The hull groans. Rivets pop along the seam. Smoke pours from a panel near the front, acrid and chemical. Through the porthole, the sky shifts from black to orange to blue so fast it makes my stomach lurch.

Earth.

We're really falling.

I can't process that. Can't process him. Can't process anything except the way his thumb strokes across my knuckles like we're not about to die.

The ground rushes up.

Impact.

Something in my spine cracks. My teeth snap together hard enough to taste copper. The harness digs into my shoulders, and for a long, terrible moment, there's nothing but noise — metal grinding against rock, people screaming, Bellamy's hand crushing mine.

Then silence.

Then a girl's voice, broken and shaking: