THE FREE FALL ⇘ Bellamy Blake. [1]

| xliii. POUND THE ALARM

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CHAPTER FOURTY THREE;

POUND THE ALARM.

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        "BUG, COME HERE."

        THE MOUNTAIN'S LIBRARY WAS AS SILENT AS A FUNERAL HALL—a stark and solemn contrast to the warm, pulsing heart of Factory's. Factory's library was a cozy warren where the shelves leaned close, sharing secrets, their narrow gaps a snug refuge often sought by Haven as a young girl. Yet here, amid the mountain's lofty scriptorium, the air was vast and cold, an endless cathedral of books where the soul could wander, dwarfed by towering shelves that stretched endlessly above. It was easy to feel insignificant here, and even easier to lose yourself amidst the literature—literally.

Haven had no clue where she was going.

        Yet, as she meandered through the labyrinthine aisles, the Smith girl chastised herself for not recognizing the signs sooner . . . her mother had been here from the moment Cage had ushered her through these doors. Dahlia's delicate hand was evident in every corner: bookends adorned with quaint figurines instead of the usual stark metal blocks, children's tales arranged in a kaleidoscope of colors rather than confined by genre. Despite these whimsical touches, the order was impeccable—not a single speck of dust marred the polished wood, nor did any book stray from its assigned nook.

It was perfect.

Yet, even its timeless perfection wasn't enough to distract Haven from the gravity of their dire circumstances—or the singular, overriding mission that surpassed all else.

. . . Getting the fuck out.

Haven had dismissed her mother's previous advice, choosing not to inform President Dante about her decision to volunteer at the library. Instead, she simply allowed Maya to escort her here. It wasn't as if Haven was on their payroll—so why the hell did Dante need to know her every move? The Mountain's staff obsessively tracked the teenagers' movements enough already, even maintaining spreadsheets that recorded mundane details like shower schedules. If the fourty-eight survivors were truly guests . . . why were they under such relentless surveillance?

"You really seem to dissociate a lot."

Haven blinked.

Before her, Dahlia stood as a pillar of quiet authority, her posture impatient as ever. One hand anchored itself on her hip, while the other offered a weathered novel towards Haven, gripping its spine expectantly. Her lips were not twisted into her usual frown, but pressed into a firm, contemplative line.