• •

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT;

FROM THE CRADLE.

• •

THE SUN'S USUAL WARMTH WAS CONSPICUOUSLY ABSENT upon Haven's first influx of oxygen. Even on the coldest of days, the camp had always been graced by the gentle touch of ultraviolet rays, offering a glimmer of heat to soothe her weary bones. It had been a reliable constant, a source of comfort amidst the harsh realities of their existence, promising that no matter how bleak the world might seem—the sun would unfailingly return to wrap them in its tender embrace once more.

       But now, the absence of its celestial touch felt like a betrayal—a cruel twist of fate in an already unforgiving world.

       Haven could feel the biting cold crawling over her skin long before she mustered the strength to pry her eyes open. Reflexively, her teeth chattered in a discordant symphony of shivers, uncertain whether they were conducting the frigid air or the shock of her gradual return to consciousness. Her fingertips trembled against an invisible, oppressive weight that pinned them down. Each attempt to straighten her spine was met with resistance, her vertebrae encased in a cocoon of ice. Her jaw clenched tightly, a futile attempt to stave off the relentless shivers threatening to consume her.

And then, as Haven's eyelids finally fluttered open . . . she was enveloped in a profound, motionless silence.

The sun was white.

Its ominous essence of blistering, blinding light practically seared her retinas. Despite its overwhelming brilliance, the customary warmth she had come to expect remained elusive. Squinting against the harsh radiance, she blinked rapidly, raising a hand in a feeble attempt to shield her eyes from the intensity. But just as her blurry forearm intersected the ultraviolet onslaught, she felt an unseen force tugging it back down, as if restrained by an invisible tether.

        A surge of recognition rippled through her as she recalled the sterile corridors of Medical aboard the Ark. As she fought further against the invisible restraint, seeking to free herself from its grasp, a sharp jolt of pain lanced through her wrist, immobilized her movements in place.

Haven gasped as her vision finally stabilized.

. . . It was an IV.

        Embedded in the tender flesh of her forearm, the intravenous line bore into her like a crucifixion, its presence a relentless reminder of her captivity. Obsidian blood snaked and spiraled through the tube's length, an eerie river coursing into a vital machine to her left, each drop a damning testament to her entrapment. Instinctively, she fought to rise, muscles straining against unseen bonds, only to be confronted by the harsh truth that she was no longer within the sanctuary of the camp's borders.

Instead, Haven found herself ensnared within the sterile confines of a hospital bed—an unwitting prisoner to the merciless hands of the unknown.

        As her vision gradually sharpened, Haven's surroundings snapped into focus with a sudden jolt of clarity. It dawned on her that it wasn't the sun that had blinded her, but rather the harsh blaze of parallel LED lights looming ominously above her. Every element of the room was engulfed in blinding whiteness—the crisp sheets, the immaculate pillow, the sterile walls, the pulsating vital monitor, even the desk tucked away in the corner. Not a hint of color dared to intrude, leaving the space adrift in a haunting, monochromatic void.

        What. The. Hell.

Perching herself upright, Haven fixated on her hand, grappling with a disconcerting sense of disbelief. Gone were the remnants of blood and earth that once clung to her nails, replaced by an immaculate purity that felt almost otherworldly. As she examined her forearm, she discovered the stitches meticulously redone with surgical precision, a sharp departure from Clarke's makeshift efforts. Tracing her fingers along her skin, she was struck by its unnaturally smooth surface, as though she had emerged anew, untouched by the trials of survival.

Every fiber of her being exuded an unsettling flawlessness, as if she had been thrust into a realm of rebirth—shedding the vestiges of her former self like a serpent casting off its skin.

        Surely, this had to be a dream—or perhaps a glimpse into the afterlife. Maybe she was fated to wander the corridors of Go-Sci for eternity; after all, she'd met death there far more times than she cared to count. Perhaps this sterile realm was her eternal haunt, where her ghost would forever linger. All she could grasp was the relentless encroachment of the stark, white walls, their clinical embrace eroding her sense of solidity, suffocating her with their sterile emptiness. Each beep and hum of the medical apparatus resonated like a sinister lullaby, mocking her with its mechanical cadence.

        Was Abby here?

        . . . Had Abby managed to find her?

        What if, just beyond the threshold of the solitary door dominating the room, Abby lingered, a surgical instrument gleaming in her grasp—poised to reopen old wounds, to mutilate her heart and desecrate her being all over again?

A sudden whisper of movement stirred overhead, wrenching Haven from the grip of her impending descent into darkness.

        It was a camera.

        With a trembling exhale, Haven somehow managed to temporarily quell the tempest of unease raging within her. The operating rooms aboard the Ark certainly didn't feature cameras, at least not in the ones she'd known, dispelling the notion of an afterlife. But if she wasn't at camp, if she wasn't destined to roam the corridors of the Ark . . .

        where the fuck was she?

        The last Haven could recall, the camp by the dropship had been engulfed in warfare. Corpses carpeted the earth beneath her, their silent cries echoing through her mind like a relentless requiem. Blood was everywhere—marring her hands, her garments, her body. She had witnessed friends, enemies, and strangers alike being slaughtered before her eyes. She had participated in the slaughter. At the climax of the carnage, the rockets had been primed to unleash the final death wave, but she couldn't move, she couldn't move, not until . . .

        Her heart capsized with remembrance.

        Bellamy. Bellamy. Bellamy.

        Memories lashed violently within her brain as she fought to keep pace with the dizzying sequence of events. He had been crawling towards her: she had been crawling towards him—bleeding out from her shoulder, unable to rise from the dirt, watching as Bellamy savagely murdered her attacker. Their fingers had almost met...until Miller had seized her, nearly hurling her into the dropship's depths. Broken promises detonated in her mind like explosive shrapnel, reverberating through her shattered psyche, intertwined with the relentless cacophony of sacrifice, death, consumption, fate, curse . . . of love.

        She had strategically wrenched herself from Miller's grip, abandoning the safety of the dropship—to die beside the boy she loved.  

        But, she wasn't dead.

So . . . where was he?

        Could Bellamy be here, too?
       
Haven refused to remain idle any longer, sitting on her ass, waiting in torturous uncertainty. If he, or anyone else for that matter, was here—wherever this place may be—she needed to seek them out.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed frame, she decisively ripped out her IV, stifling a gasp at the frigid touch of the tile beneath her bare feet. Her legs quivered like gelatin, each step a herculean effort against the burden of her own conscience. It took every ounce of her remaining strength to remain upright, as if her body had forgotten the art of movement, her limbs rendered leaden by the filth of her past deeds. The sterile room seemed to tilt and sway around her as she forged onward, the clinical scent of antiseptic stinging her nostrils. Yet, still—she commanded her muscles to cooperate, each stride a grueling skirmish against the relentless tug of her remorse.

Finally, she came to a standstill before the formidable door looming at the room's threshold.

A dull, circular window greeted her, offering a glimpse into the enigma beyond.

Before daring to peer beyond its depths, Haven's hand blindly fumbled for the handle, seeking escape from the confines of the room. To her dismay, her arm met resistance, a jolt of irritation coursing through her as it collided with something snug, something fitted. Frowning, she glanced downward—only to find her left arm ensconced within the cocoon of a sling.

When the fuck did that happen?

        Annoyed, she instinctively reached to remove the offending white garment, her fingers pausing in recognition as she finally took in the rest of her attire. Gone were the battle-worn clothes she had fought in—Bellamy's jacket, her tank top, her cargo pants, her blade—every vestige of her identity stripped away. Instead, she found herself clad in a pale blue hospital gown, its thin fabric barely concealing her vulnerability, and a pair of white shorts that strained uncomfortably against her hips.

        Her locket was nowhere to be found.

Another set of hands had violated her, stripped her of her belongings—all without her awareness or consent.

Fanfuckingtastic.

        Once Haven managed to rip off the sling and discard it across the tile, a searing ache flared within her shoulder, a lingering reminder of where the Grounder's blade had torn through her flesh. Glancing down, she saw an angry lattice of stitches crisscrossing the wound, the surrounding skin swollen and raw. But there was simply no luxury of indulging in her discomfort or disorientation any longer—time pressed against her like a suffocating weight, urging her onward. If she harbored any hope of unraveling the mysteries that ensnared her, she needed to get to the other side of the door.

        Through the window's depths, Haven glimpsed a long, white corridor lined with rooms—cells—that mirrored her own. The hallway stretched out ominously barren, sinisterly sterile, as if it had been scrubbed from floor to ceiling a thousand times over. Harsh white light flickered intermittently, casting eerie shadows that danced along the walls, until suddenly—a faint trace of movement caught her eye from the room adjacent to hers.

        The name slipped from her lips like a prayer.

        "Monty?"
      
         Monty Green stared back at her through the window of his own cell, his soft eyes bulging in disbelief, lips parting in fathomless shock at the unexpected sight of his friend.

        For a fleeting moment, they stood locked in a mind-numbing paralysis, each struggling to comprehend the reality of their reunion. Then, as if propelled by an unseen force, they hurled themselves at their cell doors—the clang of metal echoing in the air, each second stretching into an eternity as they fought to bridge the agonizing gap between them.

        "Haven?!"

        The Smith girl waged a relentless battle against the unyielding lock, her knuckles white with rage as she hammered against the stubborn handle. "Monty! I-I'm gonna get us out!" Though her cries were likely swallowed by the oppressive walls, she refused to relent. "I promise! Just hold on!"

        Haven's breath caught in her throat as another fleeting shadow danced in the periphery of her vision. Two figures, clad head to toe in matching hazmat suits, prowled the corridor with silent fluidity. With a morbid efficiency, the first figure produced a rectangular key card, the metallic swipe against the cell door to Monty's right echoing like a death knell. As the pad flashed green in acceptance, the figures slipped into the room with a swift, almost otherworldly grace.

        The movements of the strangers inside were obscured by the sterile walls of the cell, but there was no mistaking the unmoving form they emerged with, laid out solemnly upon a stretcher.
       
        Miller.

He lay motionless upon the immaculate bed frame, a silent sentinel in the realm of unconsciousness, his form as still as death itself. An IV line snaked from his left arm, tethering him to the realm of the living as the figures orchestrated their procession out of the cell. In the grasp of one, a vial of Miller's blood glinted ominously. Meanwhile, the other figure remained stoic, navigating the corridor with a resolve that betrayed no hint of remorse. Despite the damning glares of their observers, their march resumed undeterred.

Now . . . Haven was officially losing it.

        "HEY!"

        Thrashing wildly against her prison of steel, Haven unleashed a torrent of primal fury, each impact reverberating through the sterile confines. "GET THE HELL AWAY FROM HIM!" With each futile attempt at freedom, her frustration morphed into a volcanic rage, boiling within her veins, threatening to consume her from within. "YEAH! YOU! I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME! OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR! I SWEAR TO—"

        Suddenly, a piercing alarm halted her vicious thrashing, its wail reverberating through the sterile corridors like a clarion call.

Amidst the blare of the alarm, chaos unfurled somewhere in the distance, punctuated by the sharp shatter of glass and the thunderous rhythm of retreating footsteps. Though Haven strained against the window of her cell, unable to witness the unfolding pandemonium, the scattered remnants of shattered glass upon the floor whispered a crucial revelation.

        The glass that sealed her within her cell wasn't an impenetrable fortress.

It was breakable.

        Gaze sharpened by undying defiance, Haven's frantic eyes scoured the sterile expanse of the room, seeking out the nearest weighted object within reach. Relief flooded her as her gaze fell upon a solitary white metronome perched atop the desk in the corner—its rhythmic ticks a hypnotic cadence beckoning her closer, closer, and closer.

        Bingo!

        Unflinchingly, she grasped the object, wielding its mass over her shoulder with an unexpected, pained gasp. Her stitches shrieked in protest, but there was simply no time to succumb to their agony. In a seamless blur of motion, she hurled the metronome against window, the impact resonating through the room like an apocalyptic thunderclap. Glass detonated into a myriad of shimmering shards instantaneously–scattering across the floor in a mesmerizing maelstrom of annihilation.

        A flicker of nostalgia and gratification surged through the Smith girl as she processed the triumph of her destructive act. It was a familiar tactic, reminiscent of her relentless attempts to shatter her cell's keypad back in the Sky Box. But now, in this moment, no longer confined by the wrath of her teenage years—it had actually fucking worked.

        Narrowly avoiding the jagged shards protruding from the window frame, Haven threaded her arm through the gaping hole, her fingers groping blindly for anything resembling a lock. By some divine miracle, the mechanism gave way with a soft, triumphant click. A surge of fervent exhilaration shot through her as she twisted the door handle from within, compelling the cell to finally yield to her will at last.

        By the time she emerged into the corridor, the figures responsible for Miller's body had vanished into the enigmatic depths. The hallway extended in two directions, each stretching out like an infinite void, their vanishing points shrouded in an oppressive, unknowable darkness. It appeared far cleaner than Medical ever did on the Go-Sci ring, yet with every blink, Haven's mind battled to differentiate the two. The sterile, gleaming surfaces and the stark fluorescent lighting seemed to blur the boundaries between past and present—warping her perception into a haunting echo of her former confinement.

        Her heart thundered like a tempest.

        Inhale. Breathe. Exhale.

        It took every ounce of willpower within her not to succumb to the tightening grip of panic as she sprang into action once more. If Haven couldn't find Miller, she vowed to shred through every godforsaken cell in her path to hunt down her missing friends instead. With despair choking her every breath, she navigated the treacherous terrain of broken glass on the tile floor, her shaky fingers grappling with the lock on Monty's cell.

"Monty!" she shouted, "Monty, I'm—"

        Suddenly, a glacial hand gripped her by the forearm—immobilizing her in mere seconds.

        Startled, Haven whirled around, finding herself eye to eye with a mysterious man. In his late thirties, his dark brown hair was slicked back into a commanding quaff, while his amber eyes held a shadowy, unreadable depth. As he withdrew his hand, tucking it into the pocket of his impeccably tailored blazer, his gaze seemed to . . . soften.
   
"Miss Smith," he began, his tone devoid of emotion, observing her with a calculating tilt of his head as she instinctively distanced herself from him. "Let's just take a breather, alright? I assure you, there is no reason to be fighting this..." His gaze briefly flickered toward the scattered remnants of glass littering the floor. "...savagely."

        How the fuck did he know her name?

        Swift as a shadow, Haven snatched a lone shard of glass from the tiled floor, brandishing it as a grim warning. "Who are you?" she demanded, daring another step backward as he advanced. "Where am I? Where are...we?"

The stranger's grin widened, a twisted mockery of reassurance. "I'm sure you have a plethora of questions, as anticipated. We can't blame you," he answered smoothly, extending his hand in a gesture of goodwill, only to have it forcefully smacked away. "My name is Mr. Wallace, but you can call me Cage. I'm Head of Security. If you'd allow me to escort you back to your room..."

        Before Cage could extend his hand again, Haven's fist was already soaring towards his nose, a swift and forceful admonition. Her knuckles collided with his cartilage with a resounding crunch—yet the impact yielded no familiar torrent of crimson. Debilitating, white-hot agony surged within her as her shoulder protested the exertion, her customary strength waning under the restraints of her stitches.

"Don't fucking touch me," she spat, her voice a venomous whisper, fingers wrapped tightly around the glass shard in a silent threat. "Answer the question!"

        At the distant end of the corridor, another figure, cloaked in the eerie guise of a hazmat suit, emerged cautiously from an ostensibly vacant cell.

"Sir, should I call for reinforcements? I'm sure Miss Smith—"

"That won't be necessary," Cage interjected, his voice carrying a tinge of irritation as he pinched the bridge of his nose, a fleeting attempt to dispel his discomfort. With a dismissive nod, he waved off the...employee? "Carry on."

        With the stranger's departure, retreating down the hallway until vanishing into the elevator's abyss, Haven found herself alone once more with the enigmatic figure before her. Whoever he claimed to be, she sure as shit didn't trust it; his smile felt as artificial as a puppet's grin, concealing deceit beneath the mask of hospitality.

And . . . as if his demeanor wasn't already suspicious enough, who the hell would name their child Cage?

He was basically asking to get punched.

"Please, don't hurt yourself any further—those tendons took a lifetime for Dr. Tsing to repair," Cage cautioned warily, detecting the source of Haven's distress in mere seconds. "Your stab wound extended through three different muscle groups. It nearly necessitated the amputation your arm altogether." As Haven maintained her rageful silence, he tilted his head, eyes probing. "Why did you take off your sling?"

Haven gritted her teeth.

"Where. Are. We."

        Cage's lips curled into a crooked grin. "The writing is on the wall, Haven," he hummed, gesturing towards the steel-plated sign adorning the wall to their left. "Open your eyes."

Following the trajectory of Cage's hand, Haven willed the crimson haze veiling her vision to dissipate—only for her heart to screech to a halt upon reading the words etched before her.

MOUNT WEATHER
QUARANTINE WARD

. . . FUCK.

Mount Weather—the fabled mountain where the dropship was destined to land—was no longer a figment of imagination or a tantalizing dream of salvation. It was here, it was real, and she was trapped within its suffocating confines. Not just her, but two of her friends, surrounded by a legion of strangers—a formidable staff, a presumed community of survivors. An alarming tempest of questions rocketed through her mind, each one more urgent than the last, yet one question surged to the forefront, eclipsing all others with its fervent intensity.

Haven pinned Cage beneath a frigid, withering glare. "...How do you know my name?"

       "We all know your name," Cage deadpanned, as if the revelation were as inconsequential as the passing of the wind, stoking the fire of Haven's gut instinct to cut the shit and stab him. "There's nothing to worry about. It was information shared by none other of your own people."

A surge of hope, a phoenix rising from the crucible of despair, kindled within Haven's chest. "My people... they're here?" Her words trembled on the precipice of disbelief, hardly above a whisper, eyes widening as she raced to untangle the truth. "They're alive? All of them?"

        "Not all, I'm afraid." Cage's jaw ticked as he expelled a weighted exhale. "We can discuss the formalities back in your room."

       Haven shook her head. "No."

        "I promise, your room is not meant to be a prison—it's just a safety precaution," Cage insisted. The faintest trace of a knowing smile tugged at his lips, betraying his expectation of her fiery defiance. "We wish for all of you to feel as comfortable as possible during your time here."

Drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, Haven strategically weighed her options, her grip on the shard of glass unyielding. There was no fucking way she'd allow Cage to shepherd her back into the colorless, suffocating, hellish cubicle of a cell. But at the same time, if her friends were here, if Bellamy were here . . . she knew needed to find answers, whether extracted from Cage directly or unearthed through her own covert snooping.

If she proposed a compromise, and Cage still offered resistance—she'd call his bluff and stab him in the gut. But if he were to accept the compromise, it would grant her valuable time to survey the facility's layout, potentially paving the way for her escape—or at the very least, provide another opportunity to stab him.

"I'm not going back in there," Haven declared firmly, her tone laden with a finality that brooked no argument. "Take me somewhere...public. And let him come with us."

Monty, still imprisoned within the confines of his cell, watched the scene unfold with wide eyes. His gaze darted rapidly between Haven and Cage, palms pressed fervently against the window, as if every ounce of his being willed the glass to yield—to grant him passage to her side.

        Cage regarded Monty with a disturbingly friendly wave, prompting Monty to recoil from the window in a frantic flurry. "Mr. Green has about ten minutes left in his quarantine before he has clearance to leave. I assume you'll want to know about your friend Miller as well?"

Haven nodded. Lethally.

"He's being prepped for a reparative surgery," Cage answered. "Apparently, he lost a finger trying to...save you. At least from what I've gathered."

        An excruciating myriad of questions erupted within Haven's mind as she registered Cage's words. Earlier that day, Miller had successfully hauled her into the dropship, but she had fought her way free just before the ramp sealed shut. She hadn't intentionally wounded him—her manic struggle left only superficial scratches and a fleeting memory of a bite mark. But if Miller had lost a finger . . . did he reach for her even after the ramp had slammed shut?

        Did the ramp close on his fucking hand?

"I assure you, both of the boys will join us before you know it." Cage dipped his head in a subtle nod of reassurance. "You have my word."

Haven shook her head. "Wait...what do you mean by quarantine?" she probed, narrowing her eyes into accusing slits as she scrutinized Cage's unsettlingly composed demeanor. "We're not sick."

"Indeed," Cage hummed in agreement, his movements casual as he pressed a palm against the wall for support, retracting it the moment Haven lifted the glass shard once more. "But your existence still poses a threat to those who already reside here. We want to confirm that all of you are thoroughly decontaminated before integrating with the rest of the community."

        Community.

        People lived here.

        "Again, lots of questions to be answered." Cage mused, his lips curling into a smirk so practiced it felt like an affront to Haven's every nerve, stirring an irresistible impulse to throttle him. "But I suppose we can meet in the middle here. Your quarantine's officially over, so we'll discuss all of this in the library. It's far more spacious."

        His gaze sharpened as it fell upon the weapon nearly gouging into her palm.

        "Will you drop the glass?"

Haven gritted her teeth.

"So be it." Cage's words were remarkably flat. "Take it with you if it makes your feel more comfortable. Just know it won't be necessary."

        With that—the man pivoted sharply on his heels, his strides deliberate and assured as he started down the looming corridor ahead of them.

        As she stood there, observing his retreating figure, Haven finally surrendered the exhale that had been swelling within her for what felt like an eternity. Panic clutched at her heart cruelly, mercilessly, contorting the mutilated flesh into a vessel of infinite torture. The path ahead, she realized, was already laid out before her—even if it meant she had to forcefully extract the truth from beneath Cage's insufferable, shit-eating grin.

        Still . . . the anxiety that throttled within her was a feral beast, untamed and relentless.

        Sighing, Haven shifted her sights towards the window, seeking solace in Monty's familiar, gentle eyes. He nodded once, twice—wordlessly assuring her that she could press forward without him.

         Cage's voice snaked through the air like blistering, red-hot smoke.

"Are you coming?"

• •

DESPITE BEING AN UNDERGROUND BUNKER, MOUNT WEATHER STOOD AS A TESTAMENT TO TIMELESS BEAUTY—a hidden gem veiled beneath the earth's surface. Haven marveled at its allure as Cage—to her astonishment—refrained from murdering her, granting her precious time to commit the labyrinthine layout to memory. Silently, they descended via a creaky elevator from Level Three, home to the Medical and Quarantine units, to Level Five . . . where life thrived in unexpected abundance.

Here, amidst the metallic and rusted hallways, impeccable artwork adorned practically every corner, infusing the industrial expanse with an unexpected elegance. The facility boasted a flourishing Mess Hall, kitchens humming with activity, classrooms aglow with the light of knowledge, gymnasiums, common areas, bathrooms, showers. Amidst it all, hundreds upon hundreds of dormitories stood as sanctuaries for the mountain's inhabitants, offering more than mere shelter. Each bed cradled weary souls in a soft embrace, while every dorm became a home—a refuge where peace and belonging intertwined.

       Yet, despite the magnificence of the space, it wasn't the architecture or the abundant resources that captivated Haven the most.

        It was the people.

        They were everywhere.

        From crawling infants to elders who seemed to have witnessed the bunker's inception, all age groups found solace within its sheltering walls. Children reveled in carefree abandon. Siblings shared laughter that echoed through the unending corridors. Families gathered, peacefully, their smiles a testament to the comfort found in each other's presence.

Their collective joy seemed to defy the darkness that loomed beyond, nourished by the abundance of real nutrition and the shared camaraderie of meal times. Here, there was no need to fight tooth and nail for sustenance, no hunger gnawing at their bellies, no fear of deprivation lurking in the shadows.

These people weren't forced to survive.

They simply just lived.

        Meanwhile, Haven drifted through the corridors like a phantom, a stark contrast to the portrait of familial bliss around her. Clad in her hospital gown, barefoot, she clutched the shard of glass as if it were her essence distilled. Despite the wary glances from residents, there was no fear in their eyes—only pity for the wild, wounded animal that wandered among them. They sensed her jagged edges and snarling teeth, her learned capacity for violence . . . yet, they also saw the vulnerable creature within, one who whimpered amongst the shadows like a beaten dog.

Haven almost resented them.

        Almost.

        Each time she found herself entranced by the intimate moments of maternal tenderness or paternal guidance—a raw wound within her threatened to tear open once more, selfishly bleeding envy into her already burdened ribcage. She hovered dangerously close to succumbing to the consuming bitterness until a sudden, visceral jolt of reality nailed her in the gut.

       The Smith girl simply couldn't afford to be wooed by the surreal phenomenons among her. Too much remained at stake—her livelihood, her friends, and the multitude of unanswered questions dangling between her and Cage.

By the time the pair had finally entered the library—Haven was fully prepared to pin Cage to the nearest chair, threaten him, and extract the information she craved through sheer force. Yet, before she could even pinpoint a chair to serve as her makeshift throne of interrogation, her gaze was drawn away, ensnared by the captivating spectacle sprawling before her.

        The library unfurled like a dreamscape, a labyrinth of knowledge and mystery. Towering bookshelves soared towards the heavens, their shelves packed with tomes whispering tales of forgotten realms. Each aisle boasted multiple ladders, their metal frames gleaming under the soft glow of antique lamps. The walls, painted in a rich, evergreen hue, cocooned the space in an aura of warmth and secrecy, while the absence of windows heightened the sense of immersion in this literary sanctuary. Every detail, from the meticulously organized shelves to the warm, inviting ambiance, painted a portrait of a space both enchanting and alluring—a getaway for the curious and the lost alike.

It was beautiful.

       Although the library on Factory was a mere speck of dust compared to this gargantuan fortress—it still held the same, familiar scent. The aroma of parchment, cloth, and bookbinding stirred within her a rush of nostalgic enchantment, prying at her heartstrings with a bittersweet tug. No matter how much time Haven spent on Factory with her mother, its scent had never clung to her garments like the rust of Mecha had—etching itself into the fabric of her being.

        But Bellamy's . . .

        It smelled exactly like his guard uniform.

        "Spectacular, right?"

        Cage's voice abruptly shook Haven from the depths of her trance, his eyes alight with an unreadable intensity as she pivoted to face him. It was as if he saw straight through her, peering into the depths of her psyche with unsettling clarity—nearly causing her grip on the glass to falter.

        He was strange. Too strange.

"Feel free to wander. Take a seat. Whatever you please," he continued, patting the cushion of a nearby sofa before comfortably settling himself atop it. "Make yourself at home."

       Resisting the impulse to sneer, Haven stood her ground, subconsciously drifting toward an aisle of books nearby. She halted just at the threshold of the aisle, trailing her fingers along the pristine spines, each whispering secrets of worlds unknown.

        Focus. Focus. Focus.

        Before she could surrender herself amidst their enchanting depths, she decisively spun back around, pinning Cage with an expectant stare.

       "Lots of literature lives here," Cage remarked casually, sinking deeper into the sofa, wholly oblivious to the grenade glaring back at him. "Fiction, non-fiction, historical, romance—you name it. If you have any doubts about the Mountain...you can confirm its existence through the texts here."

Haven arched a skeptical brow. "History can be forged."

Cage's response was laced with a flicker of entertainment, as if Haven's distrust amused him with its predictability. "You're not wrong," he conceded. "But rest assured, these texts have stood the test of time, long before our people entered the bunker. I assure you, we lack the means to alter them."

        Folding her arms across her chest, Haven narrowed her eyes into slits, devising a plan with an otherworldly speed, She needed to figure out how to navigate this . . . whatever this may be. Glaring daggers at Cage while clutching the glass shard tightly in her hand would only serve to amuse him further. Feigned compliance, on the other hand, could provide her with the leverage required to manipulate him in the grand scheme of things.

        So, even though it felt as if her very skin might tear beneath the strain, she willed the furrow in her brow to soften—molding her scowl into a mask of deceptive neutrality. It was a performance she fucking loathed, an act of defiance against her own instincts, yet she knew it was necessary to obscure her true motives.

Still—she'd sooner drop dead than offer him a smile.

        "How long have you been here?"

        "I was born here." Cage answered. "Most government officials and their families entered the bunker just before the bombs went off. But your lineage likely experienced that from the realms of space." A spark of genuine curiosity illuminated his eyes, a fleeting glimpse of authenticity. "How fascinating."

Suppressing her reflexive grimace at the mention of the earthen, facist government—Haven coaxed her lips into a semblance of intrigue. "And you've all managed to survive this long? It's been ninety-seven years."

        "We generate electricity through the turbines connected to the nearby dam. We have our own underground reservoir, hydroponic farm...supplies awarded us the opportunity to live."

Cage's words flowed with unparalleled pride he described their self-sufficient existence, weaving a narrative of resilience and ingenuity. But as his tale ventured into the darker depths of their reality, a somber shroud enveloped his features, dimming the radiance of his enthusiasm.

"Although our society is sustainable, it's nothing glamorous. It doesn't exist beyond these walls—it can't. Radiation has made it impossible for us to live outdoors," he confessed grimly. "That's why the quarantine was necessary for you and your people. Risk of exposure is too dangerous."

Maybe Haven was projecting, or perhaps she was far too bitter to consider his perspective—but Cage's words made her stomach churn with . . . distaste. It was as if he spoke from an ivory tower, oblivious to the harsh realities beyond their fortified walls. These people were cocooned in luxury, shielded from the horrors of the outside world—yet their appetite for more remained insatiable.

But maybe that was the inevitable perspective of those born into privilege. In a world where survival was never a question, they were free to indulge their desires without consequence. Meanwhile, the children of the Sky Box had been raised in the crucible of adversity, their lives defined by scarcity and hardship. Every morsel of humanity, every shred of decency, was a flutter of hope in the abyss—they clung to it desperately, for they knew all too well the searing ache of having nothing.

       It was a tale of two worlds, two diametrically opposed realities, each shaped by the circumstances of their birth.

And what lay between them?

A gaping chasm that seemed destined for ruin.

        "But...when we landed, we were exposed to the elements for the first time too," Haven pressed on, her brows knitting together in a furrow of uncertainty. "If we can withstand radiation, shouldn't your people be able to as well?"

Cage blew out a weary sigh. "Not necessarily. Your body is able to metabolize the radiation because your people were already exposed to it in space. Solar radiation, at least." He gestured to the bookshelf beyond Haven's shoulder, as if preemptively addressing any doubts she might harbor, offering evidence to support his claim. "As for the savages? We've chalked that up to natural selection."

Savage . . .

Is that how he had described her escape from her cell?

"Although, Haven, your blood in particular..." His lips resigned their solemn frown and curled into an intrigued grin. "What an interesting phenomenon."

Here we fucking go.

Haven knew she was wholly, utterly, and entirely screwed from the moment she awoke and recognized the IV embedded into her forearm. Possessing genetically black blood wasn't necessarily the easiest trait to conceal—especially when thrust into a Medical ward against her own volition, and enduring a shoulder surgery she had zero recollection of.

"Dr. Tsing is practically brimming with exciting questions," Cage continued enthusiastically. "Only if you consent, of course."

Cage's feigned pretense of choice only served to stoke the embers of Haven's smoldering fury, yet she adamantly shoved it aside—once again—forced to swallow the bitter truth that the staff had already violated her and her friends.

        "What exactly am I consenting to?" she asked flatly.

        "Nothing physical—just answering some questions." Cage shrugged, as if the discussion of her blood type were a disturbingly casual affair. As if its very existence hadn't already subjected her to barbaric medical abuse aboard the Ark. "It appears your blood possesses a unique quality. A synthetic. Dr. Tsing knows more about it than I would, but it is simply...marvelous."

        His grin stretched wider, morphing into a menacing smirk as he leaned forward, his frame rising from the comfort of the plush sofa whilst drumming his fingers atop his knees.

        "I think you're capable of far greater things, though."

Maintaining her facade of practiced composure was slowly becoming an uphill crawl. Haven's usual panic was smothered by an atrocious surge of rage, but even that was eclipsed by the enormity of her confusion. It felt as though her entire miserable existence had been distilled down to her blood type, a haunting specter shadowing every aspect of her life.

        Abby's thrist for its intricacies had driven her to conduct outrageous experiments. Anya and the Grounders had spared her life for reasons shrouded in mystery. And now, faced with yet another elusive doctor—and a strange man with an absurd amount of hair product—Haven found herself unwittingly tangled in the twisted machinations of their intrigue, not hers.

        Never hers.

        She was an exhile within her own flesh, relegated to the sidelines as the others gawked and gasped, their invasive hands prodding and probing with merciless precision. A vessel, a spectacle stripped of dignity and agency—condemned to endure their invasive scrutiny with no respite in sight.

        While Haven might have lacked many of the answers she eternally craved . . . one thing was crystal fucking clear.

        She would not tell this man shit.

        "Thank you," Haven managed at last, clutching the glass so viciously that it felt as though it might shatter under the pressure, her palm throbbing with the sting of broken skin. "Where's Dr. Tsing now?"

"Back in Medical. There was a containment breach. Seems that you aren't the only one with a tendency to shatter windows." Cage mused wryly, drumming his fingers atop his knees before releasing an amused huff. "Dr. Tsing is stitching up Clarke's forearm as we speak. Once she's cleared—she'll join you and your friends for the full tour of the Mountain."

Clarke was alive. Her friends were alive.

Haven's eyes fluttered closed, allowing herself a fleeting millisecond of relief. "How many of us are here?"

"Fourty eight."

"That's...impossible," Haven's breath caught, all traces of her reprieve dissipating like smoke in the wind, slipping through her fingers before could even attempt to fully grasp it. "There should be more."

Cage's amusement vanished. "All those remaining at your campsite were pronounced deceased."

Haven felt her heart plummet.

"All of them?"

        "I'm afraid so," Cage admitted somberly, his facade of arrogance crumbling for the first time since their interaction began. "We're sending out patrols to search the crash sites of your Ark for survivors. It takes a hefty toll on our resources to stay outside for extended periods of time, so the mission will likely take a few days."

Despair swelled treacherously within Haven's lungs, constricting her breath as she fought to maintain composure. Cage's tactics didn't evade her in the slightest; he had deliberately sidestepped the details of the bodies littering the dropship site, his seamless transition to discussing the Ark ringing with a hollow evasion of truth.

Every fiber of Haven's being erupted in a cacophony of warning, shrieking at her to withhold Bellamy's name from the man she vehemently distrusted. If Bellamy wasn't here, if he still drew breath beyond the Mountain's walls—the less Cage knew about him, the safer he'd be.

But, she needed to know the truth.

". . . where was I found?"

"Ah. I can see your memories are finally starting to resurface." Cage stoically bowed his head, a shadow of remorse lingering in the subtle tilt of his posture. "We found you beneath the body of Bellamy Blake."

        . . . No.

        No.

        No. No. No.

        "My condolences." Cage's words were distant, emerging from the unfathomable depths of torrid, black waters. "The scouts had to essentially pry his body off yours. It appears he saved your life from the explosion."

But Haven couldn't hear him.

        What have you done?

Nothing could breach the mind-warping, soul-rending rush of blood thundering in her eardrums as she pleaded for her body to remain upright. Her final glimpse of Bellamy seared into her consciousness with a searing cruelty, etched into her memory for eternity: he was dying, more blood than boy, ragged breaths barely audible amidst the deafening roar of warfare. And yet, instead of saving himself, he defiantly collapsed upon her—a titan brought to his knees in a final, selfless act of sacrifice, shielding her from the rocket's wrath just before darkness claimed him.

        He wasn't dead.

        He wasn't dead—Haven felt it with a certainty that pierced to the marrow of her matchstick bones, resonating through every atomic fiber of her being.

        But, if he was . . . it would've been her fault.

        Bellamy might have actually stood a chance if it weren't for her recklessness, a slim opportunity of scrambling to safety before the cataclysm engulfed them. He might have summoned his final reserves of strength to flee, to preserve himself rather than sacrificing everything for her sake—as he had done relentlessly, endlessly, over and over and over again.

        What have you done?

Haven refused to let herself disintegrate in front of Cage. She wouldn't grant him the satisfaction of witnessing her descent into shattered oblivion, her soul tearing apart at the seams. The urge to lash out, to obliterate him from existence and banish his scrutinizing stare for eternity, pulsed through her veins like an all-consuming poison—but she knew that she couldn't. She longed to ask about the fate of her beloved friends—Orion, Raven, Jasper—but she knew that she couldn't do that either, not if she wanted to keep them safe.

And so, she held her tongue, bearing the weight of uncertainty in stoic silence, resigned to the agonizing wait for their eventual reunion.

She'd find her friends in life or in death.

Or rather . . . what was left of them.

Haven bit out the words through gritted teeth. "You couldn't have intervened sooner?" she demanded lowly, uncaring of the blood seeping from her wounded hand, staining the pristine fabric of her hospital gown. "Helped us find safety before half of us were murdered?"

        "I understand this is a lot to digest at once, Haven." Cage ventured, his tone betraying a trace of sympathy as he abandoned his stance on the couch, audaciously lessening the distance between them. "I assure you, if it were safe to intervene earlier on...we would have."

        To hell with compliance.

"Stop trying to assure me with your bullshit," Haven fumed, every particle of her soul crackling with the voracious energy of wrath. "As Head of Security—you made the colossal fuck-up of a decision to wait until children were at war. You had to have known the stakes. You..." She shook her head incredulously. "...you let innocent people die."

        "An unfortunate loss we had to accept," Cage conceded, taking yet another bold step towards her, his presence serving as kerosene to the molten rage roiling within her. "It's despicable to choose between your people and other innocent lives. I'm sure you understand it wasn't easy."

        "I don't," Haven hissed. "If I had the capabilities—I would've stepped in sooner."

        Cage's jaw ticked. "I see," he murmured lowly, tilting his head as he scrutinized her further—as if he were beckoning her to lash out. As if she wouldn't slit his neck right here, unflinchingly staining the library walls with the morbid splatter of his blood. "If we had stepped in, would your people have complied? Would you have even trusted us? From what we've heard of him, it appears that Bellamy Blake certainly wouldn't—"

         His words wilted on his tongue as Haven lifted the glass to his throat.

"Don't you dare say his name."

Haven glared at Cage as though he were the essence of filth personified. The distance between them was minimal, a mere breath apart yet infinitely distant. She stood pressed against the bookcase, her stance poised to unleash a torrent of violence if necessary, a book grasped tightly in her free hand. Inky black blood trickled down her forearm, its path winding back toward her bicep, the height of the glass at his neck ensuring its sinister journey.

        "Ah—there she is. Dr. Tsing predicted that your PTSD would manifest as anger." Cage remarked, a thin veneer of false sympathy barely masking his contempt. "You seem to have a lot of trauma intertwined with that boy. Rest assured..."

        He pressed flesh further against the glass.

        "His death was honorable."

All at once, Haven's hand rocketed upward, the book clenched in her grasp becoming a weapon of vengeance as it crashed against Cage's temple. He staggered back, his hand instinctively flying to the throbbing source of pain, yet his grin remained a twisted mask of defiance. Enraged beyond reason, Haven's fingers tightened around the shard of glass, poised to finally unleash its razor edge upon his neck—only to be halted by an iron grip on her forearm.

Cage condescendingly waved a finger at her.

Before Haven could even contemplate severing it clean off, he swiftly retrieved a radio from his back pocket, lifting it to his lips with decisive intent. "Maya? It's time," he ordered. "Bring her in."

        "Fuck you," Haven spat venomously. Before she could unleash another barrage of blows, Cage's fingers found their mark—pressing against the tender stitches on her forearm with strategic precision. "Y-You're not bringing me anywhere."

Cage slowly tilted his head to the left.

"Not you, Haven . . . her."

Footsteps clapped across the wooden floor in a sinister procession, echoing ominously from somewhere deep within the library's infinite depths. A figure swiftly rounded the corner, their silhouette shrouded in the ambient glow of the lamplight—emerging from the crawl of shadows like a phantom, a ghost.

"Oh, Bug."

        Familiar brown eyes, now encircled by inky, unfamiliar tribal tattoos, bore into Haven with a scrutiny she had endured since the cradle—a disappointment she knew she would carry to the grave.

Dahlia's lips curled into her customary scorn.

"What have you done?"

• •

END OF ACT ONE.

• •

OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOODDDDD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THATS IT! THAT'S ACT 1!!!

HOW THE FUCK ARE WE FEELING TONIGHT YALL

MOMMY DEAREST IS ALIVE 🤭🫣 I KNOW SOME OF YALL SAW IT COMING!! ....does anyone remember dahlia crying black blood during haven's hallucination in the day trip chapter? and haven wearing a hospital gown?

       " Dahlia's response came swift and clipped. "I've always been with you, even when you are too blind to see it," she stated matter-of-factly, tone tinged with a familiar edge of disappointment. "You should know that by now." "

"Dahlia was shedding tears, but they weren't tears of sorrow. Instead, they were thick rivulets of blood—black as night—trickling down her brown skin like war paint."

...YEAH. you will get answers eventually. but in the meantime check out the faceclaim in the next chapter i think the casting is literally perfect 🫣

sorry if the ending feels super abrupt but its kind of supposed to!! i cannot count the amount of times i cried while writing the finale chapters....especially the previous one!! literally what the fuck i was a disaster. i had to take REPEATED mental health breaks bc i literally just COULDNT get through it. EMOTIONAL DAMAGE IRREPARABLE. i think i traumatized myself? 😭😭 and also haven was lowkey an unreliable narrator during the big battle scene because everytime she turns around bellamy is on his ass LMFAAAAO. but its wayyyy too messy to write fight scenes from 2 povs at once. everyone was getting their ass beat far more than haven could see. besides, if it WAS a bellamy pov, i dont think id survive writing the devastation 😗

there are so many little tidbits and full circle moments/drawbacks of other things/actions that have happened throughout the book that i intentionally included in these 2 chapters so if you caught them...YAAAAY!! the panther reference, anya telling haven to yield again, HORNY, dahlia's quote from chapter 12 before haven jumped ship(literally), spitting the blood in the grounder's face like she did to dax, the metronome being used to break out.. and OF COURSEEE: what have you done? 😈

but on a far more serious note...i am genuinely SO thrilled for act 2, and that wouldn't be possible without the love and support and comments from every single person who has given this book even the faintest bit of attention!! i have felt its impact so significantly and it has motivated me to write, to find LOVE in writing again, and to use this book as more than just a distraction when i'm sad. i love to write it. i love to put words out anyone who wishes to read them. from the bottom of my heart, thank you for everything <333

YOU. MEAN. THE WORLD. TO. ME.

see yall in the next chapter!! friday updates are still gonna roll out as usual. we starting act 2 with a bellamy pov. GOOD LUCK <3

I LOVE YOU. TO INFINITY AND BEYOND!!!