The Hunt

 joined Bellamy and Murphy near the edge of camp.

They both looked at me, questioning.

"You'll get the story on the way," I said, grabbing my spear.

Then louder: "Hunters—move!"

Four stepped forward: Atom, Pernille, Octavia, and Bill.

"Good. We'll go with Clarke, Finn, and Jasper," I told them. "But we stick close to Bellamy and Murphy."

They nodded. I lowered my voice.

"Our real job is to get Clarke's bracelet."

They exchanged quick smiles.

"Let's move."

Bellamy met us halfway. "Hunters ready?"

"Always," I said, and gave him a grin.

He nodded and walked off to talk with Clarke.

When she returned, she tried to sound like a leader. "Alright. Let's go."

I couldn't help it—I laughed under my breath.

Murphy did too.

We moved into the forest, and soon he and I had fallen behind the others.

He glanced at me. "You gonna tell me what that was back there?"

I exhaled slowly. "When I was nine, I had a mother, a father... and a best friend."

His expression softened, but he didn't speak.

"My mother was a healer. She worked with Abby Griffin. My father was a guard—loyal, respected. But they knew something they weren't supposed to know. A system failure on the Ark. Jake Griffin found it, wanted to tell everyone. Abby wanted to tell Jaha. My mother found out."

I stopped walking, staring at the ground. "I came into the room and saw Abby with a knife."

My throat tightened.

"She stabbed my mother. Right in the heart. I tried to stop the bleeding, but... she was still alive when Abby dropped the knife and ran. The knife was mine—my father gave it to me for my eighth birthday."

Murphy's eyes widened, but I kept going. "When Kane arrived, all the evidence pointed to me. Clarke said she saw me—said she saw me arguing with my mom. They believed her. I was nine."

He froze. "You were convicted of killing your own mother?"

I nodded once. "My father believed me. He tried to talk to Jake Griffin, but they were being monitored. They floated him with Jake soon after."

We walked in silence for a few steps before he reached out and took my hand.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

I nodded. "Thanks... and same to you."

He frowned. "You know?"

"I know your father was floated for stealing pills for you. And that your mother drank herself to death and blamed you."

His jaw tightened. "Where did you hear that?"

"Eight years in a cell," I said softly. "You learn things. It's all the same—the privileged ones pulling the strings while the rest of us pay the price."

He looked at me for a long moment, then smiled faintly. "Thanks for telling me."

"Thanks for listening," I replied, and we walked on together through the trees