THE FREE FALL ⇘ Bellamy Blake. [1]

| liii. MIRROR MIRROR

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CHAPTER FIFTY THREE;

MIRROR MIRROR.

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HAVEN WASN'T AFRAID TO DISAPPEAR. After her first miraculous escape from the jaws of death, each high-wire act over mortality's chasm seemed less formidable, more familiar. She had gazed so deeply into the vacant sockets of death that she discerned the glint of amusement lurking there. Death would not claim her—not yet. It delighted too greatly in the pursuit, relishing each moment of the chase, each dramatic escape. Death wasn't a terror—it was a lover with cold hands, a predator stalking in the shadows, amused by her defiance, addicted to her resistance.

It craved her, obsessed with the hunt, savoring the moments when it could almost taste her surrender.

        . . . It needed her.

        Who else would dare walk so close to the void and yet refuse to fall? Who else could tease the jaws of eternity, only to wrench herself back, again and again, laughing in its face?

        Death toyed with Haven not because she was weak, but because she thrived in its presence. She was its preferred plaything—too slippery to seize completely, yet too intriguing to forsake. Each escape was a victory, each near miss a dance with the inevitable that left her stronger, colder, more untouchable. And the closer its presence began to shadow every single encounter on Earth, it began to feel like an old, haunting melody—darkly welcoming, intimately familiar.

And still . . . she resisted.

Who else could endure such a relentless pursuit by destiny, feel the call of the void, and still find the strength to defy its seductive pull?

Nobody.

Remarkably, as Haven grew more attuned to skirting the edges of death, it was the common, everyday anxieties that began to gnaw at her. Heights, spiders, the claustrophobic clench of narrow spaces, and the dizzying contemplation of her own existential dread—these seemingly trivial fears seeped into her psyche more deeply than any mortal peril. While she could stare down death with a smirk, challenge it with a sneer, these mundane terrors crept under her skin, unsettling her with their persistent whispers.

But even these paled before the terror that consumed her entirely.

Losing her friends. Her family.

She could not—would not—live without them.

And Bellamy, god . . . Bellamy.

        Haven knew exactly how the Blake boy navigated the world. He carried himself with the ironclad belief of his own invincibility—that no weapon forged by the Grounders could claim his life, that he was somehow elevated beyond the reach of death. He lived not for himself, but for those who leaned on him, those who saw him as their pillar. In his view, surrender was a concept alien to his nature; his resilience was as much a part of him as his very breath. In the universe's grand design, nothing seemed capable of breaking his spirit or halting his indefatigable drive.