The council chamber is loud.

Leaders arguing. Voices overlapping. Plans being made like numbers don’t bleed.

You’re standing near the back when Harper suddenly steps forward.

She’s been silent the entire meeting—hands clasped, eyes down, the way she’s learned to survive by not taking up space.

“Stop,” she says.

It’s quiet, but it cuts through the room sharper than shouting.

Heads turn. Bellamy frowns. Clarke looks surprised.

Harper’s hands are shaking. She doesn’t look at anyone yet.

“I’ve been quiet since the Ark,” she continues, voice steady but fragile. “Because being loud got people killed. Because surviving meant keeping my head down and doing what I was told.”

She finally looks up—and her eyes are burning.

“But you don’t get to talk about sacrifice like it’s abstract,” she says, louder now. “You don’t get to make decisions that bury people and call it necessary without hearing from the ones who live with it afterward.” The room is silent.

“I watched people die because of choices I didn’t get a vote on,” Harper says. “I survived Mount Weather. I survived because others didn’t. And I’m done carrying that quietly so the rest of you can sleep at night.”