haven's sigh whispered through the stillness as a soft echo of fatigue. "I've heard that one before," she murmured, her words not sharp with anger but draped in the sheer fabric of exhaustion. "But I'm not mad at you."

        "It's not a bad thing if you are," Bellamy answered quietly. "It's probably healthier."

        "I mean, the timing sucked—but I did ask you to hold off on it." Haven shifted ever so slightly against his lap, fighting against the lull of sleep, resisting the urge to let her eyelids close while Bellamy's hands delicately stroked her locs. "Plus, I know what your intentions were. It's not like I'm the only one that Abby's manipulated, either. You still..." Her breath caught. "...You still have to process her existence too."

        Bellamy shook his head. "I wouldn't say that's a fair comparison."

"It doesn't have to be fair," she countered. "It all hurts the same."

A wistful spell of silence descended in wake of Haven's words—a silence not uncomfortable, but laden with a torrent of unvoiced emotions that only seemed to thicken the very air around them. This pause did not mutate into something destructive; rather, it hung suspended, then gradually softened . . . as if even their most harrowing trials could be momentarily stilled by the gentle acknowledgment of shared pain.

        Bellamy didn't interpret it as kindly.

        Haven's words felt like an unwelcome intrusion, a too-easy settling of dust on wounds still raw and bleeding. Her tone carried a certain resignation about Abby's survival and integration into their lives—a twisted acceptance that annihilated his nerve endings. It felt as though she somehow equated his torment with hers, minimizing the mutilation and abuse she endured, as if to suggest their collective suffering could ever sanitize the situation . . . as if Abby's right to draw breath wasn't irrevocably fucking blasphemous.

Battling the surge of rage that clamored for release, the Blake boy consciously stilled the violent urge to clench his hands into fists of retribution, counting to five within his head before exhaling slowly. Forcibly, he transformed his usual agents of destruction into instruments of solace, resuming the sweeping of his thumb across Haven's temple.

"I'm never going to let her hurt you, Haven," he vowed solemnly. "Never again. Not beneath my own goddamn nose."

        Haven felt her heart splinter.

        Again, and again . . . and again.

        In truth, she had never fully considered that aspect of Bellamy's guilt, unwittingly enmeshed in Abby's vile web of deceit. For four harrowing years, Bellamy walked a treacherous tightrope, defying laws and endangering his career, all the while convinced that his actions served Haven's best interests—that they were inherently good. Deceived by sweet lies wrapped in the guise of benevolence, he believed that the team's efforts were shields meant to protect, heal, and sustain her—only to find he had unknowingly fortified Abby's malevolent designs . . . at the cost of Haven's life.

Although Haven felt outrageously stupid for succumbing to Abby's manipulations, she had, at least, been unconscious during her procedures.

Bellamy had witnessed every single one.

Wide awake. Alert. Observant.

. . . Yet, tragically oblivious to the fact that Abby was slowly mutilating her, piece by piece, right before his eyes.

"When you were apologizing to me yesterday...you said that you were sorry for letting her hurt me," Haven began, her fingers cautiously slipping out from beneath the protective drape of Bellamy's jacket to still his right hand in hers. "It's not your fault."

His jaw tightened in response.

"Hey—it's not your fault, Bell." Haven's voice grew firmer, her reiteration ringing with more conviction than she had mustered all day. "I don't blame you for not telling me about her right away. I don't blame you for losing your shit earlier. I don't blame you for doing your best to protect me. I don't blame you for any of it." As Bellamy sought to avert his eyes, she gently shifted her hand from his to clutch his chin, forcing him to meet her stare. "Ever."

        Bellamy vehemently shook his head.

        Bathed in the molten gold of firelight, Haven was as beautiful and earth-shattering as ever, glancing up at Bellamy as if he were truly worthy of her forgiveness and honesty. This honesty, once a relentless force that flayed his defenses and demanded his evolution, now morphed into a healing salve. To be seen by her—so acutely, so wholly—was an exquisite agony. Known by her heart, cradled in her understanding; her reassurance intertwined with his very essence, threatening to shatter him right then and there.

. . . Maybe one day he'd believe it.

Bellamy drew in a shaky inhale. "You shouldn't be the one comforting me right now. At all," he insisted, even as he helplessly leaned into the comforting warmth of her palm now cradling his cheek. "I'm so sorry, Hav. I'm sorry for letting you find out like that. I'm sorry that she's still...here."

"It is what it is." Haven lightly shrugged as the corners of her lips twitched into a wry smile. "...I slapped the shit outta her, didn't I?"

. . . There she was.

Bellamy's laughter broke through, a deep, rumbling surge that seemed to cleanse the perennial gloom from his lungs—a gloom Haven dispelled as if by magic. "Atta' girl," he praised, softly kissing her inner wrist, lowering his voice an octave as the girls nearby stirred slightly in their sleep. "But I'm still going to handle her for you. You know that...right?"

        Haven arched a knowing brow. "Another assassination attempt—?"

        "Wouldn't be the first time," Bellamy mumbled gruffly. "I'm not scared of her."

        "I am."

        Although Haven's admission had slipped out unintentionally, the words hit Bellamy like a sudden vacuum, ripping the very air from his frail lungs. The light that had once haloed her brown eyes flickered and died as swiftly as it had sparked, her wry smirk dissolving into a smile that failed to reach her eyes. It was devastating to witness how swiftly Abby's malign presence could shadow Haven's heart—but Bellamy refused to simply sit by, a passive spectator to her torment.

Not again. Never again.
       
Not when Abby's skull was perfectly suited for the cold, exacting justice of a bullet.

Better yet . . . an entire fucking clip.

        "You won't be for long." A soft, fleeting kiss graced Haven's forehead, then her mouth—a silent affirmation of Bellamy's pledge—before gravitating towards her forehead again. "Promise."

Haven momentarily closed her eyes, surrendering to the gentle caress of Bellamy's lips against her skin, each touch a tender inscription of his vows into her very being. His mouth, warm and unbelievably soft, traced a sacred path down her temple, gliding along her jaw, a delicate exploration that circled to her chin. There, he paused, then continued his voyage, scattering a constellation of kisses across the other side of her face.

And then . . .

He was tucking something behind her ear.

        As Bellamy sat himself upright, Haven's eyelids fluttered open, her touch drifting from the warmth of Bellamy's cheek. Instinctively, her hand reached up, fingers seeking the mystery that had been tenderly nestled beside her earlobe.

        A wildflower.

According to Wells . . . it was a Virginia Bluebell. Haven had encountered this particular flower far more often than she cared to admit since their arrival on Earth—it was the same strain that burst into life beneath the glaring sun when the dropship doors first yawned open. Delicate yet resilient, with its blue petals wilted to the size of half of her pinkie and a stem jaggedly fissured in two places, it held a beauty fierce in its fragility, defiant in its vitality.

        It was beautiful.

        Haven softly glanced to Bellamy for an explanation. "What's this?"

"Oh," Bellamy began. "I saw it earlier on. I thought you might like it...but you were stomping pretty far ahead of me," he explained, his hand absentmindedly raking through his curls as she continued to twirl the floral between her forefingers. "I, um, didn't wanna bother you...so I put it in my pocket. Sorry it's kinda crushed."

For the first time in what felt like eons, Haven became acutely aware of the foreign sensation stirring within her chest. It wasn't the familiar, incendiary surge of love that swelled whenever her eyes found Bellamy's, nor the fluttering chaos that danced whenever he gifted her with a smile. It wasn't the ceaseless devastation, the splintering grief that crushed her with every friend lost, nor each ghost resurrected from the shadows of her past.

It was something different entirely.

It was . . . healing.

Not growth. Not a reshaping of scars. Not the sting of new wounds.

But pure, unadulterated healing.

Haven was suddenly swamped by a surge of self-reproach—realizing how foolishly she had surrendered to the depths of her own despair and self-pity earlier on.

How could she possibly waste even a heartbeat away from Bellamy Blake? How could she lament the cruelty of fate when the same merciless hand had gifted her his presence? How could she cowardly seek to hide from him, when merely a glimpse of his sincere eyes was enough to breathe life back into her soul? How could she stop her soul from reaching out to his?

. . . How could she have ever tried to resist loving him?

        "King of the Earth..." Haven's voice curled around the words, a playful lilt in her tone as she clung to the wildflower, her fingers treating it as if it were the most sacred relic she had ever touched—second only to the boy whose arms cradled her weary head. "Lover of big, scary guns and dainty little wildflowers."

        Bellamy's smile outshone even the brightest of stars twinkling in the indigo canopy above. "If you're gonna bully my flower—I'll just take it back."

        "I'm not bullying the flower," Haven declared innocently, tucking it back against its rightful place beside her ear before nestling closer into his lap. "Just you."

Bellamy feigned an eye roll. "Y'know...I wouldn't have agreed to be your boyfriend if I knew you would only wound me."

Haven gasped—unbelievably dumbstruck, and outrageously incredulous. "When exactly did we have that conversation?!"

Bellamy blinked. "Uh...this morning," he deadpanned, as if the answer were glaringly evident. His face held a veneer of calm, yet his eyes—a tempestuous play of fire not borrowed from the firepit's glow, but kindled from the deep, sinful wells of memory—danced with mischievous flames. "What? Was it that forgettable—?"

        . . . As if.

        "Mine."

        "Yours."

        Undoubtedly flustered and overwhelmed by the sudden rush of warmth flooding her cheeks, Haven summoned her weary limbs into action, delivering an indignant swat to Bellamy's chest. He recoiled in a preemptive flinch, but his laughter soon drew out the stern lines of her face, coaxing them into a tender, familiar smile. As their mirth entwined and ascended into the night, it wove a melody—sweet and heady, as if they were casting their lovedrunk euphoria into the ether, inebriating even the stars themselves.

        "I'm just messing with you," Bellamy admitted, his voice softening as his laughter tapered into a warm sigh. Tenderly, he reached out to adjust the flower that had nearly slipped from its perch beside her ear. His fingers were careful, ensuring it sat just right amidst her locs. "Keep the flower though, alright? Consider a placeholder."

        "Yeah?" Haven probed. "For what?"

        "The real thing."

        "The real what—?"
       
        "Don't worry about it."

Before confusion could fully sculpt its furrow between Haven's brows, Bellamy had already closed the distance between them. He leaned in, gently coaxing her face upwards with a finger beneath her chin, and claimed her mouth with his. Each brush of his lips was gentle, intentional, not meant to silence her questions but to savor her presence, to feel her warmth melding seamlessly with his . . . to memorize the very outline of her happiness.

       "Propose to her some other night, Blake."

Startled beyond measure, Haven and Bellamy abruptly jerked apart, their lips severing in a swift, graceless motion as they scrambled to distance themselves.

        "Yeah. You heard me, motherfucker."

        The sound of Orion's voice, dry and unmistakably irritated, cut through the silence like a frigid gust of wind. She lay about two yards to their left, her wild curls a testament to restless slumber, sprawling around her head in tangled disarray. Propped up on her elbows, her expression was sour, eyes narrowed—a clear signal of her displeasure at being awakened so abruptly.

"I am like, so happy you're not pretending to be mad at each other anymore...or whatever strange shit straight people do," Orion began, her fingers pressing the bridge of her nose in a gesture of irked resignation. "But please, for the love of all that is holy...I am begging you, just shut the fuck up."

Haven blinked. "Who said I was straight?"

        A beat passed.

"Wait...." Orion gasped, abruptly straightening from her reclined position, her wide eyes nearly leaping from her skull in sheer astonishment. "WHAT—?!"

Haven erupted into cackles.

Meanwhile . . . Bellamy's lips twisted into a wickedly smug smirk, his arms folding gloatingly across his chest. He watched with barely contained glee as Orion visibly short-circuited, relishing in the rare pleasure of holding the upper hand in knowledge, savoring every flicker of shock that rippled across her bewildered features.

        Another beat passed.

        And then . . .

"Y-You knew?! HE knew—?!" Orion's voice cracked with incredulity, her hand flinging towards Bellamy in a wild gesture of exasperation, then pinning the girl sprawled at his lap with a glare that could cleave through steel. "How the hell did this freakin' testosterone tank know about that, but not me?!"

Haven futilely wiped at her eyes, still reeling from the torrents of laughter cascading from her. "How else do you think I know that you have a crush on Raven—?" she quipped, arching an all-knowing brow as she observed Orion's jaw practically detach itself from her skull. "Been there. Done that."

. . . Which, was true.

Haven had never really contemplated her sexuality as an adult.

        Yet, as a young girl . . . she often found herself engulfed by what she could now identify as pure, bisexual panic at the mere presence of Raven. It often felt as though she might've spontaneously exploded under the strain of defining those tumultuous emotions. Raven, with her effortless grace and enigmatic cool, had swiftly twined herself into the fabric of Haven's early life—so rapidly and intensely that Haven used to find herself constantly fucking confused, struggling to untangle the delicate threads between wanting to be Raven . . . or wanting to be with Raven.

        Time, however, spun its alchemy, transforming their unspoken, one-sided connection into the enduring, unbreakable bond of sisterhood, where earlier confusions softly fizzled into forgotten memories.

        Y'know . . . homoerotic character building, or whatever.

"Oh my god," Orion panted, her chest theatrically beginning to heave. She flipped her palms skyward, eyes wide as she scrutinized her own hands—an estranged spectacle of flesh and bone, questioning the very fabric of her instincts. "Oh my god. Is my gaydar BROKEN—?!"

Octavia was the next to stir from her slumber, her movements tinged with irritation, rubbing agitatedly at her weary eyes as she sat herself upright. "Well, now that you've woken up the entire forest..." she muttered, casting a knowing glance toward the last of their circle. "Clarke—you up, too?"

Clarke remained face down, buried in her sleeping bag, her jacket draped like a shroud over her head, completely obscuring her fatigued features. Unmoved by the stirrings around her . . . she acknowledged the question with a languid thumbs up.

"That settles it then," Octavia declared, decisively rising to her feet and shoving her sleeping bag into her backpack. Slipping the pack onto her shoulders, she unsheathed her sword, the blade catching the first whispers of dawn light as she marched towards the beckoning treeline. "C'mon. Time to find our loose cannons."

As dawn unfurled its gentle light, the remnants of the search party stirred, gathering their scattered belongings with a silent, shared resolve. They resumed their march, tracing the winding paths that led toward the distant Grounder village. Octavia and Orion led the charge, Clarke held the middle ground, while Bellamy and Haven walked in quiet tandem at the rear.

Together, they formed a singular, intertwined silhouette, a delicate interplay of light and darkness that danced softly over the rotten earth. Desperate fingers stretched between the narrow expanse of space between them, delicately entwining with her own . . . seeking to bridge the distance with three, tender pulses of promise.

        Haven squeezed back.

        Unflinchingly. Irresistibly. Eternally.

• •

HI MY BESTIES!!!!

before i get into the author's note....i want to show ANOTHER AMAZING!!! AMAZING!! AMAZING!!! creation made for the book made by my girl Lizzie thedrama_llama  ✨ LIKE WHAT THE FUCK!!!! another adrienne song that was actually written for baven?? and used in the most beautiful graphic ever??? i think yes.

....SHE KILLED THAT!!! and she's a wonderful writer as well!! if you're into twd universe and the last of us pls pls pls check out the beautiful stories she has on her page :)))

in other news though...guys...the bitch is back☹️
by bitch i mean abby. yalll bellamy is actually going to short circuit and spazz!!! he is going to lose his mind!! when i warned you their fued was going to be nuclear i meant it, this is literally NOTHING compared to whats to come and im SOOOOOOO excited 🫣

also!!!
haven being bi has literally been canon from WAAAAAY early on. i tried to underplay it sooooo hard all the way back in chapter 9 when she reminisces on her friendship with raven & how close they are and then small little hints scattered throughout the book lol. it was supposed to be subtle but was plotted to be said aloud in s2 specifically!!! you'll see why.
bellamy is the only love interest in this book yall but MAN what couldve been 💔

not too much action in this chapter but lots of emotions. haven is the literal epitome of thought daughter. head is full at ALL TIMES 😭 last chapter was the fun cutesy break! now we back to suffering 😋 but i wanted to end it on a good note :))) because next...we diving into finns bullshit!!!! WOOOOOO😔🤢 the plotline with hims is going to be ROUGH for our girl. sorry in advance :/ next chapter is filler ishhh before we get into more action again but its still necessary plot set up now that havens at camp jaha

i'm also REALLY REALLY behind on editing to the point where i miiight have to postpone next week's chapter til the following week to play catch up. i'm going to be out of town all next week with absolutely 0 time to edit so 😭😭😭 i'm gonna try to get to a good place this weekend so i can update as normal which i should be able to do! if not, i'll post an announcement. i hate falling behind bc i feel like im failing those who are dedicated read this...but just know that i love and appreciate yall so much 🥹❤️‍🩹

LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE UUUU!!!