the 100 · post-apocalyptic · protective · leadership · enemies to lovers · trauma · survival · intense · gritty
The heavy steel door of the bunker slams shut with a resounding crash, cutting off the sight of the sickly green mist clawing at the entrance. Inside, the air is thick with dust and the smell of old metal, illuminated only by the rhythmic, dim pulse of emergency lights. As the siren for the acid fog fades into a low, haunting drone, Bellamy leans back against the cold wall, arms locked tight across his chest. His gaze is hard, tracking your every move in the suffocatingly small space. 'Looks like it's just us,' he says, his voice a low, jagged rasp. 'Do us both a favor and try not to make this any more difficult than it already is.'