THE FREE FALL ⇘ Bellamy Blake. [1]

| xlix. FINN FUCKING COLLINS

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CHAPTER FOURTY NINE;

FINN FUCKING COLLINS.

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REACHING THE CUSP OF LINCOLN'S VILLAGE FELT LIKE INTRUDING UPON A GHOST TOWN. The late morning sun pierced through the dense canopy overhead, scattering fleeting beams that flickered across an ancient, moss-enshrouded stone monument at the heart of the clearing. Surrounding this relic, rusted barriers of scrap metal and jagged stones formed a grim perimeter. These makeshift walls stood as ambiguous guardians at the village's main entrance—blurring the line between keeping outsiders at bay and imprisoning unseen specters within.

        It was hauntingly vacant.

        At least . . . from the outside.

        Haven was well-versed in the customs of the Grounders, who often demarcated their territories with the grim trophies of fallen enemies. Yet, startlingly, the fortress-like entrance stood unguarded, devoid of the usual gruesome markers. Equally unsettling was the calm that had accompanied their morning journey to this point. No warriors concealed among the high branches, no hidden threats of spears or poisoned arrows breaking the stillness. It was as though this section of the woodland had been left deliberately defenseless, a notion that defied all logic.

        Grounders were known for their preemptive strikes and their aggressive territorial claims. But now, as if swallowed by the forest itself, they had seemingly just . . . vanished.

        Weird.

        Despite the unsettling quiet that sunk her gut with dread, Haven found an unexpected solace in their trek through the wilderness. Freed from the oppressive confines of Mount Weather's bunker, the vast sky above felt like an expansive canvas of liberation. Breathing the untamed air filled her lungs with a primal vitality, starkly juxtaposed against the suffocating artificiality she had left behind. Walking shoulder to shoulder with Bellamy and the girls, she felt an indomitable strength coursing through her veins—as if she were exactly where she belonged.

        Haven always felt safest with them.

        . . . Bellamy did, too.

        Raised alongside Octavia, Bellamy had always naturally steered towards the girls of the camp—his actions possibly a reflection of those early, formative bonds. Yet, Haven often wondered whether it was Octavia's influence that sculpted this facet of his being, or if this affinity was an innate part of who he was. With the girls, Bellamy moved with a fluidity that conveyed deep trust, a vivid contrast to his more guarded demeanor with his group of Gunners.