• •

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR;

PHANTOMS.

• •

        GRIEF IS NOT A THING OF BEAUTY. It is raw, ugly, and gargantuan–a monstrous abyss devoid of anything teachable or uplifting. There's no solace in grief. No peace in the wrenching knowledge that your loved one is gone. The love you hold for them has no outlet anymore—no place to reside—so you bury it deep within, allowing it to carve a home beneath your skin until it inevitably surges forth once more.

        Haven often thought of her mother at the strangest of times. Why did the dull hue of autumn grass remind her of Dahlia's favorite book cover? Why would she catch herself seeking her presence in the flicker of dying lightbulbs Why was it so difficult for her body to accept the irrefutable truth that her mother was gone? It was awful to incessantly search for someone no longer there; it was torturous for her body to do it against her will.

        Grief had made her its puppet in seconds; she resigned to its strings for eternity.

        And now–Orion would, too.

        The enormity of the last twenty-four hours had burdened Haven with an almost insufferable amount of chest pain. It was excruciating to witness the friend she had grown to love so dearly undergo the same trauma that she had. Death was a malevolent thief; if Haven could have swapped places with Orion, she would've done so the moment the Exodus ship crashed into the mountains. But ultimately, she knew that she couldn't.

       She was already living it herself.

       Since then, Haven, Octavia, and Orion remained practically inseparable. Every waking minute had found them joined at the hip. While much of their time was spent silently staring at the ceiling of Octavia's tent, the dim light casting shadows across their weary faces, at least they had each other.

Not all of it was silent, though.

Orion's inconsolable anguish surpassed all expectations within the camp. Not that anyone expected it to be pretty; it was harrowing to behold one of their own unraveling. Her sobs poured ceaselessly, as if she were comprised more of saltwater than blood, until abruptly–she just stopped. It was as if a veil had been lifted, as if the tempest of sorrow had never ravaged her to begin with. In that transformative moment, she transcended her identity as a girl engulfed in pain.

Instead, she was consumed by rage.

Bottles had shattered beneath her touch. Parts of the wall now bore dents brought on by the relentless onslaught of her foot. She lashed out at anyone who dared to intervene–not even Bellamy attempted to confront her wrath. Flames of her fury had incinerated her lively eyes to ash, consuming her from within she as wrestled with the injustice of loss and the cruelty of fate.

Today had been a slight improvement.

        Sort of.

        The day began with their customary trip to the riverbank for bathing. Orion was shrouded in a thin veil of blood, sweat, and tears—quite literally. So, Haven and Octavia had assumed the task of bathing her. While the Vincetta girl sat in the water, silent and withdrawn, seemingly longing for the current to drag her under, they tenderly washed away the remnants of the day before.

It felt eerily reminiscent of the care Orion and Octavia had once shown Haven not too long ago.

Once Haven was off post-seizure bedrest, they had insisted on dragging her towards the riverbank before she could even think about tinkering with the comms tent. Naturally, she fought against it–but as soon the soothing waters enveloped her, cleansing her of the traces of Mbege's blood, Finn's blood, it proved to be wildly...cathartic.

Hopefully, the ritual could provide the same sense of relief for Orion, even if only temporarily. So far, it appeared to have worked its magic; she had spent the majority of the day silently tidying up the aftermath of her earlier destruction. Now, nestled in the sanctuary of Octavia's tent, she lay sprawled in an exhausted slumber.

        Haven and Octavia took the Vincetta girl's snores as their cue to silently slip away.

Granted, the atmosphere outside of the tent wasn't necessarily any better than within it. Since the attack on the bridge, the camp had been on edge, with patrols tripled and nerves frayed. Despite the late hour, sleep was a luxury few could afford, with most either pacing the perimeter with their rifles or casting timid glances into the darkness.

       Grounder retaliation was imminent.

Monty greeted the girls with a warm smile upon their approach. "Hey," he began, shifting slightly on his perch near the wall to create space for the other two to join him. "No sign of your brother or the others yet."

        "Hey," Octavia droned, "I don't care."

        Haven fought the urge to wince at the flatness in Octavia's response. Earlier in the day, Clarke, Finn, Raven, and Bellamy had split off towards the crash site in attempt to figure out what the fuck happened. Meanwhile, Haven had willingly chosen to stay behind, assuming the responsibility of watching over Orion alongside Octavia. Tension hung thick beneath the surface, evident in the strained relationships among them all; Clarke and Finn exchanged few words, Finn and Haven even fewer. But perhaps most glaring was the catastrophic rift that had formed between the Blake siblings, a divide so deep it seemed almost irreparable.

Monty maintained a stance of neutrality. In fact, he seemingly was the most balanced out of all of them. He refrained from passing judgment on their decisions, avoiding impulsive actions or rash words. Instead, he selflessly embraced the role of a true friend to all, extending unwavering support and understanding without any reservations.

It was almost baffling how effortlessly he managed to do so.

        "Jasper, tell us again–how'd you stay so calm? I would've been terrified."

The trio swiveled their heads, their attention caught by the small congregation encircling the crackling campfire. Jasper stood at the center, flanked by Harper and a handful of other delinquents, as he recounted his experience of the events on the bridge.

Jasper cocked his head with a self-assured smirk. "Fear is only a problem if you let it stop you, right?"

        Immediately, Haven shot a sidelong glance towards Monty, silently seeking insight from the boy who had spent far more time outside today than they had. "The hell is he on about?"

        "That's not even his line," Octavia huffed, eyeing Jasper with a peculiar disdain. "Finn said that."

        Monty shrugged.

        "I saw the Grounders in the trees. It was like nothing I ever felt," Jasper narrated, his words weaving a spell over the rapt audience gathered around the firepit, entirely oblivious to the trio observing him from afar. "You know–pure, animal instinct took over. One pull of the trigger...two Grounders dead."

Yikes. Yikes. Yikes.

It became glaringly obvious to Haven where Jasper's unusual bravado came from. The intensity of the events on the bridge had undoubtedly traumatized everyone involved, yet Jasper's abrupt transformation into a protector seemed like a desperate attempt to shield himself from the weight of his own actions.

He killed people.

What better way to suppress his guilt than to seek reassurance from others, to bask in the accolades of being hailed a hero?

Octavia struggled to contain an eye roll, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she echoed Jasper's earlier words. "Pure animal instinct?" she whispered incredulously. "More like pure pants-wetting panic."

        "You don't really know what you're made of until a moment like that, you know?" Jasper's grin morphed into a triumphant smirk, eyes glittering with arrogance as he held court. "When it's kill or be killed, and there's just nothing between you and the tip of the spear."

Haven tilted her head in amusement as she studied Jasper further. "Y'know, I don't think I've ever heard him talk this much before," she mused, folding her arms over her chest as she casually leaned against the gate. "And he never shuts up."

"Okay," Octavia groaned, edging away from the pair and striding towards the firepit. "This has to stop."

Monty gently halted Octavia's progress with a grip on her elbow. "Come on," he implored, gesturing towards Jasper with a pleading expression, while Octavia's narrowed eyes betrayed her skepticism. "Let us have this!"

"Us?"

        "Look at him," Monty's chest swelled with brotherly pride as he observed Jasper, a gleam of admiration lighting up his eyes. His grin stretched from ear to ear, mirroring the jubilant energy radiating from Jasper's high-fives in the distance. "The boy is a folk hero. They even gave us a bigger tent."

        Which, was true. Somehow, Haven was the last to learn about their living situation being rearranged. When she ventured into what she thought was their tent to find a clean shirt for Orion, she was met with a rude awakening. All her belongings were gone, replaced by the obscene spectacle of Miller and Sterling–sticking their tongues down each other's throats.

        "Not really sure if it's worth it," Haven remarked absentmindedly, kicking at a pebble beneath her boot before shooting Monty a smirk. "Dunno how you guys do it, but I can still smell your armpit jungles even with our sleeping bags further apart."

Monty frowned. "Hey–"

A jarring clatter erupted from the darkness just beyond the camp's perimeter, sending a shockwave of horror rippling through the trio and every teenager within earshot. Dread seized the gunners' trembling fingers as they frantically loaded bullets into their chambers, their movements fueled by adrenaline as they unleashed a barrage of blind shots into the night, desperately seeking to neutralize the unseen threat lurking in the shadows.

        "Somebody hit the trip wire!"

        "Which wire?"

        "Was it a Grounder?"

        "I don't see anything!"

"Hold your fire!" Haven's voice boomed, a thunderclap amidst the chaos as she swiftly withdrew her blade from beneath her shirt and charged towards the boys patrolling the far end of the wall. "Did Bellamy teach you nothing? For all we know, you just wasted five rounds on a pigeon." She dared a scornful glance over Derek's shoulder. "Tell me what you see."

Derek squinted intensely through the magnified lens of his rifle, scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. After a moment of scrutiny, he shook his head in frustration. "I got nothing. Connor?"

Connor gritted his teeth. "Nothing."

Refusing the impulse to scold the boys, Haven simply elbowed Derek to her left and peered into the twilight herself. The encroaching shadows yielded no secrets, no hint of movement near the trip wire or in the surrounding gloom. An oppressive stillness descended, suffocating in its intensity, broken only by the sinister whisper of the wind through the trees. Then, a sudden rustle shattered the silence, igniting the gunners into frenzied action once more.

"Something moved!"

"There, there, there!" Derek shouted, unleashing three menacing gun shots 
that snarled through the air like a death knell. "Think I got him."

        Him?

        Connor broke into a sprint. "Let's go!"

        Immediately, Haven launched herself from the perch near Derek and raced towards the gate's opening. Every fiber of her being screamed that the prospect of a lone intruder simply didn't make sense. The Grounders were known for their cunning tactics; if retaliation was in the works, it would be meticulously orchestrated. Yet, there was one exception, one Grounder who was known to roam solo.

        And as Octavia hurtled through the gate, rallying far ahead of the boys to match Haven's sprint–she knew their thoughts had horrifically aligned.

        Lincoln.

        "Hey–slow down!" Connor's warning came out in frantic bursts as he struggled to keep pace with the girls barreling ahead of him. "Both of you, be careful!"

As Octavia cautiously slowed her pace to a walk, Haven followed suit, her senses heightened as they advanced into the night. Despite the pervasive blackness, the flickering torchlight above revealed the silhouette of a man crumpled behind a nearby bush. He appeared far too scrawny to match Lincoln's formidable build, yet an ominous sense of unease persisted.

        He was drenched in blood.

Octavia slowly extended a trembling hand towards the figure, her heart rioting in her chest, only to recoil in sheer terror as he twitched beneath her touch. With a jarring lurch, he flipped over onto his back, revealing a grotesque tableau of horror beneath the torchlight. More blood adorned his already-mangled features, mingling with the shadows to create a ghastly mosaic of pain and suffering.

Yet, despite the disfigurement wrought by violence, there remained a haunting familiarity in his pale face, like a nightmare come to life.

"No fucking way."

Haven's heart surged upward, lodging itself in her throat with a painful thud. Shock seized her like a vice, immobilizing her completely, as if the earth itself had reached up to hold her captive.

        The name felt like ash in her mouth, bitter and acrid, choking her with its significance.

"Murphy?"

• •

        HAVEN HAD NEVER SEEN A GHOST BEFORE. The mere concept of such ethereal beings had always intrigued her as a child, despite the morbid anxiety they instilled in her. Growing up aboard the Ark, surrounded by tales of loss and longing, she couldn't help but entertain the notion that perhaps ghosts were real. For many of her friends who had lost their parents at a tender age, the idea of being reunited with them, even in spirit form, offered a faint glimmer of hope amidst their grief.

        Now, she found herself praying that the dead remained undisturbed for eternity.

        If ghosts were real–John Murphy was the closest thing to it. Dragged into the dropship by Connor and Derek, he cowered against a metal crate, his skin as pale as freshly fallen snow, adorned with crimson wounds. Every inch of him trembled with agony, yet he showed no fear of the armed boys standing guard nearby. Instead, his eyes reflected a haunting trauma, a testament to the horrors he had witnessed beyond the safety of the wall, enduring since his exile.

        "Where is he?"

        Bellamy burst through the dropship curtain with an intensity that seemed to shake the very air around him, his presence commanding attention like a vengeful god descending upon mortal soil. Finn and Clarke hurriedly trailed fretfully behind him. He came to an abrupt halt just a few yards from Murphy, wide eyes meshing with Haven's before sweeping towards the distressing sight of the boy sprawled on the ground.

        "Everyone but Connor and Derek–out," he began, coiling his fingers around the rifle as he awaited compliance. When the room remained unmoved, his command grew more thunderous. "NOW!"

Haven seized a moment to quietly observe him from her spot against the wall, flicking her gaze over him in a swift, practiced scan. Every sinew of his being appeared to be drawn tight with tension. Despite his effort to maintain composure, his lips were pressed into a deep-set scowl, his gaze blistering as it fixed on Murphy. The fury radiating from him was undeniable, yet amidst the intensity–there was a subtle tremor in his fingers.

He was nervous.

Anxiety had always betrayed itself through his palms. Wrath found a home within the tightness of his jaw. Joy and sorrow both dwelled within the depths of his eyes, their ever-changing hues a reflection of his inner turmoil. But in the past month, sorrow had cruelly asserted its dominance, casting a heavy shadow that seemed to linger even in the brightest moments.

Derek was the first to break the charged silence. "He claims he was with the Grounders."

"We caught him trying to sneak back into camp," Connor chimed in, shooting a quick glance towards the Smith girl before reverting his focus to Bellamy. "Haven and Octavia found him."

Murphy hesitated briefly before mustering the energy to defend himself. "I wasn't sneaking," he muttered, every syllable tinged with defiance despite the exhaustion in his tone. "I was running from the Grounders."

       Disdain smoldered in Bellamy's dark eyes. "Anyone see Grounders?"

        A heavy silence descended upon the cramped confines of the dropship, suffusing the air with an oppressive weight. Bellamy's scrutiny shifted from Connor to Derek, their stoic expressions unchanged as they shook their heads in unison. Finally, Bellamy's eyes locked onto Haven's, silently seeking her confirmation.

        Slowly, she shook her head.

        Bellamy gritted his teeth, swiftly hoisting his rifle in the air and peering through the lens with the intent to target Murphy directly. "Well, in that case–"

"Don't even think about it," Haven declared, rolling her eyes in exasperation as she abandoned her spot against the wall. With fearless strides, she planted herself squarely between the rifle and Murphy. "You're not killing him."

Bellamy lowered the rifle as soon as she dared a step in his direction. "Why not?"

Outrage twisted Finn's features as he shuffled closer to Haven, positioning himself as an extra barrier between Murphy and the rifle, ready to intervene if Bellamy made any sudden moves. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Undeterred, Bellamy fixed Finn with a scathing glare. "We were clear what would happen if he came back."

"No," Finn rebutted, jutting an arm in front of Haven as Bellamy's free hand twitched at his side. With a sudden elbow to Finn's ribs, Haven quickly dislodged his barrier, though his conviction remained unshaken. "If he was with the Grounders, then he knows things that can help us."

Haven bristled with discomfort at Finn's proximity to her right. His odd attempt to shield her from Bellamy–of all people–ignited an irrefutable urge to knee him in the groin. Yet, despite her frustration, she could also acknowledge the unfortunate truth in his words.

        "He's got a point," Haven huffed.

        Finn raised his brows. "I do?"

        Storm clouds rolled across her face as she shot Finn an immediate death glare. "The Grounders are bound to retaliate sooner or later," she continued, her eyes flashing back to Bellamy like lightning seeking its target. "You want to stand a chance for when they do? We need all the information we can get."

        Bellamy's jaw tightened. "Help us?" he questioned, bitterness seeping into his words as he echoed Finn's earlier sentiments. "His help is useless without trust. And if we want camp to trust us, we need honor the consequences we set. We hanged him. We banished him. And now–we're gonna kill him." With a contemptuous sneer, he shifted to shove Finn aside. "Get the hell out of my way."

        "Stop with the theatrics," Haven deadpanned, a flicker of annoyance dancing in her eyes as she casually sidestepped to fill the empty space between Bellamy and Murphy–again. "This isn't happening."

"They're right, Bellamy."

For the first time since the conversation began, Clarke made her presence known. With a graceful maneuver, she smoothly bypassed Bellamy, effortlessly slipping between Finn and Haven before kneeling beside Murphy. Softly, she enveloped his bloodied palm in her hands, her touch gentle yet methodical as she meticulously traced the extent of his injuries.

Violence had chewed him up and spit him right back out; it was impossible to discern where one injury started and another ended.

"How do we know the Grounders didn't send him here to get information out of us?" Bellamy seethed, "This is a terrible mistake."

"Don't worry," Finn's limbs were practically buzzing with poorly restrained rage as he regarded the boy before him, "You're already full of those."

Haven was sick of listening to Finn talk; his hypocrisy was jarring and increasingly infuriating. If her moral high ground was a star, his was certainly the fucking sun. So–with swift and fluid grace, she delivered a punishing blow directly into his crotch, hardly even sparing him a glance as he doubled over in agony.

Finn's breath hitched upon the impact of her knee connecting to his groin. "What the–?"

"Shut up."

Clearly amused by Haven's words, Connor found it difficult to suppress his snicker. Yet, sensing the dagger in Finn's eyes, he swiftly masked his reaction with a cough.

"Okay–enough," Clarke interjected, unable to suppress her frown as four pairs of eyes flickered towards her. "Pull yourselves together. All of you." Her gaze sharpened as she singled out the Blake boy. "We have to try, Bellamy. There won't be a camp to protect anymore if the Grounders catch us off guard. He might give us a shot."

Bellamy could hardly believe the stupidity unfurling right before his eyes. It wasn't merely the groups' mistaken belief that gnawed at him; it was the sickening realization that they were right. How could trusting Murphy possibly be their best choice? In any other scenario, he would have already taken action, the bullet piercing through Murphy's skull with ruthless efficiency. Yet, buried deep within his blistering fury, his selfish pride–he knew they had a point.

But even with that acknowledgment, his objections remained unabated. If this plan backfired, he needed the assurance that he had exhausted every possible effort to prevent disaster. So, as a final, desperate gambit, he uttered the words that had been clawing at the back of his throat, vying for an outlet.

"Think about Charlotte."

Haven stiffened.

All at once, she felt the fabric of Charlotte's jacket slip from her grasp, hurling her into a vortex of a jarring memory–as if everything were happening all over again. The sensation of the cliff's edge biting into her torso was visceral, while the echoes of her friends' screams reverberated in her ears, mingling with the sickening crack of bone. It was a horrifying recollection, one that tightened her chest with dread.

        Yet, rather than allowing it to paralyze her with guilt, the existence of the trauma only fortified her resolve. Haven would be damned to make the same mistakes again. And as she stared into the anguished eyes of the boy before her–she knew he felt the same.

"Listen, Bell," Haven began, her voice laden with a softness that could soothe the deepest wounds and a conviction that could ignite empires. "We are thinking about Charlotte. You can hate Murphy for all the other bullshit he's created–but he didn't push her off the ledge."

Bellamy averted his eyes, curling his lips into an exasperated scowl. "He ran her straight to it."

        "Yeah–right after you kicked the crate out from under him," Haven countered, fighting the urge to wince at the memory. "Nobody's hands are clean when it comes to that day. We're doing better time around, remember?" She spared a brief glance at Murphy before squaring her shoulders. "He deserves the same chance as the rest of us."

        If there was one thing Haven was destined for in this world–Bellamy was certain it was to fucking humble him. It was almost embarrassing how effortlessly she could unravel his wrath, as if she possessed a direct line to his innermost thoughts and could reshape them with a mere blink.

        "Look. He's not lying," Clarke added, drawing the attention of the group once more as she scrutinized Murphy's hands further. "His fingernails were torn off. They tortured him."

       Haven could hardly contain her grimace as she absorbed the sight of him. True to Clarke's words–Murphy's nailbeds were obliterated, leaving behind nothing but jagged stumps of flesh and a landscape of crimson ruins.

        Meanwhile, Finn summoned the audacity to directly his sneer towards Bellamy once more. "You and the Grounders should compare notes."

       "The Grounders know we're at war," Bellamy hissed, hardly paying Finn any mind before fixing his gaze on Murphy. His words were more of a command than an inquiry, delivered with the lethal force of authority. "What did you tell them about us?"

        Tremors ravaged every centimeter of Murphy's body as he fought to part his lips. "Everything."

        Well...shit.

        Silence engulfed the group in a suffocating embrace. Haven and Bellamy's fists clenched in unison, while Clarke and Finn shared a fleeting, knowing glance, each understanding the grim reality of the impending war. Murphy's confession hung in the air like a death sentence, the final nail in their collective coffin, sealing their fate inescapably.

        Clarke was the first to speak. "Once he's better, we find out what he knows–and then he's out of here," she asserted, her movements urgent as she rose to her knees and hurriedly scrambled towards the ramp. "Okay?"

"What if he refuses to leave?" Bellamy demanded, every muscle in his body imbued with unbridled dread as he whirled after her. "What do we do with him then?"

        The blonde's response was terse. "Then we kill him."

        A knot twisted within Haven's gut as Clarke bounded through the exit, each echo of her footfalls tightening it further. Stunned, she stood motionless, longing to detach her mind from her body, desperate to escape this relentless moral conflict. Life on Earth had been perilous for them all; with each passing day, the teenagers' fear of death waned, replaced by a grim acceptance of its inevitability.

        Deciding who lived and who died was a different story.

        Once upon a time, Haven had told Bellamy that nobody deserved to die. Once upon a time, she wholeheartedly believed it. Now–she wasn't so certain. Murphy didn't deserve to die. But what about Dax? How had death become something they grew so accustomed to, so quickly? How did they become so comfortable dangling it over each other's heads?

        It made her fucking sick.

        "You alright?"

        The sound of Bellamy's voice abruptly tore Haven from the landslide of her thoughts. She couldn't quite fathom how she had drifted toward the exit, but as she turned to face him, she realized they were standing right beside the curtain.

        She released a weary sigh. "Are you?"

        "No," Bellamy admitted, the raw honesty in his tone catching her off guard. For a fleeting moment, his crown slipped askew, yet he made no move to adjust it. "But we will be."

        Haven peered behind the curtain as the cadence of familiar laughter rang out. Somewhere in the distance, Jasper and Monty were snickering to themselves. "How could you be so sure?"

        Bellamy studied her for a moment–really studied her. Her gaze lingered on Monty and Jasper, a wistful smile gracing her lips as she savored their laughter, as if committing the moment to memory. It was a gesture he knew well, one he had seen mirrored in himself countless times. Whenever he noticed her doing it, she was always looking at her friends.

        And whenever he caught himself doing it, he was always looking at her.

        His answer was unwavering.

        "I have no choice."

• •

        "HEY JASPER, UM–YOU'RE ON IN FIFTEEN."

Haven and Monty found themselves concealed beneath the cover of Monty's sleeping bag. It wasn't exactly Haven's preferred hiding spot, but when Monty sensed Harper's approach outside their tent, he swiftly yanked her under the covers beside him. Their limbs were tangled awkwardly, and the heat beneath the blanket was stifling, but neither dared to make a sudden move.

        Especially not when Jasper was currently being hit on.

        "Here," Harper said, "In case you're hungry."

"Thanks. Be right out."

"I like your tent," Harper's voice floated through the air, her hesitant footsteps disturbing the quiet tranquility of the tent as they scraped against the dirt. "Maybe I could, um...come by after your shift, hear about the bridge again?"

        There was an excruciatingly long pause.

        "Um..." Jasper droned, "I'm actually busy later."

        Beneath the shroud of darkness within the sleeping bag, Haven's eyes widened in pure shock, her mouth falling agape in disbelief. Monty's reaction was instinctual, his hand moving with surgical precision to cover her mouth and stifle any audible gasps of surprise.

       "Oh, yeah! Okay." Harper laughed kindly, though the tone in her voice felt hollow and flat. "Some other time then. See ya."

        The duo waited with bated breath, their ears straining to catch the faint sound of Harper's awkward footsteps retreating from the tent. Every shuffle of dirt outside heightened their anticipation, until finally, they heard the telltale zip of the tent closing. With a shared glance of relief, they burst out from beneath the covers in an exasperated frenzy.

        "Way to fucking blow it," Haven scolded.

        "Are you kidding me?" Monty chimed in, "That was there for the taking!"

Jasper stared at his friends with mere shrug. "Harper?" he echoed, glancing over his shoulder to ensure she wasn't within earshot. "She's low-hanging fruit."

"Jasper James Jordan!" Haven gasped, wrinkling her brows in distaste at the uncharacteristic callousness of Jasper's words. As Jasper reached for the apple Harper had brought him, Haven's hand shot out, swatting it away before he could take a bite. "That is an awful thing to say."

Monty squinted as he observed his friend further. "Don't tell me you're still holding out for Octavia."

Wait—what?

       Confusion twisted Haven's insides as she wrestled with Monty's words. Though the more she thought about it, the clearer it became. Whenever Octavia appeared, Jasper's presence lingered nearby, a silent shadow in her orbit. His guarded affection for Octavia was so well-hidden that even Haven, who prided herself on her sharp awareness, had missed it.

        Jasper's unease manifested in the subtle tension of his frame, a faint frown marring his features as he began to move toward the exit. "I gotta go."

       "Jasper–Octavia is not gonna happen," Monty added, his words firm but genuine. A wry smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, injecting a touch of levity into the conversation. "She likes her Grounders alive."

"Go float yourself, Monty."

All at once, the lightness in the tent was swallowed by the unbridled bitterness in Jasper's words. Haven and Monty exchanged stunned glances, their earlier camaraderie now a mere echo in the face of Jasper's uncharacteristic venom.

        Haven screwed her lips into a disdainful scorn. "Hey–"

        "I'm just telling you the truth," Monty reasoned, his smile giving way to a gentle frown.

       "No. You're telling me your truth." Jasper countered, his voice edged with a raw intensity that seemed to emanate from deep within. His eyes, usually warm and gentle, now glinted with an unfamiliar indifference. "I'm not like you anymore."

        Monty scoffed. "What the hell does that mean?"

        "It means you're jealous," Jasper remarked casually, though the effortless iciness in his demeanor cut like a thousand shards of glass. "People think I'm cool, and that upsets you."

Anger coiled around Haven's fists like a sinister caress. "Okay–woah," she interjected, withdrawing her legs from beneath the warmth of the blanket as she rose to her feet. Her eyes bore into his with searing intensity, daring him to ignore her. "Is this really happening right now? Pull your head out of your ass, Jasper."

Meanwhile, Monty continued without restraint. "I think you're cool, only no one had to die for me to see it."

        "You know what?" Jasper shook his head, his patience hanging by a thread as he regarded the duo before him. "This is my tent, okay? Bellamy gave it to me. And if either of you have a problem with that..." He sucked in a sharp breath. "Maybe you guys should find somewhere else to sleep."

"Maybe we should," Monty fumed.

"Then do it."

"We will."

"Good."

"Enough!" Haven hissed, miserably losing her battle against the tsunami of rage swirling within her. "Look, I get that the whole attention thing is nice–but there's no fucking way this is worth it." She searched Jasper's eyes almost pleadingly. "You're being a jerk to your best friends."

With a sharp pivot, Jasper's scowl, initially meant for Monty, found a new target in Haven. "Best friends?" he scoffed, the lines of his forehead etched with deep furrows of exasperation. "Shouldn't my best friends be happy for me?"

Haven swore she could feel her chest tighten with bewilderment. "Happy about what?" she fumed, "Exaggerating a story to make yourself look like tough shit? You don't have to inflate your ego to be cool, Jas." There was a certain emptiness in his stare that made her chin quiver. "And you certainly don't have to put us down to do it."

"Tough shit, huh?" Jasper's jaw twitched. "Like you are?"

Haven shook her head. "What–?"

"I forgot who I was talking to for a sec," Jasper pressed on, the words coating his tongue in a thick film of venomous filth. "Sorry, Vampira. Didn't mean to steal your spotlight."

Something like sudden death detonated within Haven's core, shattering her sense of stability within mere seconds. She staggered, her body recoiling as if each word from Jasper's lips was a well-aimed bullet. Regret flickered across his face when the hurtful nickname slipped out, but even his silent, frantic search for an apology couldn't staunch the bleeding wound he had inflicted.

        The damage was already done.

        For an agonizing moment, Haven's breath caught in her throat, leaving her lumgs seizing for oxygen as despair tightened its grip. It took every ounce of her willpower to remember how to draw in air, and when she finally did, her words escaped in a broken rasp.

        "Fuck you."

        Then, she shoved her way to the exit.

        "What the hell wrong with you?" Monty seethed, unable to even look at the stranger shifting uncomfortably before him. "Y'know, if this is the thanks she gets for keeping you alive, maybe she should've let the bullies in the Sky Box finish you off," he spat, "Go and tell your new friends what a fraud you are. You would be dead without her."

Just as she finished unzipping the tent, Haven cast a lethal glance over her shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Monty," she muttered, swiftly shrugging off the jacket Jasper had given her and abandoning it to the dirt beneath them. "He can take care of himself now."

"I–"

Ignoring Jasper's calls trailing behind her, Haven forged ahead into the camp, her steps heavy with a sense of resignation. Clutching her bare arms tightly around her chest, she sought solace in the meager comfort of her own embrace, desperate for even the faintest glimmer of warmth amidst the biting wind and the turmoil raging within her. She didn't want to feel this pain; this relentless onslaught of devastation that threatened to consume her more with each passing day.

        She didn't want to feel anything at all.

        All she yearned for was the ability to swallow her anguish and press forward. But as she stood there, enveloped in her own sorrow, the prospect of catching her breath felt like an impossible dream, a distant light flickering in the vast expanse of her own hell.

        Tears salted the earth beneath her.

        It felt as though everyone else in the camp had become desensitized to the harsh realities of their situation on the ground. It seemed effortless for them, a natural adaptation to the brutality surrounding them. But why couldn't her own body follow suit? Why couldn't it shield her heart from crumbling under the crushing weight of it all? Why was she condemned to feel everything so intensely, while others seemed to exist in a state of blissful numbness?

        She was weak.

       In that moment, her mother's criticisms reigned true, while Monty's defense of Jasper appeared terribly misplaced. Jasper wasn't the fraud—Haven was. The legend of Vampira was nothing but a facade, a brittle shield of defiance concealing the vulnerable little girl trembling beneath the surface. She longed to reach back in time, to grasp her younger self by the shoulders and reassure her that goodness resided within. Despite the torment, she still remained good.

        But the blood staining her hands whispered a different truth.

• •

HIIIII FRIENNDSSS

sorrryy i feel like this chapter was kind of anticlimactic lol but thats kinda the point. you will be fed soon i promise u just trust me!!! this chapter is definitely more of a filler chapter/plot setup for everything going on in the next few ones!

originally this was over 10k words. I had to cut it otherwise i feel like so much would be rushed into one 😭😭😭 but i am literally SO BEYOND EXCITED to post everything i have upcoming. the next chapters... good luck gang 🫡

I LOVE YOU! SOOOO SO SO MUCH