• •

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO;

NO WAY OUT.

• •

        CLAUSTROPHOBIA IS A ROTTEN FEAR—one that claimed its place at the forefront of Haven's list of intolerable horrors, rivaling even the unnerving prick of needles and the suffocating embrace of darkness. It marked a stark departure from the solace she once found in disappearing into the shadows as an adolescent. Perhaps being crammed into her prison cell for five years had unearthed it, or maybe it stemmed from the reluctance to be alone with herself anymore.

Yet, despite her festering unease, it failed to dissuade the Smith girl from volunteering for foxhole duty.

Every passing hour since the search party's return to camp had been consumed by labor in the dirt. Under Raven's watchful eye, half of the hundred toiled away at crafting landmines, using the gunpowder Jasper had painstakingly formulated in a desperate bid to blow the Grounders to hell. Meanwhile, the other half busied themselves with digging foxholes, creating covert pathways for swift, low-profile maneuvers, whether in a sprint or a crawl, to evade detection. Amidst this flurry of activity, the gunners stood as the sole stationary figures, their vigilant watch poised to defend against any encroaching threat.

Well...semi-vigilant.

Haven saw Sterling fall asleep. Twice.

But truthfully, she couldn't blame him; everybody was utterly, thoroughly exhausted, feeling their fatigue seep down to the marrow of their matchstick bones. Whether it was the relentless physical exertion or the mental acrobatics they were forced to endure on the daily—their resolve had plummeted to an all time low.

Despite their world teetering on the brink of collapse, work was the sole beacon that kept them moving forward, if only by sheer force of will. For Haven, it provided a semblance of purpose, keeping her hands busy and her mind preoccupied with anything other than the looming specter of the Mountain Men.

        The gas mask beside Monty's lone walkie only solidified their existence. As unsettling as it was to contemplate, it made a grim sort of sense; how arrogant, how naive they had been to assume that the Grounders were the only remaining civilization. If the tree-dwelling warriors could not only survive, but also pose a dire threat to the hundred—who's to say there weren't other factions out there, lurking in the shadows? And if even Lincoln, a warrior hardened by adversity, was compelled to flee in terror...

Camp was undeniably, irreversibly doomed.

Big time.

        But where did the Mountain Men come from? What sinister motives drove them to target a camp of teenage criminals? How did they have access to the resources to jam a radio frequency, and evade detection for so long? And most notably—why the fuck did they walk around in hazmat suits?

Haven couldn't pinpoint the exact answers, but she was convinced that the same elusive threats responsible for Monty's capture might have targeted Clarke and Finn as well. If she had to trek through hundreds of miles of perilous wilderness to find them, if she had to untangle herself from the clutches of death once more—she would.

"That's it!"

        All eyes stationed near the north field's foxhole instinctively flashed towards Orion. Visibly agitated, she swatted at the cuff of her dirt-streaked jacked, unleashing a torrent of vehement curses under her breath.

"If one more bug crawls up my sleeve—I'm gonna kill myself!"

Crouched in the dirt, Jasper cautiously lifted his head from the landmine he'd been concealing beside Raven. His suggestion hung in the air, tentative and timid, as if he dreaded inciting further fury from Orion. "Um, maybe...take off your jacket?"

        "And have them crawl on my bare skin instead? Fuck that," Orion scoffed, sweeping an aggravated hand across her face before driving the shovel she'd been using into a patch of dirt. "I'd rather eat a fork."

        "That's...specific," Miller chimed in, emerging from the newly completed tunnel with a grunt. After wiping off his muddied fingers, he extended a hand to help Haven up from below him. "Why not a spoon? It'd be easier to swallow."

Orion blinked. "Would it?"

Undeterred by the group's familiar banter, Haven seized the opportunity to relish the fresh influx of oxygen inflating her lungs. The absence of literal dirt in each breath was a welcome respite. Yet, its remnants lingered, stubbornly clinging to her nail beds, forearms, and the soles of her boots. Though every muscle protested as she stretched her arms, the discomfort paled in comparison to the sheer relief of having space to move once more.

        "Does anyone else need water?" she asked, weary eyes scanning her friends with a sense of concern. Despite the frigid air, sweat adorned each of their foreheads, a testament to the relentless work they'd put in. "I'm gonna refill the canteens. We've been at this all morning."

Raven, still hunched over her landmine, stared up at her friend with dead eyes. "Is it morning already?"

It took every fiber of Haven's to keep herself from crumbling into the dirt beside her best friend. It wasn't the fatigue that threatened to buckle her knees—it was the searing pain of watching someone she loved unravel. Apart from Jasper, Raven was in the worst condition of them all. Long gone was the spirited mechanic who smirked in the face of adversity; in her place sat a girl—just a girl—devoured by the monster of her own grief.

She missed Finn.

        Haven couldn't fault her for it. At all.

        "Um...I think so?" she began, her eyes narrowing as the dim tendrils of dawn slowly receded, giving way to the soft blush of the rising sun. "Moon's starting to lower in the west. So—probably."

"Better hope those landmines work."

        All of the oxygen Haven had unsparingly inhaled seemed to vanish, greedily taken and absorbed by the presence of Bellamy Blake. He stood beside her, arms folded across his chest like a fortress wall, his eyes as dark as gathering thunderheads. As he examined the foxhole and the meticulously placed landmines, a faint twitch in his jaw was the only indication that he approved of their efforts.

        "All the gunpowder we're wasting..." Bellamy drew in a sharp breath. "We could be making more grenades."

        Raven's jab was hollow. "You wanna come over here and test one?"

        Once more, Bellamy clenched his jaw, dismissing her words with a curt grunt. "I need this entire section mined by first light," he ordered, unfolding his arms from across his chest and stalking towards the dropship. "Then, you finish the south field."

        "What the hell are you talking about?"

        Haven wasted no time trailing after the Blake boy. At first, he brushed her off, continuing his death march without so much as a backward glance. If he didn't look at her, he wouldn't get drawn into the bottomless depths of her big, brown eyes—and he wouldn't be tempted to rethink his choices. But as soon as her hands curled around the sleeve of his jacket, the warmth of her touch sealing his fate, he knew his resolve was doomed from the start.

"Bell, you told me we'd go after the others at sunrise." Haven's persistence practically forced him to meet her stare. Even as he did, her grip didn't loosen—it was as much a tether as it was a demand for accountability. "You told all of us."

"Change of plans," Bellamy muttered, though his tone lacked its usual conviction. Instead, it sounded worn down, as if the choice itself had pummeled him into submission. "Nobody's leaving camp, including you."

Haven blinked in disbelief. "What? We can't just...leave them," she fired back, relinquishing her grip on his wrist and folding her arms across her chest—partially to ward off the cold, and partially to hold herself together. "If it were you out there, they wouldn't think twice about going after you. Nobody would."

        "That's exactly the point." Bellamy deadpanned. "I'd be dead, and so would the rest of you."

Before Haven could even formulate a response to that—the familiar snarl of a bullet hissed through the air. Its echo shattered the quiet, ricocheting off the camp's walls with a deafening roar that sent every nearby teenager into a reflexive crouch of terror.

"Woah!"

"The fuck was that?"

        "Is anybody hurt?!"

        Instinctively, the duo's eyes flitted towards the source of the commotion, only to find Sterling blearily fumbling with his rifle at his post. Given his shaky track record throughout the night, it wasn't difficult to connect the dots—the poor kid had seemingly dozed off on patrol, again. But this time, it wasn't Jones nudging him awake; it was shrill crack of the rifle's accidental discharge.

Rage claimed Bellamy in seconds.

"HEY!"

        With the fury of a vengeful titan, he stormed toward the scrawny boy stationed near the summit of the wall. As soon as Sterling caught sight of him barreling up the path, he scrambled to regain his composure, blinking rapidly to clear the remnants of sleep from his eyes. He straightened against the tree where he'd been slumped, a look of fear flashing across his pallid face as he adjusted with his rifle, desperately trying to seem alert. But there was no hiding the evidence of his negligence, and the wrath in Bellamy's stride promised a cruel reckoning ahead.

Each step Bellamy took was like a hammer striking the earth, rattling the ground beneath his feet. "What the hell is the matter with you?!"

"I–I'm sorry, man. I fell asleep." Sterling's voice trembled as he stammered out his excuse, his words colliding in a frantic attempt to quell Bellamy's rising rage. "I've been on watch all day."

        "We've all been on watch all day!"

        Before Haven could even blink, Bellamy had seized Sterling by the collar of his jacket and yanked him fully upright, hoisting him against the metal wall with an enraged snarl. The force of the impact sent a shudder through the structure, and even in the dim light, Haven could discern Sterling's eyes almost bursting from their sockets.

        "That bullet was one less dead Grounder!"

        Octavia was quick to intervene, abandoning her lookout post to approach the escalating scene. "Bell, you're scaring people."

"They should be scared!" Bellamy's voice boomed across the clearing, dismissing his sister with a withering glare before releasing his grip on Sterling. As he whirled around, his breath hitched, suddenly aware of the crowd that had gathered. Dozens of wide eyes stared back at him, their hollow stares sapping the strength from his legs. "The bomb on the bridge bought us some time to prepare, but that time is up! The Grounders are out there right now, waiting for us to leave, and picking us off one by one when we do!"

Ever since they'd landed on Earth, Haven had come to expect Bellamy's speeches to be full of fire—brash, maybe, but capable of kindling a spark in even the most cynical of hearts. His voice carried the kind of intensity that could ignite revolutions, bending the winds of change to his will. Yet now, as Haven watched him, his tone seemed to lack its usual edge. There was an emptiness in his words, a faltering hesitation that spread through the crowd like an unseen contagion. His eyes flitted among the gathered faces as if searching for answers that refused to reveal themselves. His shoulders slumped as if an invisible burden had settled on them, and the fire that once fueled him had cooled to a smoldering ember, threatening to go out altogether.

        Bellamy was falling apart.

        And it was clear that if he continued to crumble—it wouldn't be long before everyone else would go down with him.

        "Clarke, Finn, and Monty are gone, probably dead," Bellamy continued, unyielding to the malevolent knot tightening around his ribcage. "And if you want to be next, I can't stop you—but no guns are leaving this camp! This camp..."

        His crown slipped, then shattered, scattering into a thousand jagged fragments that fell at his feet.

        Bellamy could hardly hold himself upright anymore. "This camp is the only thing keeping us ALIVE!" he shouted definitively, his voice strained and on the verge of breaking. The eyes of the crowd—people who had slowly become his family—stared back at him; scrutinizing, hoping, fearing. With a ragged inhale, he steeled himself together once more. "Get back to work!"

Then, he vanished into the night.

"Someone's pissy."

Suddenly, Haven became acutely aware of her friends gathering around her. Orion stood to her left, arms crossed and eyes fixed on the horizon. Miller tugged his beanie further down over his forehead, as if the wool itself could shield him from facing the world beyond it. Raven stood at her right, eyes glued to the dirt beneath her boots, her usual spark dulled by grief. Jasper slouched a few steps back, jaw clenched so tightly that his temples bulged, each muscle in his face betraying the strain of congealing himself together.

        They looked like ghosts.

        They felt like it, too.
       
        "He's scared," Haven reasoned, acknowledging Orion's observation with a weary sigh. "I'll...I'll talk to him once he cools off. And if I can't get through, we'll go after the others anyways." She vehemently shook her head. "We're not abandoning our own."

        Jasper gaped. "You'll go behind his back?"

        "No. I'll tell him that we're going." Haven answered, dismissing Jasper's widening eyes with a casual shrug. "He'll spazz, but he can't keep me here against my will—he wouldn't."

Orion rolled her eyes, emulating an explosive gesture with her hands. "He just won't spazz, Hav. His entire head is going to pop off."

        Haven winced. "That's...dramatic."

        "Dramatic is his middle name." Orion's retort was instinctive, accompanied by an exasperated huff as she glanced over the sprawling camp, absorbing the remnants of their countless hours of labor. "But, we're with you."

Miller cleared his throat, then took a cautious step forward from the shadows to position himself beside Haven, his stance more decisive than she had ever seen before. "For what it's worth...I'm with you, too."

Raising a pointed brow, Haven smugly crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing Miller as if trying to detect even the faintest hint of insincerity. "Nathan Miller defying Bellamy Blake?" she teased lightly, "Never thought I'd see the day."

        Which, was true.

        After Murphy was exiled from camp, Miller had swiftly stepped into the role of Bellamy's second-in-command. It was Miller who kept order while the others ventured beyond the safety of the walls, and it was Miller who was the first to receive a rifle when they returned from the depot. Bellamy's trust in him was unmistakable, perhaps rooted in his connection to Miller's father, Sergeant David Miller, whom Bellamy had known during his time as a Guardsman.

        But their bond went beyond mere familiarity.

        Miller had a quiet strength, a calm under pressure that garnered respect. It was evident that he wasn't just filling a vacancy; he was proving to be an invaluable asset.

        "Don't get used to it," Miller jested, his subdued grin mirroring the mirth of Haven's smirk. "Besides, Bellamy will come around sooner or later."

        With a gentle nudge to Haven's elbow, Orion chuckled, her smile widening with a touch of mischief. "Always does if she's involved."

        Haven shot her a pointed look.

        "What?" Orion shrugged, raising her hands with an exaggeratedly innocent gesture, signaling that she meant no harm—at least not this time. "It's a good thing. You get through his thick skull, and he keeps your recklessness in check." A knowing glint flickered in her hazel eyes. "Yin-yang...or whatever."

• •

        "MORE GUNPOWDER FOR YOUR MINEFIELD, SIR."

        Haven wasn't sure what to expect upon slipping through the dropship's curtain—but it certainly wasn't the simmering hostility that greeted her. Bellamy and Jasper stood locked in a silent stand-off, the aftermath of their verbal clash hovering thickly in the charged space between them. Bellamy's fists were clenched, his muscles coiled tight, eyes narrowed into slivers of remorse. Meanwhile, Jasper's reaction was all mockery—a sarcastic salute accompanied by a thin-lipped smile that lacked any trace of warmth.

With a swift turn, the Jordan boy climbed the ladder, his boots clanging against the rungs, and vanished through the hatch above.

        Yikes.

        Whatever had transpired between the boys had left behind a stormy residue. Neither noticed Haven as she glided into the lower level, her gaze sweeping over the scene, picking apart the remnants of their quarrel. Jasper had been entirely restless energy, as if he were itching to sprint off in search of Monty and the others. Bellamy stood rigid, his posture that of a man who'd sooner shatter than let anyone else be harmed. And if Haven had to guess, she'd bet they'd been arguing over the risk factor of rescuing their missing friends.

She could understand both sides of it.

"Water...please."

Meanwhile, Myles lay sprawled in the corner of the room, flat on his back, tortured groans escaping his chapped lips. An arrow shaft protruded from his chest, jagged and broken, its splintered end still embedded deep in his flesh. Blood seeped from the wound in slow, viscous streams, staining the improvised bandage that barely contained the flow.

Agony maimed Bellamy's words as he regarded the younger boy. "I'll get you some."

As soon as he pivoted towards the exit, his plans were abruptly disrupted by Haven's presence. He felt her before he saw her, a familiar charge in the air that set his blood ablaze, though he hadn't noticed her soundlessly enter the dropship. Now, standing face-to-face, he knew there was no avoiding the conversation they were destined to exchange—whether he was ready for it or not.

        Bellamy sighed. "Look, Hav..."

        "I know you're scared." Haven wasted no time delving into the heart of her proposition, excruciatingly aware that time was of the essence. They didn't have the luxury for drawn-out explanations or careful diplomacy; they simply needed to act. "But we're not leaving the others behind. We can't."

        "I can't talk about this right now," Bellamy answered sternly, though there was a certain softness to his tone that betrayed the war raging within him. His words were meant to be final, yet there was an undercurrent of regret, a trace of reluctance that he couldn't quite conceal. "The decision's already been made."

Haven shook her head. "You don't have to make it by yourself," she reasoned, insistently seeking his troubled eyes as he sought to avoid hers. "Camp's borders aren't the only thing that's keeping us alive, Bell—we keep each other alive. That includes Clarke, Finn and Monty."

        "You think I don't know that?" Bellamy knitted his brows together as he finally summoned the courage to face her. "That's exactly why I'm doing this. We can't afford to lose anybody else," he countered, sensing the iron bars of his resolve threatening to creak beneath the intensity of her stare. "We're all that we have."

        As much as she loathed to admit it, Haven could wholly understand Bellamy's point. The urge to rush headlong into danger to save their friends was instinctive, almost automatic, an impulse she would normally embrace without a second thought.

        But perhaps that was because she didn't bear the same weight of responsibility for the camp as Bellamy did.

        His burden was suffocating, paralyzing, an invisible noose that tightened with each passing day. The notion of risking more lives when he was already straining to hold together so many fractured pieces was enough to immobilize even the bravest soul. She could see it in his eyes—the dull, hollow stare of a man teetering on the precipice of collapse, the raw dread of failing those who depended on him. It was a grim revelation, hitting her with the force of a bullet: this fear, this unrelenting weight of responsibility, could destroy him, grinding him down to nothingness long before any enemy could.

        Still, the tragic truth remained.

        There was simply no time for it.

        Haven chose her next words more thoughtfully. "What if it was me out there, or Octavia?" she asked, reaching up to gently guide his face back toward her as he attempted to avert his eyes—again. "Would you keep everyone else shuttered inside? Write us off as too dangerous of a risk?"

"It's not the same." Bellamy's jaw tightened, yet he unconsciously leaned into the warmth of her palm against his cheek. "You know it's not the same."

        "It is to me," Haven declared. Something within her crumbled as Bellamy drew in a shuddering breath, dangling his head in near defeat. "Their lives are just as important as mine. They fought nail and tooth to build the walls that we're hiding behind—to protect all of us." She paused to tenderly lift his chin. "If you're not coming with me, I'm taking out a group. People who volunteered."

        At that, Bellamy's entire body stiffened. "And what happens when the Grounders take you, too?" he countered, his words laden with a sharp, biting edge. "Just like they did to the others?"

        "I don't think it was the Grounders," Haven voiced quietly. "At least not for Monty. I...I think it was the Mountain Men."

Bellamy took a long, hard look at her, blinking away the instinctive fear that had once veiled his vision. He needed to see her clearly, to fully wrap his mind around the gravity of what she was suggesting. As she lowered her hand from his cheek to his shoulder, her fingers clutching his jacket as if silently seeking stability—he knew this wasn't just idle speculation, or some paranoid fantasy.

It was an imminent threat.

Once Bellamy nodded for her to continue, Haven sucked in a shaky breathe. "Monty wasn't lying when he said the signal matched what he heard in the black box," she began cautiously. "I think the Exodus ship crashed because their signal got jammed by something...out there. It was the same frequency we heard over the walkies—a distraction." Darkness eclipsed the familiar light in her eyes. "Monty disappeared right after that."

"So...what are you saying?" Bellamy spoke slowly, drawing out each word, though the gears in his mind were spinning at breakneck speed to catch up with hers. "You think there's more of those bastards out there who want us dead?"

        A grimace crept across Haven's features. "Probably—yeah."

        Bellamy frowned.

       "There's a drawing in Lincoln's journal of what the Mountain Men look like," Haven continued, a surge of icy dread rippling up her spine as she recalled the unnerving sketch. "They dress in hazmat suits. Gas masks."

"That's what we found by Monty's walkie," Bellamy concluded. "They...they reached for your ankle, too."

Slowly, painstakingly—Haven nodded.

"And you still want to go after them, even after knowing this?" Bellamy didn't know why he bothered asking such a deeply rhetorical question; he already knew her answer. But that didn't deter the dread from coiling in the pit of his stomach, twisting into tight, serpentine knots with every word he spoke. "You're insane."

       "This is probably the most rational I've ever been," Haven answered earnestly. The expected skepticism in Bellamy's voice didn't faze her; she knew he'd react this way, just as surely as the moon knew the stars. "At least I'm not doing this alone. At least I'm telling you before I go."

         Drawing in a sharp breath, Bellamy pinched the bridge of his nose, grasping at a point that now felt frustratingly elusive. He knew Haven wasn't asking for permission; she never needed that from him. This was simply her way—headfirst into the storm, heedless of the consequences. But this time, she had chosen to give him a warning, ensuring her intentions, all whilst silently pleading to the cosmos above that he'd go with her.

Sometimes, he wondered whether or not she prayed to the same stars as he did. For what felt like an eternity, their paths had diverged, each entrenched in their own beliefs, their own forms of righteousness. Perhaps it was the universe's twisted sense of humor, granting them what they thought they wanted, only to watch them crash and burn. But now, after an exhaustive cycle of bitter clashes and painful miscommunications, their whispered prayers seemed to align, whether through some cosmic intervention or the unseen thread that wove their fates together.

Fighting her felt as futile as defying gravity.

        "Just..." Bellamy inhaled shakily, his voice catching as he shook his head in reluctant acceptance. "Just stay here," he whispered. "Give me until sunrise, alright? We'll work something out."

Standing on her tallest tip-toes, Haven laced her fingers at the nape of his neck and joyously pressed her lips to his left cheek, then his right. His chin, his brow, his nose, the scar that curved along his forehead—soon, every inch of his face was adorned with the scattered traces of her affection. The warmth of her lips worked its magic in mere seconds, softening the rigid lines of his frown and coaxing it into an involuntary smile.

        It was over all too soon.

        "Glad that's settled," Haven teased, offering Bellamy a swift, fleeting kiss on the lips before scrambling towards the ladder. She cast him a knowing glance over her shoulder as she began her ascent. "Now, go get that kid some water."

        As if on cue, a low groan rumbled from the corner of the room where Myles lay, barely conscious. His head shifted slightly on the cot, his eyelids fluttering as he clawed his way back to reality. Sighing, Bellamy glanced toward Haven—who flashed him a sly wink before vanishing through the hatch.

        Upstairs was...gloomy.

A few cots were scattered in the corners, the fabric stained and rumpled, remnants of those who had once slept there. Most had abandoned the place after the virus outbreak, its haunting memories marring the stale air. In the center of the room was Raven and Monty's chaotic workstation—a large table cluttered with half-assembled gadgets, frayed wires, and rusted tools. A dented metal canister sat on one end, its peeling label warning:

        "GUNPOWDER—THIS CRAP WILL BLOW YOUR FACE OFF!"

Jasper stood just beside it.

"Good news, Jas," Haven greeted, hoisting herself through the hatch and leaning on her elbows to catch her breath. It took her a few seconds to muster the energy to rise, her muscles practically wailing from the night's strenuous efforts. "Believe it or not, Bellamy's head didn't explode. We're set to leave at first light."

        Jasper's response was remarkably flat. "Nice."

        All at once, Haven recognized the harrowing detachment in the Jordan boy's words. Even as she drew closer, he avoided her gaze, privately attempting to mask his quiet sniffling. And when Haven laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, it became apparent that no amount of solace could quell the maelstrom of desolation churning within him. The recent events of the past few days had left him irrevocably scarred, creating rifts in his spirit that no comforting touch could ever hope to bridge.

He had already lost Haven, watched her die right before his very eyes—not once, but twice.

Now...he had lost Monty, too.

"We'll find him." Haven knew her words did little to counter the iron grip of Jasper's anticipatory grief, but she felt compelled to try. "We'll find all of them."

At that, Jasper finally turned to face her. Red, swollen crescents had settled beneath his bloodshot eyes, a stark contrast to his pallid skin, eroded by hours of exertion and ceaseless stress. He stared at Haven with a brokenness that ripped a hole through the core of her being. His chin quivered, and his fingers twitched at his sides, a barely controlled shiver of grief. For now, the tears had ceased—but the dried streaks down his cheeks were a cruel reminder of his suffering.

        "Will we?" he rasped.

        Haven slid her hand from his shoulder to his forearm, gripping it with a consolatory firmness, as if she could channel what little strength she had left into him through sheer willpower. "If we don't, we'll make a suicide pact," she proposed, unable to temper the wry smirk that crept across her lips. "Deal?"

        Jasper grinned. "Deal."

Then, they descended the ladder once more.

Since Haven was closest to the hatch, she was the first to clamber down the metal rungs, landing solidly on her feet when she reached the bottom. Despite the grim circumstances, at least they had a plan, and they were in it together. A faint grin lingered on her lips, a flicker of hope igniting in the obsidian gloom. But when she glanced up and caught Jasper stalling on the ladder, her smile wilted, a shadow of doubt marring her features.

        Jasper was frozen.

       Trailing his line of sight towards the far end of the first floor, Haven knitted her brows together. "What are you..."

        Her words died on her tongue.

        There, in the corner where Myles's body lay, was Murphy. He was crouched low, his posture predatory, clutching a plastic bag in his hands—the same bag he had viciously forced over Myles's head. The plastic clung to Myles's face, stifling his breaths, his frantic gasps swallowed by the suffocating plastic. When Murphy noticed the two onlookers, he abruptly yanked the bag from Myles's head, as if longing to conceal the evidence, but the deed was already done—Myles's body sagged to the ground, limp and devoid of life.

Murphy killed him.

        The sickening stench of death filled the air as the corridor grew unnervingly quiet. Haven could hardly hear anything over the roaring pulse in her ears, her entire being seized by the treacherous grip of horror. Murphy—the man she'd entrusted to look after Orion in her absence—had just killed someone. Murphy, whom she'd cut down from a noose not long ago—had just killed someone. Murphy, the one she'd offered a second chance—stood there, the bag still clutched in his hands, eyes cold and unrepentant.

        "He stopped breathing," Murphy reasoned miserably, "I-I was...I was trying to help him."

        Haven felt the ground tilt beneath her feet, the reality of the situation sinking in like the cold twist of a knife. The room seemed to constrict, closing in around her as if the walls themselves recoiled at the violence that had transpired. Her eyes darted between Murphy and the lifeless body at his feet, the latter's vacant eyes staring up at nothing. Murphy's hands shook, but whether it was from adrenaline or the creeping grip of madness, she couldn't quite tell.

        The man she'd once hoped to trust had become the monster she always feared he might be, his transformation from victim to executioner complete.

        And now, she was trapped in his shadow.

        "Come on, Hav," Jasper murmured casually, turning his back to Murphy as he descended the rest of the ladder. His calm demeanor belied the sheer terror in his dilated pupils as he glanced at Haven. Though he tried to cover his fear with a half-smile, the edges of his lips quivered, betraying the facade. "Let's go."

        Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, Haven nodded, doing her best to mimic Jasper's lead and act as nonchalant as possible. If they wanted to escape the dropship—preferably alive—they had to play it safe; no sudden moves, no rash acts of defiance that could provoke Murphy any further. Remarkably, the duo managed to take a solid five steps without crumbling, each footfall a delicate negotiation with danger.

       But then, Jasper eyed his rifle.

        The familiar weapon was tantalizingly close, its dark metal glinting in the dim light. A tempting lifeline, or a dangerous lure. It was far too crucial to their survival to leave behind, yet reaching for it surely risked retaliation. Despite the risk, it beckoned like a forbidden fruit, promising safety while simultaneously threatening ruin.

Like all things, none of it mattered at the end, because in the heartbeat that followed—both boys had lunged for the rifle in perfect sync.

Murphy reached the weapon first.

        Unflinchingly, he loaded a fresh round into the chamber, the metallic click of bullets snapping into place shattering the oppressive silence. His eyes gleamed with a manic light, a feral intensity that spoke of a man with nothing left to lose. In one fluid motion, he thumbed off the safety and swung the barrel toward Haven and Jasper—who instinctively threw their hands up in surrender.

        "Murphy...just put the gun down."

        In a strange twist of fate, Haven and Jasper had seemingly switched roles. Jasper, usually the quiet observer, now stood protectively in front of Haven, his lanky frame forming a frail barrier against Murphy's seething rage. His arms extended cautiously, his palms facing outward, feebly attempting to coax Murphy into submission.

Murphy's eyes momentarily flashed towards the exit before locking onto Haven's—not Jasper's—as if seeking her silent judgment rather than that of the boy positioned between them. "Look," he began, gesturing to Myles's lifeless body slumped in the corner. "He tried to kill me."

        Slowly, Haven unearthed the dark thread connecting Murphy's violent actions. Memories from the day he was hung slammed into her skull with an excruciating force. She relived the morbid chaos all over again—the mob's enraged roars, Connor's vitriolic speech that stoked the flames, and Myles gripping the rope that left Murphy dangling from the tree. The boys had played key roles in Murphy's lynching, accomplices to his would-be execution.

Now, they were both dead.

        Did Murphy kill Connor too?

        If that were true, and Connor hadn't died of the rampant virus, it could only mean one thing: Murphy was on a murderous quest for retribution. He was systematically eliminating everyone complicit in his hanging, settling old scores one body at a time. This wasn't merely a personal vendetta—it was a violent reckoning, each death marking another step toward Murphy's ultimate revenge. His fury was insatiable, his path strewn with the bodies of those he deemed guilty.

He wouldn't dare to rest until every person complicit in his hanging had paid in blood. And if both Connor and Myles had already fallen to Murphy's wrath—then only one name remained to complete the circle of vengeance.

        Bellamy.

"Hey—don't move!"

        Jasper instinctively shoved Haven further behind him, backing both of their bodies towards the wall as Murphy adjusted his grip on his rifle. His palms remained outstretched, a futile gesture of peace, but he couldn't veil the subtle tremors that quivered from his fingertips, down his arms, and into his waist. The fear was bone-deep, visceral, barely contained beneath a thin veneer of courage.

        But if it weren't for those tremors, Haven might not have noticed the radio in his back pocket. The faint metallic clinking as it shook against his belt was a barely audible sound in the oppressive quiet—a lifeline hidden in plain sight.

        "Okay," Jasper whispered, "Okay. It's cool."

Hidden behind the body in front of her, Haven discreetly slipped her hand into Jasper's pocket, her touch as light as a whisper as she tuned the walkie's transmitter into life.

        "No...it's not," Murphy echoed flatly, knuckles bleached white from the pressure on his weapon. Yet, for a fleeting moment, something hollow seemed to overshadow the bloodlust in his eyes—a flicker of doubt, or perhaps fear. "You know what'll happen if you tell Bellamy."

        "Tell Bellamy what?"

Murphy paled.

        But Haven felt no solace from the familiar hum of Bellamy's voice crackling through the walkie's speaker—not yet, not until she and Jasper made it out of the dropship alive. Only when they slipped beyond its cold metal grasp could she release the breath she held tight, knowing that if it fled too soon, it would be carried away on the wings of a scream.

For now, the room was remained a minefield, and Haven knew that she couldn't afford to cower behind Jasper's shoulders any longer. One wrong move, one misplaced word, could shatter the fragile equilibrium holding Murphy at bay. His fingers prowled near the trigger, the barrel of the gun twitching erratically with every pulse in his wrist. If she hesitated, even for a fraction of a second—it could be the mistake that claimed their lives.

"I knew you were up to something," Murphy muttered coldly, his eyes bleeding into Haven's with the promise of death. "You're usually too busy running that smartass mouth of yours to keep quiet this long." His gaze flitted to the boy standing between them. "Give me the radio, Jasper."

        Silence hung in the air like a death knell.

        Then, Jasper yanked the radio from his pocket and decisively brought it to his lips, blurting out the words in a frantic torrent of sound.

        "Murphy has a gun! He killed Myles—!"

        "SHUT UP!"

        Before Haven could even blink, Murphy lunged forward like a detonated grenade, driving the barrel of his gun into Jasper's temple with a sickening thud. Jasper dreadfully crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he even hit the floor. The radio was flung from his grasp, arcing through the air until it smashed against the wall beside the exit.

Bellamy's voice slammed through the walkie's speakers at once. "Murphy—what the hell are you doing?!"

Panic sunk its teeth into Haven's neck as she wracked her brain for the best method of survival. There was no time to seek vengeance for Jasper's assault, not with Murphy already barreling towards the lever that would seal the dropship shut. If he got there first, they'd be trapped—imprisoned alongside his volatile rage and the lethal promise of his gun.

So—she launched herself after him.

"Murphy!" Haven shouted, her voice roaring with the force of a thousand storms. With each step, the metal beneath her feet seemed to shudder, as if atmosphere itself were conspiring to widen the chasm between them. "Murphy, don't do it!"

        Recognizing the futility of reaching him in time, Haven snatched a metal panel from the floor and hurled it at Murphy's back with all her strength. The panel struck him hard, the impact emitting a bone-jarring clang that echoed through the first floor. Murphy stumbled, his grip on the rifle loosening for a moment, but the momentary disruption wasn't enough. With a feral snarl, he swiftly regained his balance, lunging for the lever and sealing their fates irreversibly.

        For the first time since they'd braved the hurricane's fury—the dropship's door closed, shutting with a jarring, dissonant creak.

"NO!"

Haven could hardly discern the wrath beneath Bellamy's muffled cries as he pounded against the massive metal tomb—yet she could feel its force shaking the floor beneath her. Each desperate blow ricocheted through the air like thunder. But the dropship was an iron fortress, unmoved by his wrath. His strikes grew more frantic, yet the metal remained unyielding, as if mocking his futile rage.

"MURPHY—OPEN THE DOOR!" Bellamy roared, "OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!"

        Relishing the fact that he finally had the upper hand, Murphy let out a derisive scoff, dismissing Bellamy's shouts with a cruel indifference. "You try to be a hero...Jasper DIES!" he threatened coldly, his voice a menacing growl. "Same for your little girlfriend!"

        Then, he swung the barrel towards Haven.

        Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

        Again, Haven lifted her hands in the air, growing increasingly fed up with staring down the mouth of his stupid gun. "We don't have to do this," she muttered lowly, shaking her head as Murphy's finger grazed the trigger. "Murphy—we don't have to do this."

Murphy offered her an empty smile.

"Wish you were right, Hav."

With the fury of a caged animal unleashed, Murphy swung his rifle over his shoulder and lunged at Haven with his fists instead. In mere seconds, he crossed the gap between them, his hands clawing toward her throat with savage intent. But Haven was lightning embodied; she ducked just in time, and Murphy's fists collided into the wall with a thunderous crash, its impact cratering a deep dent in the metal. His snarl was imbued with raw, unbridled rage as he pivoted to face her again—only to be met with a vengeful fist to the jaw.

        "Why are you doing this?" Haven's words were edged with steel, her body slipping fluidly away from the wall as Murphy staggered from her strike. "Revenge? You think the world revolves around you because you're some tortured soul?"

Murphy spat out a mouthful of scarlet toward her boots. "You think the world revolves around you because you're a raging bitch?"

        Seething, Haven swung her foot hard into his shin, effortlessly halting his next advance and buying herself enough time to backpedal toward the lever. Murphy swore viciously, his voice low and venomous, yet he recovered astonishingly fast. He lunged at her, his hand snatching a fistful of her locs, yanking her backward with a savage jerk as he tried to clamp his arm around her throat.

        What a fucking idiot.

        Haven twisted in Murphy's grip, elegantly redirecting his momentum to her advantage, spinning free just before his arm could hook its designated target. His grip was iron-hard, but she moved with precision—driven by raw adrenaline and a primal instinct to survive. Murphy's growl deepened into a ferocious roar as his hands clawed at empty air, each failed attempt to grab her fanning the flames of his fury. Manically, he attempted to seize control—but Haven was always a step ahead, her agility keeping her just beyond his reach.

        "I don't want to hurt you," Haven panted, cautiously sidestepping over Jasper's unconscious form as she unsheathed her blade. "I don't. But you're out of your fucking mind if you think I'll let you trap us in here."

        Tremors shook the dropship as Bellamy's fists unceasingly slammed against the door—again, and again, and again.

        "HAVEN—?" he bellowed, "HAVEN!"

        Murphy's eyes narrowed to menacing slits, his arms poised in a defensive stance as he stalked after the girl's swift retreat. "You're too late," he hissed. "Bellamy's not coming to save you. He can't."

"I don't need him to save me." Haven shot back. "I'll kill you myself."

Murphy expelled a burst of mocking laughter, the harsh sound reverberating across the chamber in cruel, overlapping echoes. He leveled Haven's glare with a smirk, his words dripping with venomous sarcasm. "Oh, right!" he exclaimed. "Sometimes I forget you're a fuckin' psycho. Must run in the family, huh?"

        At that, Haven halted her advance toward the lever and drove her fist into his nose—uncaring of her heart's sudden precedence over her head.

        "Like mother like daughter," Murphy's lips twisted into an amused sneer, revealing no sign of discomfort despite the blood trickling from his nose. His teeth, stained red from the impact, bared in a sickly grin. "The only difference between you and mommy dearest is that everybody knew she was a lunatic. But you?" He tilted his head, taunting. "You're hiding in plain sight."

        Haven gritted her teeth. "Fuck. You."

        "You wish you could."

        Swift as a serpent, Murphy jutted his hand out, coiling his fingers around Haven's locket and snatching it from her throat.

Within seconds, all vestiges of oxygen were sucked from the dropship, inflating Haven's lungs with ruthless toxins as she tried to swallow her shock. Her pupils dilated, her jaw slackened as if paralyzed, and her heart seemed to seize in her chest—perhaps it had stopped altogether. Across from her, Murphy idly spun the broken chain between his fingers, allowing the jagged metal links to dangle and sway as if it were nothing more than a child's plaything.

"Give it back," Haven whispered. "Murphy, give it—"

"What's this piece of junk, anyway?" Murphy cut in. Each casual flick of his wrist felt like a cruel taunt, a mocking reminder of how easily he had turned something vital into worthless filth. "Some sentimental crap?"

        Haven was shaking. "Give. It. Back."

        "Hm. Lemme think..." Murphy tilted his head, feigning consideration, his fingers stroking his chin with exaggerated deliberation. After a moment, his eyes darkened, clenching his jaw with cold finality. "...No."

"Murphy—please," Haven implored, the death grip she held around her blade gradually beginning to slacken. It took every shred of her resolve to stay upright, to resist the urge to crumble to her knees and beg him to return what was rightfully hers. "Please, just...it's all I have left of her."

        It was the truth.

        The locket that Murphy dangled carelessly from his fingertips was the only tangible connection Haven had to her late mother—the last piece of Dahlia's existence in the world. It had carried her through the long, dark years of imprisonment in the Sky Box, soothed her when despair clawed at her insides, and grounded her when reality felt too slippery to grasp. Even now, her fingers reflexively reached for the locket, longing for the comfort of its familiar weight—but it was no longer there.

"Why should I care?" Murphy retorted, screwing his features into a portrait of hollow disdain. "You think you've won the tragedy olympics or some shit? Your mom's not the only parent that's been floated, Hav." His tone shifted, growing smaller, the hostility tapering off into something almost wounded. "At least you have something."

        A flicker of humanity ebbed between them.

       Murphy, the boy who would shyly cheat off of Haven's math homework as children. Murphy, the boy whose father had been executed for stealing medication for his sickly son. Murphy, the boy whose mother never forgave him for his father's death. Murphy, the boy who set fire to the living quarters of his father's arresting officer. Murphy, the boy sentenced to life in the Sky Box at the ripe age of thirteen. Murphy, the boy who was hanged by his fellow prisoners and left dangling at the end of a rope.

John Murphy—the boy who had endured cruelty so profound that it rewired his cells, who had learned that in order to survive, he had to become just as wicked as the world that had crushed him.

        What makes a monster do monstrous things?

        Haven recognized the devastation in Murphy's tone as if it were an echo of her own despair. It was the same fleeting sincerity she had glimpsed in his eyes before the mob had lynched him, before she had entrusted Orion to his care. Goodness remained within him, obscured by layers of agony and boundless rage, but not entirely extinguished. It was a dim glow beneath the dark matter—a faint promise that maybe, just maybe...the boy could find his way back.

"I'm sorry that you don't," Haven admitted softly, lifting her palms in a cautious gesture of peace, even though Murphy's gun, once aimed at her, was still slung across his back. "I'm sorry for a lot, Murphy. I'll..." Her breath hitched, a shaky, unsteady intake of air that made her words tremble. "I'll stay. I won't fight you. Just give it back—please."

Glass stretched over her eyes.

"Please."

Then, Murphy flung the locket towards the hatch, the chain slicing through the air like a steel serpent, a harbinger of doom—a promise of impending death.

Haven erupted into a scream. "NO—!"

        Abandoning all semblance of logic, Haven dove after the flimsy piece of jewelry, arms flailing in a futile effort to grasp it mid-air. It was a desperate, almost animalistic attempt—wild and instinctual, yet pathetically in vain. As her chest smacked hard against the ground, her fingers desperately clawing at the floor, Murphy's boot slammed into her ribcage, propelling her onto her back with a burst of brutal force. Each breath felt like a shard of glass shredding through her lungs, sharp and unbearable, the agony so vicious that it blurred her vision and left her wheezing for air.

        "Sorry, Hav."

        Something like remorse flickered in the depths of Murphy's dark eyes as he settled his weight atop her, pinning her to the ground.

"Had to keep you down somehow."

        The last thing Haven felt was the barrel of the gun smashing into her temple, immobilizing her in seconds—sinking her into the depths of a cold, dreamless void.

• •

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!! i told yall this chapter would be better!! at least i hope so lmfao i feel like ive been struggling sooo hard when it comed to articulating words properly so😀😀 ANYWAY!murphy literally makes my blood boil im so mad that i have to write his s1 bullshit😭😭😭😭😭 CAN WE SKIP TO THE REDEMPTION ARC PLSSSS

but next chapter...its nearly 10k words, not even the finale episode yet, and im not cutting it. i literally CANT. its some of my proudest character work of haven this far...i have never loved writing as much as i do now and it is entirely because of how much i love her <3 one of my fav chapters yet!!

FRIDAY.....BE THERE OR BE SQUARE BITCHES! i want to drop everything RNRNRNRN but im trying really hard to pace myself with act ii approaching so soon

I LOVE U ALLL MORE THAN ANYTHING TO EVER EXIST!!! THANK YOU FOR TAKING THE TIME TO SUPPORT <3