• •
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE;
WHAT HE'S DONE.
• •
THE FIRST THING HAVEN NOTICED UPON WAKING UP WAS THE SEARING PAIN OF THE BURNS ON HER CHEST. Two oddly shaped strips of raw skin haloed where her heart beat beneath; one above it, one below it. Each sting felt like hellfire, amplified by the fact that the upper burn overlapped her pre-existing surgical scar, making it twice as sensitive. Surely, she must've died–but how the hell had she been saved?
The second thing she noticed was Bellamy Blake.
Alive.
There he sat, beside her cot, his eyes closed in peaceful repose, freed from the clutches of the virus. He appeared lost in slumber, leaning against the cot's frame with an air of exhaustion clinging to him like a cloak. Violet shadows rimmed his undereyes, etching the weariness of his soul onto his face, as if this were the first moment of rest he had allowed himself in days.
As Haven stirred, Bellamy tilted his head against the cot, his curls gently brushed lightly against her fingertips. Then, as if fully processing that she was actually awake, his eyes widened in sheer relief at the sight of her. With a quick motion, he rotated to face her, tracing every delicate contour of her features as if to reassure himself of her presence.
A faint smile graced her lips. "Hi."
"Hey." Bellamy's voice emerged as a gentle sigh, a release of pent-up tension more than an actual word. Yet, he returned her smile with a tender one of his own, a glimmer of warmth amidst the shadows. "How are you feeling?"
"Not dead anymore," Haven quipped, her words carrying a touch of wry humor as she shifted on the cot, aligning herself to face Bellamy more comfortably. A fleeting wince betrayed the pain of her injuries, but she dismissed it with a casual blink. "So...pretty good, I think."
Bellamy rolled his eyes with a fond shake of his head. "Cute," he huffled softly. Despite knowing exactly how she would respond, he couldn't help but be enchanted by her familiar wit—every damn time. "I'll grab you some water."
Just as he was about to rise, Haven's slender fingers snaked around his wrist, anchoring him in place.
"No," she blurted, promptly eliciting an odd look from Bellamy. "I mean, not yet. I...I don't really remember what happened." As she spoke, she felt the involuntary tightening of her fingers around his skin, a sensation that made her acutely aware of her own uncertainty. "How'd I die this time?"
Bellamy frowned.
The Smith girl shuddered beneath the weight of his stare. "Tough crowd?"
Perhaps it was too soon to crack an inappropriate amount of jokes about her seventh dance with death. However, Haven found herself simply unable to resist, the gallows humor serving as a feeble shield against the gaping hole in her memory. Confusion weighed on her mercilessly. And as Bellamy was looking at her like that–she knew things must've gotten ugly.
"After you guys set the bomb off...Jasper said you got into a fight with Finn." Bellamy's jaw tightened at the mere mention of the Collins boy, expelling the name like venomous bile. "Apparently, Finn said something dumb. You shoved him, he shoved you back–then your heart stopped. Sound familiar?"
Haven drew her bottom lip between her teeth as she scavenged through the murky recesses of her mind. Everything felt so...fuzzy. She could recall the chaotic rush of chasing Raven on the bridge, the deafening explosion of the bomb, and surge of raw fury that had driven her to annihilate Finn's face. But when it came to the specifics, the details slipped through her fingers like sand.
She only remembered that it hurt.
Everywhere.
"Unfortunately," Haven groaned, her hand withdrawing from Bellamy's to rub at her temples in weary frustration. "So Finn killed me? Finn fucking Collins?"
Bellamy heaved an elongated sigh. "If you ask me–yes. If you ask Clarke–no," he grunted, a shadow darkening his features as he recounted the horrors of the past two days. "She said that you dealt with something called commottio cordis. The trauma of Finn shoving you aligned with your heartbeat at the wrong time, so your heart just..." He sucked in a shaky breath. "...stopped."
"Great," Haven huffed. "But...how'd I get..."
"Monty saved your life the first time," Bellamy finished, intuitively catching onto her unspoken question as her eyes scanned their surroundings. It must've felt wildly disorienting to wake up in a place different from where she last remembered. "After he finished CPR, the group brought you back on a stretcher." His eyes darkened. "You were unconscious for two days."
Haven went rigid.
Fourty-eight hours of time slipped by in what felt like nothing more than a blink. Life had carried on its relentless march while she lay trapped in the grip of a numbing slumber, a prisoner to unconsciousness. Perhaps it would have been bearable if she had drifted through dreams, if she could have sought solace in the mirrored reflections of her subconscious and willed herself to awaken sooner. But alas, she didn't.
All she was left with was darkness.
"Two days." Haven's words echoed with a mechanical cadence, struggling to comprehend the temporal void that had enveloped her. Then, she remembered the earlier part of Bellamy's explanation. "Wait–what do you mean, the first time?"
Bracing himself for the admission that lay ahead, Bellamy squared his shoulders. "Your heart stopped again earlier today. I–we don't know why," he explained lowly, a fragile part of himself splintering into a thousand tiny pieces all over again. "Monty and Raven both saved you this time around. Built a defibrillator out of two scraps of metal and the radio."
"Of course they did," Haven mustered a weakened laugh, one entirely devoid of surprise. "Show offs."
A wistful silence descended among them. It wasn't uncomfortable, but rather one infused with the cruel truth of their circumstances; the air felt tainted, saturated with the lingering echoes of tragedy. So much trauma had unfolded within the cramped confines of this tent. Here, she had died, a harrowing experience that would haunt the shelter of Bellamy's tent for a long, long time–staining it with the specter of mortality.
And then . . .
"How long were you hiding it?"
Haven blinked. "Hiding what?"
"Clarke said your condition was most likely aggravated by chest pain that was already there." Bellamy averted his eyes, seeking solace in the confines of his clenched fists, which curled and uncurled in a silent dance of apprehension. The question, though necessary, felt like acid on his tongue. "Were you...keeping it from everybody?"
Was she?
"No," Haven replied instinctively, only to falter as she delved deeper into her thoughts. "I mean, sort of. I-I don't know. I've only had occasional flare-ups during the past year." As she noticed Bellamy discreetly wringing out his fingers, a pang of longing surged within her, a silent yearning to reach out and hold them. "But they've been nothing like...that."
As Haven sifted through the wreckage of her memories, new details emerged with startling clarity. Now, she could vividly recall the chest pain that had plagued her in the days leading up to the present moment. It had begun on the fateful night of the Exodus ship crash, a dull ache gnawing at her chest with each labored breath. The discomfort had persisted, intensifying with each passing day, until it reached its lethal boiling point just moments after the bomb detonated.
Bellamy clenched his jaw. "So you were hiding it."
"Only for like, two days." Haven winced. "I didn't really think anything of it–honestly. It didn't feel any different than what I'm already used to," she admitted, her brows furrowing against the onslaught of memories slamming through her brain. "I didn't..."
"It's not your fault." Bellamy reassured her earnestly, shaking his head as he observed the subtle downturn of her lips. "I just wish you would've said something. Maybe I could've prevented it from happening."
At that, Haven snorted. "How could you have possibly prevented it? By fist-fighting my stenosis yourself?" she jested, the corners of her lips curling upwards as Bellamy responded with an eye roll. "Plus, Abby said I'm cured. Maybe this was just a freak accident."
A beat passed.
"Right," Bellamy began, overly conscious of his next choice of words. "Listen, Haven...after you get some more rest, there's something I have to–"
"Have to what? Tell me about everything I missed out on?" Haven's eyes glittered with an expectant hint of amusement as shifted her weight, rising fully upright on the cot, her legs dangling over the edge. Bellamy sat just beside her knees. "I'm sure it's been spectacular. How many fires did Murphy start?"
"Murphy didn't. Del did."
Haven gaped. "I was joking."
"I'm not," Bellamy huffed, his tone laden with an exhaustion that defied his young age. It sounded ancient, as if he had been shouldering his stress for ages. "He destroyed the entire meat tent by being an idiot, so I had to send out more groups to hunt." His jaw flexed. "Everyone's back except for Finn and Clarke."
A migraine threatened to drag Haven under as she recalled the gravity of the hundred's current circumstances. Amidst the pain, she revisited their choice to destroy the bridge, a last-ditch effort to fend off an imminent Grounder attack. Given that the camp was presumably still in one piece, she deduced that the Grounders had yet to retaliate—creating a fragile semblance of peace. However, the idea of sending hunting parties beyond their borders loomed ominously, poised to disrupt the eerie calm they clung to.
At this point, they weren't merely tempting fate anymore–they were dragging it right to their very doorstep.
Bellamy knew it, too.
All too aware of the creeping dread settling in her bones, Haven forced herself to draw in a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. "How long have they been gone?"
"Long enough," Bellamy's response carried the trademark gruffness that perpetually masked his inner turmoil. Though he would never openly admit it, Haven could sense his unease from a mile away. "Finn can be Grounder meat, for all I care. But we're going after them soon."
Immediately, Haven sprung from the cot, momentarily swaying on her feet before steadying her balance. "When do we leave?"
Bellamy stared at her blankly. "What?"
"I said–when do we leave?" Haven repeated, shuffling towards the far end of the tent and peering into the inky twilight beneath the tarp. "Holy shit, it's already dark out? They shouldn't be out this late after sundown."
Now, Bellamy was on his feet, his throat tightening with exasperation as he trailed after her. "What the hell are you doing?"
Haven blinked. "Uh...putting on a coat," she deadpanned, her tone dry as she reached for Bellamy's spare bomber jacket from his desk. Quickly draping it over her shoulders, she clung to its oversized embrace, a welcome shield against the encroaching chill of the night. "Seriously, when are we going?"
"You're not going anywhere," Bellamy declared. Ignoring her anticipated defiance, he reached out and seized her wrist, forcing her to meet his stare. His pupils were blown, though it wasn't surprise that lurked within their depths; it was something darker, something visceral. "Haven, you just died."
"And...? I'm not dead now." With a deft twist, Haven freed herself from Bellamy's grasp, her movements fluid and decisive as she retreated towards the desk to retrieve her blade. When she faced him again, his arms were folded tightly across his chest. "Look–I feel fine, Bell. The world keeps spinning."
The world keeps spinning.
Bellamy couldn't help but resent her words. He stared at Haven as if she had hung the moon in the fucking sky. As if she held dominion over the heavens themselves. As if his entire world hadn't just ground to a halt on its axis the moment her heart stopped, mere hours ago. And yet, she stood before him, entirely oblivious to the gravity of her own mortality–wholly unaware of the void that threatened to consume him in her absence.
His words felt like magma in his throat. "Are you serious?" he pressed, his onyx eyes illuminated solely by the flickering candlelight nearby. "You know what–don't answer that. This isn't up for debate. Your body needs to recover."
Haven tilted her head. "Hm. With that logic–I'm sure you did nothing while recovering from the virus then, right?" Although her question was entirely rhetorical, the tightening of Bellamy's jaw served as a tacit confession. "That's what I thought. There's no time for this."
Then, she started towards the exit, futilely attempting to dispel the irritation surging within her. While she could partially understand Bellamy's concern, he seemingly failed to recognize that this is what she did best; to waltz on the tightrope of mortality, to defy death's embrace, and to emerge victorious, roaring back to life. She knew her body, and if she said she was fine–she meant it...for the most part.
Yet, as expected, Bellamy loomed before her as an insurmountable barrier, swiftly blocking her exit.
"You can't stop me."
"You know I can."
"I know you won't," Haven fired back, her movements swift as she attempted to evade Bellamy, only to find him effortlessly intercepting her at every turn–as if he could decipher her intentions before she even formulated them. She glared up at him with gritted teeth. "I'm not one of your dogs."
Bellamy shook his head. "I'm not saying you are," he voiced earnestly, though he knew his words were falling on deaf ears by now. Perhaps hers were, too. The familiar fire in his blood, ignited whenever he was within ten feet of her, raged like an inescapable inferno. "All I'm saying is that you need to stop being so hell-bent on getting yourself killed."
"Somebody needs to look after them–"
"Somebody needs to look after you!"
At that, Haven clamped her mouth shut.
Meanwhile, Bellamy could hardly restrain the ferocity of his emotions. "Who looks after you, huh? Me. Who's the person you absolutely refuse to listen to? Also me." The shadows in his eyes seemed to deepen, devouring the feeble candlelight in their intensity. "So, please–if anything at all, just help me out here, Haven. Lie to my face and tell me you won't go. Then maybe I can sleep easier. Then maybe I won't have to spend every waking minute worrying about you–"
"I didn't realize I was such an inconvenience to your headspace," Haven spat.
Bellamy's nails sank deep into his palms, his fists clenched so tightly that he feared he might rupture his own skin. "That is not what I meant–"
"And I never asked to be there in the first place," Haven continued, her words cutting through the air like a jagged blade, heedless of the fact that she spoke over him. A familiar ache surged within her, swift and merciless, swelling within her chest until she was certain she would burst. "To be truthful, I have no clue why you're worried about me, Bellamy–considering you're the one who abandoned me for an entire fucking year."
There it was.
The truth laid bare, hanging heavy in the charged air between them–a gaping wound demanding acknowledgment.
After weeks of unending torture, misread signals, and the tumultuous adjustment to their new life on the ground–the insurmountable void between them begged for resolution. Haven's gaze pierced through him with the ferocity of a comet hurtling through the stars, its fiery tail a harbinger of impending cataclysm. Meanwhile, Bellamy stood firm, steeling himself for the inevitable collision, willingly prepared to absorb her aftershocks.
Ignoring the stinging in her eyes, Haven squared her shoulders, her jaw clenched tight. "You left," she reiterated, her voice a raw whisper. "You were gone. But now–you're worried about me?" As she sought his eyes, yearning for any hint of clarity, her agony only intensified. "Forget it. I never asked for you, or anybody else to watch my back like I'm some loose canon that needs–"
"You don't remember."
Haven halted. "What?"
"The last day I saw you on the Ark," Bellamy's voice trembled as he broached the subject, his words cautious, as if navigating a minefield. "You...you don't remember it."
The weight of Haven's scrutiny was lethal enough to crucify. Tracing her gaze over the contours of his face, she hunted for any hint of deceit, any fleeting shadow of dishonesty that might betray his words.
Yet, to her astonishment, she found none.
It wasn't the absence of falsehood that unsettled Haven, however; it was the unwavering conviction in Bellamy's voice that made her want to shatter. His words didn't carry the uncertainty of a question or the sudden clarity of a newfound realization; they resonated with the weight of a truth long held, a revelation that had been lurking in the shadows of their shared history, waiting to be unearthed.
Still–skepticism clung to the Smith girl like a stubborn shadow, refusing to dissipate despite Bellamy's revelation. "Is this a joke?" she scoffed coldly, brows furrowing in utter bewilderment at his accusation. "Of course I remember. How...how could I forget? I-I tried!" Blood roared mercilessly in her eardrums. "Every single day, I tried to come up with a new excuse so, I didn't have to believe that you were gone!"
Bellamy stared at her with a softness that made her knees buckle. "Haven..."
But she was far from done. Every emotion she lugged behind her during the past year erupted with an incomprehensible intensity, twisting her pain into bitterness and her bitterness into seething rage. "But you know what?" she hissed, "It's fine. I guess that's life. Should've known it was a bad idea for a guard to get too close to a prisoner anyway–"
"Don't say that." Bellamy's scowl was instinctive, immediate, primal, a thundercloud corrupting the sky. "You know that is not what–"
"You don't get to tell me what I do and don't know when I'm the one who lived it!" Haven rebutted, her chest heaving in a tortured rhythm that mirrored the boy's before her. "I-I was with you every week for four fucking years, and then you just disappeared! Right when I needed you most!" Each syllable lashed out like a whip, shredding open wounds that never truly healed to begin with. "You were my friend. I trusted you. I–"
Bellamy dared a step closer. "Haven, just–"
"I needed you!"
Reality twisted into a kaleidoscope of shattered fragments as Haven fought to unearth the truth amidst her tears. "My entire world was turned inside out, and you were the one thing I had! You were the only person I could count on to protect me, the only person I knew how to trust." A ragged breath punctuated her next sentence. "But you left. And you didn't even try to check on me."
Bellamy could hardly comprehend the breakneck speed of how quickly things unraveled between them. Hadn't he just gripped her hand, mere minutes ago? Hadn't he finally felt his breathing regulate again, once she had awoken? Her words slashed through him like a viper's fangs, vicious and precise. If it were any other circumstance, he would've sucked the poison and spat it right back at her feet. But here, now–he knew he needed to make things right.
Even if it meant she'd hate him.
He took a measured breath. "I didn't–"
"You did!" Haven shot back, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, the impulse to push him away restrained only by sheer willpower. "And now–now, you want to act like you care? Now–you want to tell me that I don't remember? I remember everything, Bellamy! All of it!" She was borderline shaking now, viciously consumed by a heartache that rivaled how it felt to die. "So, please–if anything at all, just help me out here. Give me the decency of the truth, instead of–"
"I thought you were dead, Haven!"
Silence roared between them.
In the excruciating heartbeats that followed, Bellamy's entire being seemed to pulse with the intensity of suppressed emotion, every sinew drawn taut with the effort of restraint. His chest rose and fell with the erratic rhythm of a storm-tossed sea, as if each breath could be his last. Maybe it would be, after this. Maybe he would rather confront death itself than unveil the truth he had guarded from the girl before him.
Haven's voice cracked. "What?"
"I...I thought..." Bellamy could hardly hold himself upright. "I thought Abby killed you."
• •
ONE YEAR AGO.
• •
"BELLAMY, YOU'RE LATE."
Timeliness had always been a non-negotiable virtue for Bellamy Blake, especially since he became a member of the Guard. From the moment he donned his uniform, he was expected to adhere to the strictest schedule, to be ever ready to leap into action at the Council's beck and call. They held sway over his every move, his body a mere instrument to fulfill their orders. When summoned, hesitation was a luxury he couldn't afford; he operated with the precision of a finely tuned machine.
Abigail Griffin was a different story.
In fact, her influence over Bellamy surpassed even that of his commanding officer. It wasn't because he feared the doctor or felt threatened by her position on the Council. No, it was the patient under Abby's care that held him in thrall, like a loyal hound bound to her every whim—a leash to which he willingly surrendered, his obedience unwavering and absolute.
Haven.
And although Bellamy was late by only a minute, he reprimanded himself relentlessly. Sixty fleeting seconds could have been all it took for Haven to slip away, to crumple in agony, to meet her end without his presence by her side. The mere thought was a bitter pill he couldn't swallow; he refused to entertain such a grim fate.
So—when he glanced at the time on his guardswatch, he fought back a surge of panic and nearly broke into a sprint, hurtling down the labyrinthine hallways of Go-Sci until they led him to where he stood now.
"Sorry, Abby." Bellamy was nearly out of breath by the time he barreled into the operating room. With a familiar buzz, he locked the keypad behind him, his fingers trembling slightly from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. "Jaha paid a visit to the Sick Bay earlier today. I was just double-checking the far end of the corridor."
Abby stood at the heart of the operating room, her movements deliberate as she meticulously slid a pristine ivory glove over her fingers. "It's all clear?"
With a nod, Bellamy stationed himself near the door, his gaze a source of quiet reassurance as Jackson wheeled Haven into the surgical bay. She lay atop a hospital bed, her weary frame cocooned by the sterile sheets, accompanied by an IV line trailing from her right arm. Despite the weight of fatigue, a spark of mischief danced in Haven's eyes as she affectionately stuck her tongue out at him.
Bellamy smiled.
According to Abby, the task at hand was simple: repairing a ruptured blood vessel in Haven's aortic valve to prevent potential hemorrhaging. Yet, for Bellamy, nothing about it felt simple. Each medical procedure Haven had to endure stirred a wellspring of apprehension within him–every damn time. Though he held trust in Abby and Jackson's competence to complete the procedure, the looming sense of unease remained, a constant companion in the face of uncertainty.
Especially as he noticed the faintest shimmer of an air bubble in Haven's IV bag.
Bellamy awkwardly cleared his throat. "Did you burp the bag?"
"Of course I did." Abby's response landed with the certainty of a gavel. She lifted her head from the routine check of Haven's vitals, peering at Bellamy through the magnification of her surgical lenses. "I have the CT scan with the valve's location somewhere in her folder. Could you pass it over?"
After triple-checking that the keypad beside the door was locked, Bellamy shifted towards the filing cabinet against the nearby wall. His gaze instinctively honed in on the third drawer. With practiced precision, he slipped his fingers into the hidden gap of space alongside it, deftly extracting the contents of Haven's secret folder.
At least, he thought it was.
Abby and Jackson had often entrusted Bellamy with the responsibility of concealing and retrieving Haven's medical records. Familiar with the routine, he was accustomed to the weight of her folder, its contents a testament to her ongoing battle. Yet, as his fingers wrapped around the manila, it felt strangely...heavier than usual.
Flipping through the contents, Bellamy's eyes scanned the folder until they landed on the corner of Haven's CT scan. The paper was noticeably crumpled and folded, appearing as if it had been hastily wedged in, a stark contrast to Jackson's typically precise arrangement. With a furrowed brow, he drew his lip between his teeth and inched out the paper further–only to notice the date stamped in the corner was wrong.
It was from four years ago.
Bellamy studied the scan more intently, assuming it could meet Abby's need if Haven's aortic valve was visible. He could vividly recall the countless times he'd poured over diagrams and notes, committing the location of Haven's abnormal valve to memory. But as he scrutinized the image even more, a knot tightened in his stomach. Instead of the expected anomaly, her heart appeared startlingly normal, every detail rendered in pristine clarity.
He glanced toward the date again.
9. 14. 2145.
Haven's fifteenth birthday.
Realization crept over Bellamy like a slow crawl of shadows. In a sudden, stark moment of clarity, he recognized that the document before him was Haven's intake report from the day she was locked up—the very same day he had been assigned as her guard, marking the genesis of their intertwined journey.
Haven had been unwillingly brought into Medical that fateful day. The memory of her resistance lingered, phantom scratch marks from her nails still faintly etched into his wrist. Bellamy could distinctly remember the chaos of that moment—the guards straining to contain her as she spiraled into hysteria for the third time within the hour. Her world had crumbled in a single day: her mother executed, herself assaulting a guard, and now abruptly thrust into the suffocating confines of a prison cell, all on her birthday.
He couldn't fault her for losing control.
"Patient brought in due to complaints of chest pain, shortness of breath, double vision. No sign of abnormalities. Blood type unknown, re: Phase Three. Official Diagnosis: Generalized Anxiety Disorder."
Bellamy blinked as he skimmed over the hastily penned footnote at the bottom of the scan. Haven's anxiety had always been a familiar aspect of her life; hell, she certainly didn't need a diagnosis to confirm its existence. But...that day, she was also diagnosed with stenosis, too. They had been instructed to return for an exploratory surgery the following week, allowing Abby to examine her abnormal valve more closely.
And yet, to his bewilderment, there was no mention of it on the paper.
At all.
As discreetly as possible, Bellamy thumbed through the remainder of the folder, his initial confusion rapidly morphing into inexplicable nausea. With each page turned, it became increasingly apparent that every medical report was categorized into a cryptic order.
Phase One: Diagnosis
Phase Two: Creation
Phase Three: Extraction
Phase Four: Completion
"Bellamy?" Abby's voice smoothly cleaved through the blood pulsing in his ears. "Did you find it yet?"
The Blake boy's heart sputtered in his chest at the sound of her words. However, he quickly composed himself, masking any outward signs of apprehension as he turned to face her. Fortunately, Abby remained absorbed in her task of organizing surgical tools on a nearby tray, paying little attention to Bellamy's gnawing unease.
Meanwhile, Jackson locked eyes with Bellamy at once, their gaze lingering for an oddly deliberate length of time. "It should be somewhere within Phase Four."
Suddenly, one of the tools Abby had been meticulously sterilizing slipped from her grasp, its metallic clang shattering the tense silence like a sudden crack of thunder. In the brief moment of disruption, she exchanged a pointed glance with Jackson, before briskly retrieving the fallen object from the tile.
What the hell was going on?
Continuing his search, Bellamy urgently rifled through the files until he stumbled upon Phase Four. To his dismay, the section appeared alarmingly sparse, a sharp departure from the wealth of information in the rest of the folder. He swiftly snatched the CT scan Jackson had referenced, the date stamped at the top confirming its recentness—just last week.
On the scan, Haven's aortic valve practically leaped off the page, its presence glaringly obvious. Bellamy's eyes traced the printed diagram of her heart with a sense of practiced familiarity, zeroing in on the exact location where the abnormality resided. Yet, as he meticulously compared it to the CT scan from her intake form—dated four years ago—his suspicions crystallized into certainty.
The abnormality was never there to begin with.
Bellamy could feel his heart racing now, every beat a horrific echo of the dread coursing through his veins. Something wasn't right; he could sense it, an unsettling intuition that seemed to permeate his very cells. Determined not to betray his unease, he moved across the room with practiced nonchalance, handing Jackson the CT scan with a mere nod.
Jackson held his stare–again.
"Can you fix the rest of the papers?" Jackson asked casually, though there was a subtle tremor in his hand as he accepted the scan. "I didn't get a chance to reshuffle them today. I like to keep everything organized, you know, just in case we need to hide things."
Terror gripped the air as the men exchanged a stare charged with fear. It became painfully evident that it wasn't just Bellamy feeling on edge; Jackson was too. And though Bellamy couldn't pinpoint why, the urgent gleam in Jackson's eye made his gut twist.
He wanted Bellamy to keep searching.
With a silent nod to Jackson, Bellamy retreated to the far end of the operating room, his movements purposeful yet discreet. As soon as he concealed himself behind the filing cabinet door, he resumed rifling through the file, every one of his nerve endings fraught with worry. Whatever Jackson wanted him to unearth, Bellamy knew time was of the essence. He needed to find it—fast.
Eventually, his wild eyes landed upon another CT scan, its crumpled edges protruding from the section of Phase Two documents. Bellamy hastily identified the abnormality once more, recognizing that the scan was taken merely a week after the one in Phase One—coinciding with the day of the exploratory surgery. At first glance, it seemed inconspicuous, but his heart plunged as he noticed the note scrawled across the bottom.
"Abnormal valve successfully created. See Phase Three for next steps."
Created?
"Alright, Haven," Abby's voice was soft, her touch gentle as she meticulously administered a dose of sedative through the IV line. "I'm going to push your anesthesia through now, okay?"
Haven blew out an elongated breath, all too familiar with the process of being numbed into unconsciousness. "Got it, doc," she murmured, her hand lifting in a casual salute to Abby before her gaze shifted to Bellamy. Locking eyes with him, she smiled, followed by a reassuring wave. "See ya on the other side!"
Hardly seeing, hardly breathing–Bellamy met her smile with a timid one of his own, oblivious to the furrow in her brow as he turned away.
Under any other circumstance, he would have clasped Haven's hand tightly as she descended into the depths of sedation. But now, he was running out of time. Faster than ever, the Blake boy frantically tore through the remaining papers in the file, his fingers trembling as they landed upon the heaviest portion yet.
Phase Three.
The documents sprawled out before him, a formidable stack of at least twenty pages thick, bound together by parallel staples, straining against the confines of their binding. Never before had he encountered these files; their bulkiness alone would have been memorable, yet they remained a foreign entity in his grasp. With each line he perused, grappling with the revelations unfolding before him, the world around him seemed to blur into insignificance. Time itself became a mere whisper as comprehension dawned. Although Bellamy couldn't pinpoint the exact moment his heart seemed to falter, he could feel the way it shattered.
Pages upon pages of treacherous deceit tainted his fingertips, leaving them tingling with a numbness that mirrored the cold realization fossilizing in his chest. Within the labyrinth of Phase Three, a web of research and biological studies unfolded. But the documents had nothing to do with Haven's stenosis–and everything to do with her blood type.
No. No. No.
Bellamy had to forcibly blink against his double vision as he flipped back to Phase Four. With a leaden tongue, he sought out the final page, his fingers tracing the edges with a desperation born of sheer terror, clinging to the faint hope of dispelling his worst fear.
"Extractive research successful. Blood type proven to withstand chemical radiation. Patient will undergo final surgery to destroy valve. Harvest organs and blood following completion."
His blood ran cold.
All at once, the room seemed to constrict, suffocating Bellamy as if every molecule of oxygen had been sucked away. In that vacuum of air, there was no room for thought, no opportunity to draw a breath—not beneath the oppressive burden of betrayal clutched in his shaking palms. With each damning piece of information, the puzzle of deceit clicked into place, its jagged edges tearing at the fabric of his reality and plunging him into darkness.
Haven was never sick to begin with—not until Abby forced her to be.
She simply had anxiety.
Beneath the facade of protection, Abby had cunningly exploited Haven's trust. It was clear that the doctor had recognized her genetic condition from the moment she stepped foot into Medical, seizing the opportunity to delve deeper into her medical history. What better ploy than to convince Haven that her anxiety symptoms were actually symptoms of stenosis? And what better method for Abby to fulfill her hidden agenda than by subjecting Haven to an exploratory surgery—altering her healthy valve, physically carving out an issue that never existed? The deceitful tactic ensured Haven's continued dependence on Medical, providing Abby with an unchecked pathway to conduct her experiments without scrutiny.
The past four years had been built on a foundation of lies.
And now—Abby intended to end Haven's life beneath her own fucking blade, erasing all evidence and completing her sinister agenda once and for all.
With a swift motion, Bellamy shoved the document from Phase Four into his pocket before snapping his attention to Jackson, their eyes locking for the third time. Together, their gazes ricocheted between Haven's exposed form on the hospital bed and Abby's oblivious presence beside her, each glance a testament to the impending danger.
Bellamy couldn't breathe.
What could he do? What could he possibly do to prevent this from happening? If Jackson knew about Abby's plans and discreetly attempted to warn him, who else was in on it? Did Jaha know? Kane? Was the entire Council complicit in Abby's heinous plot? The uncertainty was eating him alive, but there was no time to wait and find out—not when Abby stood poised to harvest Haven's organs and claim her life.
Just as he parted his lips to speak, Haven began to writhe.
The Smith girl shifted uncomfortably upon the hospital bed. With her eyes clenched shut, she fought against the oncoming torment coursing through her veins, her chest heaving with every labored breath. Each inhalation tore through her with a ferocity that seemed to defy comprehension, each exhale a silent plea for mercy.
Jackson knitted his brows. "What's going on?"
"I'm not sure. The anesthesia should be working by now," Abby answered, a deep furrow etching into her forehead as she glanced at the pulsating lights of Haven's vital monitor. "Haven, dear, can you tell us what's wrong? If you can't speak–point."
Despite the searing pain that threatened to consume her, Haven refused to succumb to the urge to scream aloud. Instead, her nails dug into the mattress with a primal desperation, carving deep grooves in the fabric as if attempting to claw her way out of her own torment.
Abby raised her voice. "Haven, point!"
Again–Haven refused.
"Jackson, push five of EPI through her IV," Abby ordered, swiftly inspecting Haven's airways with a flashlight before stashing the tool in her pocket. "It should alleviate the pain and knock her out."
Jackson remained rooted in place. "I...I can't Abby," he confessed, masking the tremor in his tone with a sharp clearing of his throat. Meeting Abby's sidelong glare, he nodded toward the IV bag dangling above them. "There's an air bubble in her line. Administering more medication could pose a greater risk of harm."
Panicked, Bellamy's gaze flashed towards the IV bag, his earlier fear confirmed. The sight of the air bubble stirred a familiar dread within him, knowing the grave risk it posed of causing an air embolism. Though every instinct screamed for him to take immediate action, to rip the IV needle from Haven's arm and eliminate the danger, the knowing gleam in Jackson's eye gave him pause, urging him to hold back–to trust him.
"That isn't possible," Abby hissed, "I checked–twice."
Jackson merely shook his head, staring at the mentor before him as though she were a complete stranger. "Maybe you missed it."
Or maybe, he did it.
It suddenly dawned on Bellamy that Jackson was actively working against Abby's scheme. He deduced that Jackson must have been the one to tamper with the files in Haven's folder, strategically arranging them in a manner designed to catch Bellamy's eye. And as the air bubble shimmered in the IV line once more, casting an ominous glow under the sterile lights, Bellamy's realization crystallized.
Jackson's actions weren't aimed at harming Haven; they were a calculated maneuver to delay the inevitable.
"There's no time for this. We'll inject morphine directly." Abby decisively reached for a syringe amidst the assembly of tools she had sterilized. With a swift motion, she pierced the needle into a vial of medication, drawing out its potent contents before whirling back to Haven's bedside. "Haven, try to take a deep breath, okay? I'm injecting on three," she instructed, "One, two—"
Before Abby could reach the count of three, she jammed the needle into Haven's chest, expertly administering the medication as Haven began to shriek.
Horror spiraled within the Blake boy's eyes as he witnessed the harrowing scene unfold before him, prompting him to take a cautious step back from the filing cabinet, his fists tightening with instinctual dread. Agonized, he observed Haven's pained screams echo across the white walls, acutely aware of the resolve hardening within him.
As Abby withdrew the needle, a heavy silence descended upon the room, broken only by the echo of Haven's fading cries. Every occupant held their breath, bodies taut with anticipation, straining to detect any hint of relief in Haven's tortured form.
"It doesn't hurt!" Haven sputtered, her words barely audible amidst her ragged breaths. Tears streaked down her cheeks unchecked. "It doesn't hurt anymore, I promise. I...I...."
Anesthesia claimed her in seconds.
Satisfied enough, Abby released a drawn out breath. "Alright," she murmured, her voice muffled by her surgical mask as she adjusted it in place and fine-tuned the lenses on her nose. "Let's finish what we've started."
At that, Bellamy's blood ignited.
No longer was he held hostage by his own disbelief. No longer could he afford to second-guess his next actions. The resolve that had solidified within him was more than just a fleeting thought; it was an unyielding force, demanding to be felt, pulsating with raw intensity. He knew he had to act, to confront Abby and dismantle her monstrous scheme before it devoured everything he held dear. Consequences be damned. Risks be damned. Even his own life be damned. For Haven's sake, he'd give his all, defying all who dared to oppose him with a fervor that burned brighter than the sun itself.
Perhaps the past four years had been shrouded in a web of deceit and betrayal, but the way his heart soared for her was irrevocably real. The way he waited day after to day just to catch a glimpse of her presence, to drown in the brilliance of her smile, to lose himself in the warmth of her everlasting light. It was a truth untouched by the shadows of falsehood; a force that transcended the chaos of their wretched surroundings.
It was real; all of it.
Unsuspectingly, Abby's hand reached for her scalpel, poised to execute the final phase of her vendetta.
Jackson glanced to Bellamy.
Then, Bellamy reached for his gun.
Swift as a shadow, he surged towards the heart of the operating room, his steps soundless and precise. As he closed the distance, the metal barrel of his weapon found its mark, pressing firmly against Abby's temple.
The doctor froze.
All at once, Abby's grip on the scalpel loosened, the metallic clang of its descent echoing in the tense silence of the chamber. Though she raised her hands in surrender, Bellamy remained unmoved–not after everything she had done. As her trembling hands rose in a futile attempt at peace, he applied more pressure with the gun barrel, his unspoken threat looming heavily in the air between them.
"Bellamy..." she breathed, "Put the gun down."
"I'll put it down when you tell me what the hell is going on here," Bellamy spat, each syllable a searing brand of betrayal. "I've seen your agenda, Abby. All four phases of it."
Abby swallowed dryly. "There's been a clear misunderstanding here," she began, careful not to make any sudden movements. "Whatever you've seen...you're wrong. I can't–I don't expect you to understand Medical terminology, Bellamy. You're just a guard." Slowly, she lowered her surgical mask and lenses, unveiling the raw terror reflected in her wide eyes. "Let's just handle this like adults. Can we do that?"
"I don't need to understand Medical terminology when it's in your handwriting." Bellamy scoffed, utilizing his free hand to retrieve the crumpled up paper he stashed in his pocket. "Extractive Research successful. Blood type proven to withstand chemical radiation. Patient will undergo final surgery to destroy valve for good." He paused to tighten the grip on his gun. "Harvest organs and blood type following completion."
Abby paled.
But Bellamy showed no mercy. "You...you did this to her," he whispered menacingly, daring her to refute the damning evidence before him. "Haven never had stenosis to begin with. You gave it to her."
"Bellamy..."
"You cut into her heart, destroyed her valve, then spent the past four years experimenting on the one thing you promised she could trust you with." Bellamy's eyes were smoldering pits of hellfire. "And now that you've got what you're looking for–you want to kill her."
Pathetically, Abby scrambled to defend herself. "This isn't what it looks like," she treaded, dismissing the instinct to shake her head due to the proximity of the gun. "I've been studying her blood type for the greater good–for all of us." The admission cleaved through the air with lethal confirmation. "There's a lot you don't know, Bellamy. Allow me to explain–"
"Fuck your explanation," Bellamy hissed, his grip on the gun tightening with a ferocity that threatened to crush it. "If this was truly for the greater good–you could've given her a choice in the matter. It's her body, Abby. HERS!" As he glanced towards Haven's unconscious form, his heart splintered into a thousand shards of anguish, knuckles strained and bloodless with the force of his rage. "You...you violated her."
Abby's lips curled into a scorn. "I protected her."
"You mutilated her!" Bellamy's words reverberated across the room like a death knell. "And now, you're gonna fix her."
"I–"
Suddenly, the vital machine beside them wailed into life, a cacophony of flashing lights and blaring alarms shrieking with noise. All heads snapped towards the source of the commotion, only to witness Haven's heart monitor skyrocketing, each blip on the screen a stark reminder of the perilous edge that she teetered upon.
Could she hear them?
Bellamy wrestled with the question, uncertain of the answer, yet secretly praying that she could. He didn't want to hurt Abby, but the weight of necessity pressed upon him like a leaden burden. One twitch of his finger, one irreversible act, would alter the course of their destinies forever. Amidst the chaos and carnage, he clung to a fragile hope—that even in the midst of despair, even in the face of betrayal, Haven would find it in her heart to understand. With every fiber of his being, he pleaded for her mercy, for the divine grace to forgive him for the unspeakable sin he was about to commit.
Because as Abby stood motionless, a statue of guilt amidst the turmoil–Bellamy thumbed off the safety of his gun.
His words were laced with deadly resolve.
"Fix her!" he demanded, "Fix her, or I'll fucking kill you."
Sweat festered at the start of Abby's hairline, its path tracing down her temple and mingling with the cold metal of the gun against her skin. Each breath she took felt heavy, measured, as if the very air around her held its breath in anticipation. There was no room for doubt, no time to question the certainty of Bellamy's threat; the raw fury in his voice and the tears burdening his eyes whilst glancing towards Haven was confirmation enough.
He meant it.
"I'll do it." Abby nodded, acutely aware of the gun's presence all over again. "I'll do it. I can repair the valve back to its original state–but there's one condition." As Bellamy gritted his teeth in response, Abby rushed to convey her plea. "You can't tell the Council."
The Blake boy's hand twitched, wrestling with the impulse to put a hole in her skull right there, right then. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't make them float you."
"You want to keep your sister alive?"
Bellamy stiffened.
"That's what I thought." Abby's words were effortlessly cold, lethally threatening. "We all have secrets we hide for the greater good."
If it were even possible at that point–Bellamy's wrath multiplied by thousands, its intensity reaching an impossible zenith. Never before had he known he was capable of such extremes. Violence was anathema to him, the mere thought of brutality repulsive, and the specter of bloodshed a mark he swore never to bear. Yet in that fiery crucible, one truth burned brighter than all else: his unyielding commitment to protect his loved ones, to mete out justice, by any means necessary.
For Bellamy, there was no turning back, no retreat from the dark path he had chosen–to protect, to defend, to fight with every fiber of his being, until the very end.
"One wrong move, and you're dead," Bellamy declared, leveling Abby with a glare that could freeze fire itself. Then, he pivoted towards her assistant. "Jackson will tell me if you try to pull a fast one. Isn't that right?"
Unflinchingly, Jackson nodded.
"Good." Bellamy set his jaw. "Get to work."
• •
........HI
HOLY HELL. 8k words!!! I demand that you tell me your thoughts NOOOOOWWW!!! my heart was literally beating out of my chest writing the second half of this😭 the truth has finally been revealed! abby.....
GIRL YOU ARE VIIILLEEEEE!!! literally i fucking hate her so bad!! and honestly, given her character arc in the show...i don't put this past her at all. if you still have more questions, please ask and i'll answer if i can without spoiling! next chapter should wrap everything up with a neat little bow ✨
yall are NOT ready AT ALLLLLLLLLL likeee im kicking my feet
also...who caught onto the words bellamy was repeating during his hallucination back in the day trip chapter🫣🤭
I LOOOOOOOVEEE YOUUUUU!! SO FREAKIN MUCH! 💕💕💕💕💕💕