#newttlibtw

The Glade 𑣲 Chapter One 𑣲 Chapter Two 𑣲 Chapter Three 𑣲 Chapter Four 𑣲 Chapter Five 𑣲 Chapter Six 𑣲 Chapter Seven 𑣲 Hide & Seek 𑣲 Chapter Eight 𑣲 Chapter Nine

The Maze 𑣲 Chapter Ten 𑣲 Chapter Eleven 𑣲 Chapter Twelve 𑣲 Chapter Thirteen 𑣲 Chapter Fourteen 𑣲 Chapter Fifteen 𑣲 Chapter Sixteen 𑣲 Chapter Seventeen 𑣲 Chapter Eighteen

The Facility 𑣲 Chapter Nineteen 𑣲 Out Of Your Mouth 𑣲 Chapter Twenty 𑣲 Chapter Twenty-One

The Scorch 𑣲 Chapter Twenty-Two 𑣲 Chapter Twenty-Three 𑣲 Chapter Twenty-Four 𑣲 Chapter Twenty-Five 𑣲 TBN

The Right Arm 𑣲 Chapter Twenty-Six 𑣲 Chapter Twenty-Seven 𑣲 Chapter Twenty-Eight 𑣲 Chapter Twenty-Nine 𑣲 Chapter Thirty 𑣲 Chapter Thirty-One

The Rescue 𑣲 Chapter Thirty-Two 𑣲 Chapter Thirty-Three 𑣲 Chapter Thirty-Four 𑣲 Chapter Thirty-Five 𑣲 Chapter Thirty-Six 𑣲 Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Safe Haven 𑣲 Chapter Thirty-Eight 𑣲 Dear Chuck Optional Safe Haven Chapters 𑣲 Chapter Thirty-Nine 𑣲 Chapter Forty 𑣲 Chapter Forty-One

𑣲 The Archive

Everything about the room feels intentionally designed: The metal table bolted to the floor, the two chairs positioned perfectly across from one another, and the blinding overhead light that bleaches everything it touches.

You sit stiffly in one of the chairs, brace locked around your knee, and hands folded in your lap, because where else are you supposed to put them?

You can't really remember being brought here. One moment, you're half asleep, staring at ceiling tiles while trying not to think about anything at all. The next, you're here, beneath this awful light.

"My name is Dr. Dallas." The woman across from you offers a practiced smile. She looks somewhere in her thirties, black hair pulled back without a strand out of place. Her clothes are void of wrinkles and the red of her lipstick is too vivid for her skin.

"Okay."

Dr. Dallas doesn't react to the lack of enthusiasm. If it bothers her, she's trained herself not to show it. She lifts her chin slightly instead, fingers gliding across the surface of the transparent tablet balanced in her hands.

"I'm one of the coordinators here." She says. "I oversee intake and adjustment for our new arrivals." Adjustment. Like you're an animal being transferred to a new enclosure. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's alright."

"Sure." You shrug one shoulder.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Fine."

"Any pain? Physically?"

"No."

"Not in your knee?"

Your gaze drops downward.

The brace is bulky. Ugly. The straps are cinched so tightly around your leg that they bite into the fabric beneath. You can feel an ache buried deep in the joint if you focus hard enough: Bruised bone, mangled muscle, and healing tissue that feels like a faraway pain belonging to someone else.

"No."

"I see." Dr. Dallas purses her lips. "Well, you seem like a smart young woman, so I'll cut right to the chase." She sets the tablet down between you and folds her hands neatly on the table. "The medical team flagged some concerns about your adjustment."

"Okay."

"Over the past few days, they've noted low appetite, social withdrawal from your intake group, limited engagement with the—" Her voice dissolves into background noise.

This is pointless.

You already know the shape of the conversation she's trying to build toward, carefully circling around it like she's afraid saying it outright would spook you. Every sentence lays out the groundwork for a real question.

Are you unstable?

Are you dangerous?

Are you going to hurt yourself?

They're worried because they don't understand you. Nobody does anymore. None of them can recognize the difference between wanting to die and simply not caring to live.

"I'm not going to kill myself."

Dr. Dallas flinches.

"I wasn't accusing you of such a thing." She says evenly as her expression smooths back into place. "I'm here as a resource. Someone you can talk to."

"I know."

"I'm sure you do." She sighs softly, saying your name as if trying to make it sound gentler than you've ever heard it. "I heard about an incident yesterday evening. Would that be something you're willing to talk about?"

"Incident?"

"You knocked a food tray out of a boy's hand." Her fingers tap lightly against the tablet screen as she scrolls through notes. "You're from the same maze. Minho, if I'm not mistaken."

"Oh."

Your eyes drift away from her.

The memory is vivid: The irritating cafeteria lights, Minho standing across from you with that frustrated look on his face, and the tray he held as an offering to the wounded, stray animal you've become.

'Eat something.' He always says. 'Come on. Don't be a stubborn Slinthead.' He's been doing that for days now: Sliding food you don't want toward you during meals.

"Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Strike the tray."

"Oh." You blink. "He wouldn't stop."

"He's been attempting to coax you into eating, yes?"

"Yeah."

"And that upset you?"

"He's pushy." The answer comes out sharp.

It's ironic, really. Back in the Maze, people used to call you pushy too. Too loud. Too stubborn. Too opinionated. Too unpredictable. You used to wear those accusations with pride. Now, you finally understand how exhausting it is to have someone constantly pressing.

"Pushy is one word for it," Dr. Dallas says, leaning forward in attempt to catch your eyes. "But from what I've observed, he seems concerned about you."

"Good for him." The bitterness rises so quickly, it surprises you. Dr. Dallas lets it dissolve into agonizing silence. Possibly intentionally. Possibly thinking you'll eventually fill it.

You don't. Instead, you stare at the table while she reaches for her tablet again. The brittle tap of her manicured nails against glass echoes in the tiny room.

"I've also reviewed your intake interview."

"My what?"

"The questions you were asked upon arrival."

You frown.

The first few days you were here feel smeared together in your memory, muddled with bright lights, needles, and too many hands grabbing at your knee.

"I don't remember."

"That's alright." Her tone stays easy. "You were quite exhausted at the time. We can go over it now." Her eyes flick briefly to her screen as she scrolls. "Why don't you tell me a little about your maze?"

Your mind immediately betrays you.

Chuck flashes across your thoughts first. It's not even a full memory. Just pieces of him. His silly grin, the way he talked with him mouth full, and the sound of his giggles when you snuck out in the middle of kitchen duty.

You shove the memories down so hard, it hurts.

Another memory surfaces to replace it: Your first run into the Maze, and that dreadful encounter with a Griever. Even now, thinking about them makes your skin crawl.

All twisted machinery and wet flesh fused together with clicking needles and rotating blades slick in old blood. Their bodies moved in unnatural, jerking spasms that are enough to make your stomach turn.

They're monsters designed by people, and yet, part of you thinks it would've been easier if one of them got to you. If they'd torn you to shreds beneath those stone walls instead of leaving you here under fluorescent lights to answer questions from strangers who pretend to care.

"...It was a maze." You mutter finally. Dr. Dallas waits. "There was stuff trying to kill us." Your tone sharpens, irritation prickling beneath your tongue.

What kind of question is that? 'Tell me a little about your maze'. As if there's a good way to explain the terror to someone who only knows of it from a clipboard.

"Yes. So I've heard." She nods thoughtfully. "I understand that you were the only girl in your maze for quite some time. Is that correct?"

"Yeah."

"And how did that make you feel?"

You shrug, fingers finding a loose thread near the cuff of your sleeve, twisting it tighter and tighter around your fingertip until it nearly cuts the circulation off.

"I don't know. Didn't feel anything."

"Nothing at all?"

"No."

A lie.

God, you hated it, not because you were lonely, but because they looked at you so differently. They underestimated you immediately. Some resented you for existing at all.

You still remember Adam's careless taunts, and the humiliation that perpetually burned so hot in your chest, it might as well have split through your ribs.

You fought to become ferocious in a way that was impossible to ignore. Someone Thomas trusted without hesitation, and Chuck admired as a sister.

Where did she go?

Where is that girl now?

It's pathetic what you've become.

"I also had the chance to review some of the others' interviews." Dr. Dallas continues after a moment. "You were a common topic of conversation."

A few weeks ago, you would've leaned forward, hungry for detail. Who said what? In what tone? Are they impressed? Amused? You would've picked apart every sentence.

Now, the thought barely stirs anything inside you, because there was only one opinion that was every truly worth something to you, and now it's gone.

He's gone.

"Okay."

"Would you like to know what they said?"

Your eyes narrow. Not at the question, but at the strategy behind it. She's building the conversation, nudging carefully at weak spots to see which ones hurt when pressed.

This irritates you more than outright cruelty would've. She's trying to make you feel safe. To coax you into opening up willingly. Maybe it works on some people. Maybe some hear soft voices and spill themselves like overturned drawers.

All you can think about is how clinical this place is. How, inside that tablet, your grief is being translated into bullet points. What category will they put you under once they're done emotionally dissecting you?

She is no different from anyone else who's wronged you.

"Sure." You say finally. "I guess." Dr. Dallas nods once, like she expected that answer.

"Well, Thomas speaks very highly of you. He described you as brave and reliable. Someone who doesn't hesitate." She begins. "Frypan mentioned you became very useful in the kitchen. He seems fond of you."

This catches you off guard. Frypan hadn't liked you in the beginning. He often snapped at you in the first couple weeks. Granted, you purposely made his day harder.

You can't pinpoint the exact moment it changed, and maybe there wasn't one. Somewhere along the line, arguments became teasing. Hatred became friendship. Trust built so slowly, you only notice it once it's already there.

"Nice." You say quietly.

Dr. Dallas searches for something bigger. When nothing comes, her mouth tightens. She picks up the tablet again, and types something short.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

You hate that sound.

"Minho noted that you have potential." She says, placing the tablet back down. You try not to visualize his worried expression yesterday after you'd knocked the tray from his hands. "Said you push yourself harder than most would dare."

"Sounds right."

"And Newt is particularly defensive about you."

Your chest pulls unexpectedly. You chew lightly on the inside of your cheek, unsure of how to absorb that information. 'Defensive' doesn't sound right.

You fight constantly. The only thing of note between you is friction. You push against his authority, and he pushes back harder, because he's got nothing better to do than ruin your life. Half the time, it feels like you have to bleed for a scrap of approval from his.

"He's not."

"That wasn't the impression I got." Dr. Dallas leans into a silent stalemate that neither of you intends to lose. Her nails tap against the tabletop. "...I've also heard mention of someone named Chuck."

Everything inside you goes rigid.

Your first instinct isn't sadness.

It's anger.

How dare they. How dare they sit in rooms like this and say his name to strangers. How dare they hand pieces of him over to people who never knew him.

You're suddenly furious at all of them. Chuck is the last thing in this world that still belongs to you. They have no right to explain him. Not to her. Not to anyone.

"Heard." You repeat, flat. "Heard from who?" Your tone is slicing, and Dr. Dallas' eyebrows raise. Finally, she's dragged a reaction out of your hollow bones.

"He came up in multiple interviews. They described him as your—"

"I don't want to talk about this." The words spew out like vomit. You fold your arms tightly across yourself, fingernails impaling into your sleeves hard enough to burn.

Who gives a shit what they described him as? You know what he was. None of their words could ever be enough to capture his essence anyway.

He was best friend.

He was the first person to believe in you.

He was your brother.

Your brother.

"I know this is very hard, but it's important to have difficult conversations in order to move on." Dr. Dallas says carefully. You don't want to 'move on'. "I'm trying to understand what—"

"You don't need to understand anything." Your voice cracks through the room like a whip. "You weren't there."

"I know I wasn't."

"Then don't act like you were." You grind your teeth together painfully, the words barely escaping through the grit. "Don't try to insert yourself into something you know nothing about."

Calmly, Dr. Dallas leans back in her chair.

"...You cared deeply for him."

The silence that follows leaves room in the air for accusation. Is loving someone so much evidence of instability? Is grief itself something suspicious? Must you eternally be so monitored? So contained?

The tone of accusation is insulting. Caring about Chuck was never weakness. It was the best thing about you, and now, there's nothing good left.

She reaches for the tablet again.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

"Can you not?" The sound of her typing slices too firmly into your skull. "Can you not write this down?" You grit, gesturing rigidly toward the screen.

"Does it bother you?" She hums. Of course it bothers you. You already feel flayed open sitting in this room. Your every emotion pins you like a specimen to glass. "If Chuck were—"

"Take his name out of your mouth." Your voice raises enough to bounce off the walls. "I said I don't want to talk about this. Didn't you hear me?" You demand. "Are you deaf or stupid?"

"Well, there's no need to be aggressive." For the first time since entering the room, Dr. Dallas' voice pulls. "Lower your voice."

Lower your voice.

You've heard these words before.

You've heard it from boys who think anger looks uglier on girls. From people who decided you were unstable from the second your emotions stopped being easy to tolerate. From authority figures who prefer little gifts of smiling obedience.

Lower your voice.

Sit still.

Calm down.

Be easier.

Be smaller.

You're sick of it. You're sick of being treated like something volatile. A problem. A specimen. You survived the Maze. You survived monsters. You clawed your way out of captivity. You lost your brother in the name of escape,

Only to end up here.

Still trapped.

Still caged.

Everything in this place is offensive. Her smile. Her red lipstick. Her stupid clicking nails. The tablet. The brace around your knee. Your own body. Your grief. The pulse in your throat.

The fact that your heart still beats at all.

It shouldn't.

Chuck's doesn't.

So why should yours?

"I will not." The words rip out of your mouth before you can think. Not that you think much before you speak anyway. "I'll raise my voice if I damn well please. I'll knock trays over. I'll stop eating. I'll do whatever the hell I want."

"Excuse me?" A crease forms between Dr. Dallas' brows.

"You're excused." Your chest rises too fast, and you can hear your pulse in your ears. "I do whatever I want. I always have. Isn't that what you heard in those little interviews?"

"You're overstep your reach, young lady."

The sentence is like gasoline on a flame.

You overstep.

Overstep.

You'll show this bitch overstepping.

"Maybe you're just bitter because you can't." The venom comes too easy. "You can't do what you want. You sit in rooms like this all day and pick people apart."

"That's quite enough—"

"You're stuck in a useless job surrounded by people who don't respect you." You continue. "So you analyze somebody younger because it gives you something to do. Something that makes you feel important."

"I suggest—"

"Do you feel important?" You coo. "Because you're not. You're not important, and no amount of talking out of your ass will ever make you feel like you're enough." Your voice trembles. "You're nothing."

Look at you.

Look at the creature you've become: Biting and bleeding into your own mouth, hurting people and throwing tantrums just because you're in pain.

Chuck would hate you for this.

"Well," Dr. Dallas stands smoothly, one arm wrapping around the tablet as her chair scrapes eerily back against the floor. "I think that's enough for today."

"Wonderful."

You lean back hard against the chair. The rage has nowhere to go anymore, so it compresses inwards until it's no longer anger, but emptiness.

Dr. Dallas' heels click against the tile as she walks toward the guarded door. One step. Two. Three. Then, she pauses and turns back. Her expression is void of any softness that may have been there before.

"I understand you're wresting with a great deal right now," She says in professional rehearsal. "But I need you to understand something as well."

"Hm?" You stare back, too exhausted to be furious.

"We will not tolerate further incident. No altercations. No disruptions." Her eyes harden when they meet yours. "If you're going to be a waste of resources, do so quietly."

The sentence doesn't surprise you, but it confirms the fear you've always had: Your feelings only matter when you're useful. Grief has a deadline, and all broken things become too expensive eventually.

Nobody cares about you.

The door opens. Voices blur beyond it, but you barely hear a word. Your jaw is clenched so hard, you feel it in your ears. You chomp down on the inside of your cheek.

Pain answers pains.

By the time you're limping down the hallway, copper floods your mouth. You walk past white walls, locked doors, and people who glance away quickly.

When you pass a small trash bin near the corner, you spit. Redness streaks the inside. Bright red. You're alive. You're bleeding. You must be alive,

But you don't feel it.

"It was inside a Griever."

"These are the same letters we get on our supplies." Newt murmurs, examining the unfamiliar device in his hands. His fingers trace over the grooves: 'WICKED'.

"Yeah, well, whoever put us in here obviously made the Grievers too." You conclude, and Thomas nods.

"This is the first clue— The first anything you've found in over three years. Right Minho?"

"Right."

"Newt, we gotta get back out there." Thomas presses on. "Who knows where this might lead us?"

"You see what he's trying to do, right?" Gally snaps. "First, he breaks our rules, and then he tries to convince us to abandon them! The rules are the only thing that keep us alive! Why, now, are we questioning that?" Gally throws his hands in the air. "If Alby were here, he'd agree with me. This Shank— Both of them—" Gally's glare swings and locks onto you. "Need to be punished. I mean, come on. She's been breaking our rules since day one."

"Oh, screw you, Gally." You huff, but the room stalls.

Newt looks at you as he weighs Gally's words. You don't flinch. You meet his stare head on. You've never been afraid of him, and he knows it. He's been warning you away from the Maze and barking orders like they might eventually stick.

They never did.

They never will.

"You're right." He says at last. "They both broke the rules." Newt hands the device over to Minho, but his eyes never leave yours. "...One night in the pit, and no food."

"Oh, come on, Newt!" Gally explodes. "One night in the pit? You think that's really gonna stop those two from dashing into the Maze again?"

"No," He doesn't blink. "And we can't just have non-Runners charging into the Maze whenever they feel like it. So, let's make this official. Starting tomorrow, Thomas is a Runner."

Oh my god.

Thomas is a Runner!

For half a second, the words make sense, and a smile tugs at your lips. This feels right. Thomas deserves it. This is thrilling! This means change! This is—

Wait.

Thomas.

Only Thomas.

Thomas is a Runner. Thomas, who has only been here a handful of days. Thomas, who ran the same Maze you did. Thomas, who bled the same blood you did.

Only, he did it better apparently.

Of course.

Of course!

What did you expect?

You're you.

You're the problem. You're the one who doesn't listen. Doesn't fit. Doesn't stay where she's told to. The girl who came back from the Maze when she wasn't supposed to.

Maybe they all wish you hadn't come back at all.

Oh, you.

You are nothing.

Again.

"...Wow." You breathe, and beside you, Gally exhales the same word.

"Gally—" Frypan starts, hurrying after the brute as he storms out the hut, but you don't move. You stay. You stay and glare at Newt like you might burn a hole through him.

Newt.

Gentle, steady, fair Newt, or at least, that's who you thought he was. This is a boy you trusted. A boy you laughed with. A boy whose leg you watched break and heal while everything else around you stayed broken.

You stayed broken.

God, right now, you just want to kick that bad leg out from under him.

"You've got to be kidding me." You grit out. "Seriously Newt? In case you've forgotten, I was out there too!" Your first curl into themselves until your nails dig into your palm. "You're handing Thomas everything I've always begged you for, and I get what? A night in the pit?"

"You get off easy." His voice doesn't raise the way yours does. "That's what you get."

"Off easy?" You let out a sharp laugh. "This counts as easy? Everything I've done counts as easy? Limping back here after surviving something nobody else has even tried counts as easy?"

"That's not what I said. You know—"

"No, I know." You cut him off. "You've been waiting for this, haven't you? For proof that I don't belong out there? So you can shove me back into 'my place'? My place, which is what, exactly? Cooking? Carrying water? Sitting pretty while all the boys decide what matters?"

"That's not fair."

"You're not fair!"

"You broke the rules." He says. "Over and over, and I did nothing, did I? I was patient, but you don't listen. You don't wait. All you do is run into danger. You're reckless."

"Thomas isn't?" You demand. "He ran into the Maze on what was practically his first day! He didn't know this place as well as I do, but you're calling him worthy?"

"Newt," Thomas steps forward. "Why can't she be a Runner too? I saw her, first hand, out there. She's smart. She's quick. I couldn't have done it without her."

"It's dangerous, and at the end of the day, she's proven my point." Newt says, gesturing to your knee. "She's injured."

"No, I proved you wrong." You insist. "I got hurt, yeah, and I still came back. I didn't whine. I didn't give up. I didn't need someone to drag me out. I survived."

"You won't survive forever."

"Neither will Thomas! Neither will any of us! That's what I've been trying to say since I got here!" You yell. "That's the whole point of the Maze! None of us are safe. This isn't home. Why do you treat me different from everyone else?"

"You are different! You make it so hard to protect you!" Newt shouts. "You will not be a Runner. You will never be a Runner. You are not meant for this."

Ouch.

Does he truly believe that? The way he's looking at you now, it seems he does. He believes it, down to his bones, that you don't have what it takes.

But you proved him wrong! You came back—

With a shattered kneecap.

You came back not good enough.

Are you not meant for this?

Maybe there's a part of you everyone else sees. Maybe they've been right all along. You fight and fight and fight for something you aren't good enough for.

Why do you always push? Were you like this before the Glade too? You wish you could remember. Maybe you were too much, even then. Maybe that's why you were sent here.

You're trouble. That's all you've ever been. You search your mind, desperate for something, anything you've done right since you arrived. Something good. Something that mattered.

There's nothing.

Thomas says your name, but it doesn't even register.

Is this the first time you've stopped to question yourself? Have you really been walking around blindly? With such an ego? Have you never bothered to think?

No.

No, this isn't right. This isn't home, and you know that. All you've ever done is try to help. Try to find a way out of this place, and every time you do, someone shoves you back down. This isn't about praise. This isn't about titles. You just wanted to prove yourself, and now, you're failing.

You're failing.

You're failing.

"I have been wrecking myself trying to prove who I am." You say, voice wavering and eyes flicking to the ground. "I've followed your rules when they made sense, and I broke them when they didn't. That's all there is to it. I'm right. I know I'm right, and I won't doubt myself just because you want me to. I deserve this. I survived your stupid Maze when you said I couldn't, and still, I'm just not good enough for you. I'll never be good enough for you, will I?"

You look up, and the silence around you feels wrong. Thomas is staring like he doesn't know what to do with himself. Minho shifts uncomfortably by the wall. Newt's expression has faltered too. Is that guilt? Confusion? Pity?

Why are they looking at you this way?

"...Hey..." Thomas says softly, taking a careful step forward and reaching out slow, like you're some sort of rabid animal. You jerk back instantly. Your hand flies up to your face.

Your fingers come away wet.

Crying.

You're crying.

When did you start crying?

"Oh, wow." You whisper, staring at your hand like it doesn't belong to you. "That's... Yeah. Great." You scrub your face with the back of your hand, embarrassed and furious all at once.

Thomas says your name again, but you don't want to hear it. You don't care for whatever he's about to say. You turn and limp out of the hut, the door slamming hard enough behind you to echo through the whole Glade.

You don't slow down until you reach your hut.

You slam that door too.

Then—

You lose it.

You slide down the door until you're sitting on the floor, back pressed against the wood and breath coming out in jagged heaves. A sob rips out of you before you can stop it. Then another. Then another.

You cry until your ribs ache and your throat burns. You cry until your head feels light. You press your fists into your eyes like that might shove the feelings back where they belong, but it just keeps coming.

You hate this place.

You hate the rules.

You hate it all so much, it makes you sick.

You hate how they cage you: How they tell you who you're allowed to be, where you're allowed to stand, and what risks you're allowed to take with your own life.

You hate that the Maze is somehow the only place you've felt close to real, and even there, you weren't allowed to belong. For a moment, an awful thought slips in:

You should've died out there.

At least it would've been on your terms. At least you would've died free: Running, fighting, and choosing for yourself. Not stuck in a box where everyone decides that you're lesser.

You choke on a sob.

You hate the way they look at you. The way they talk about you when they think you can't hear. Like you're fragile and rigid all at the same time.

A small, traitorous part of you wonders if they're all right. You are the one limping. You got hurt out there. Maybe Newt's got a point. Maybe you're not meant for this. Maybe you are the problem. Newt. You hate the way your mind seems to drift to him at every turn.

Then, a knock at the door startles you.

"Go away!" You shout hoarsely, wiping your face.

"Uh— Okay." A small, familiar voice pipes up, muffled through the wood. "I mean, I can go if you want, but I was kinda worried about you."

Your heart squeezes.

"Chuck?" You're on your feet instantly, yanking the door open. He freezes when he sees you: Red eyes, blotchy face, and trembling hands.

"Oh..." He says softly, then he steps forward, wrapping his arms around your waist. You fold right into him. He's warm. He's solid. He's real. You bury your face into his shoulder as another sob breaks free.

He stands there with you for the longest time, and he lets you cry.

Eventually, he starts talking: Rambling in an earnest, unfiltered way that is very, very Chuck. He tells you that you're badass. Like, actually badass. Not just 'cool' or 'okay', but Maze-running, Griever-fighting, rule-breaking, badass.

You let out a wet, broken laugh between sobs.

Then the words come spilling out of you.

You tell him you're tired. You're tired of fighting for space, respect, and the right to make decisions. You tell him how it feels to be looked at like a fragile mistake. You tell him you're scared they're right, and that everything you've survived was based on luck. That you might not be meant for this.

Your voice shakes as you admit you don't know how much more rejection you can take, and he listens. Chuck listens. When you finally run out of breath, he clears his throat.

"Well," He says gently. "For what it's worth, I don't believe any of that stuff. You're epic. Thomas thinks so, and I think so. "

"Maybe that's just because you have terrible judgement." You sniff.

"That's mean," He laughs. "But also, no. You came back from the Maze, just like I knew you would. I was right, you were right, and everyone else was wrong." The tears slow, and the heaviness lifts just enough for you to breathe again.

You and Chuck gravitate to the cot, where you sit together and talk about stupid things: About how Frypan says you oversalt everything. How Gally looks when you steal his boots. How Chuck might make the worst Runner ever.

Oh, but he's certainly the best friend ever.

"I'll give you some space." He says at last, pushing himself to his feet. "Billy might get mad if he realizes I've been gone this long, but I'm here if you want to talk about more stuff. Even if you don't, I'll ditch Billy for you if you really need. Okay?"

"Okay." You laugh. "Thank you." You stand too, pulling him into another hug. "Seriously, Chuck. I don't know what I'd ever do without you."

"You're welcome." He pulls back, grinning, looking up at you with the same admiration he always has. It's still there, untouched, even after seeing you break down. He still adores you. He still looks up to you. He still respects you.

He still loves you.

Then he's gone, leaving the door swinging shut behind him. You stand there: Alone again, but it's different now. The ache is still there, of course. The anger too, but it's not all consuming.

Sure, it's hard, but you can't stop fighting for yourself. Not now. Now when Chuck still looks at you like that. If you give up, what does that teach him?

Then, another frantic knock rattles your door.

Again?

"Go away." You groan. "I'm not in the mood for—"

"It's Minho."

What?

"...Minho?" Carefully, you open the door, squinting at him like you might be hallucinating. "What the hell are you doing here?" You mutter.

"Saving your sorry butt from missing all the fun." He says. "You remember mystery girl? She's awake. Thomas is up in the watchtower talking to her."

"...What?"

"Yeah, she's awake. Very awake, and Thomas thought you might want to see it in person." Thomas sent for you, and Minho came to retrieve you.

Perhaps you are wanted.

You eagerly step past him, ignoring the sharp protest in your knee as you hurry towards the watchtower. Minho half-jogs beside you, keeping steady at your pace.

"Hey." He says casually.

"Yeah?"

"I'll talk to Newt."

"About what?"

"You're smart." He begins. "You're fast. You're gutsy. You've got a stubborn streak that makes a lot of people miserable, but you practically scream Runner."

"Thanks." A smile tugs at your lips. Minho embodies everything you've ever wanted to be, and here he was, advocating for you yet again.

"Don't mention it. You are meant for this." He nudges you, and you laugh shakily. It's all you ever wanted from the Glade: Acceptance. If only it came from Newts lips—

Oh, but who needs Newt anyway?

You've got Thomas, who sees you. Chuck, who believes in you. Frypan, who's quietly has your back. Minho, who knows skill when he sees it. Now? Maybe you've even got another girl in your corner.

The future isn't a wall, dear reader.

It's a door.

You woke up stiff in places you didn't even know you had.

The pit was cold. The ground hadn't cared for your knee. It pressed unforgivingly against your skin and bruised bone, as if it wanted to remind you that survival has a cost.

This morning, there's a new ache blooming in your leg. It crawls up your thigh, settling in your hip and winding into your lower back. When you stand, your limp is stronger.

You hate that.

Thomas noticed.

He stood at the edge of the Glade at dawn, fingers fumbling at the straps of his new harness. His eyes kept drifting to your knee. Not subtly, either. Just quick worried glances he thought you wouldn't catch.

You'd given him a quick 'I'm fine'. He didn't look convinced.

The walk to the kitchen feels like a walk of shame. Heads turn as you pass. They've always stared. Well, glared really. You're the troublemaker. The girl who doesn't know her place.

Today feels different. Today, the stares are longer. It's like you're something that should've just stayed in the Maze. You keep your chin high anyway.

The heat of the kitchen hits you like a wall. It feels smaller than it used to. Almost suffocating. After the Maze, the open sky and towering walls, this place feels fake. Like you've been shoved back into a box.

Minho and Thomas are out there right now: Running. Discovering. Doing something that matters. Meanwhile, here you are. Chopping onions.

The jealousy sits heavy on your shoulders. It must be visible. You're sure everyone can see it. Every sound is a reminder of where you aren't: Every sizzle. Every chop. Every word Frypan mutters about rations.

You are not in the Maze.

You are not a Runner.

"I guess the Maze chewed you up and spit you back out, huh?" Adam stands near the counter, tray in hand, a sharp smirk planted on his stupid face. A few boys behind him snicker. You already feel the retort forming on your tongue.

"Knock it off, Adam." Frypan doesn't raise his voice. "She's done way more around here than you have." The laughter dies instantly. Adam scoffs, muttering something under his breath, but Frypan jerks his chin towards the door. "Out. Unless you're going to help, get out of my kitchen."

They leave, grumbling, trays clattering with more force than necessary.

"Thanks." You murmur, the word awkward in your mouth as you peel your vision away from the cutting board and face Frypan. He shrugs like it was nothing.

"You'll be back in the Maze soon enough. No sense in letting those idiots get to you 'til then." He nudges a crate towards you with his foot. "Now start on the potatoes. Need 'em peeled and diced."

Simple.

Normal.

No pity in his voice.

You nod and get to work.

The knife sits firm in your palm. You brace your bad leg slightly behind you, adjusting your stance so the weight doesn't strain too hard on your knee. The rhythm comes quickly: Slice, turn. Slice, turn. The skin curls away in thin strips, falling into a neat pile.

Steam fogs the air around you. Sweat beads at the back of your neck. Your knee pulses with every shift in your weight, but you ignore it. You focus on the clean edges of each cube.

You're working so well in your methodical flow of peeling, you're not even sure why you look up. Maybe it's because of the ache creeping into the back of your neck. Maybe it's just the sense of being watched. It's instinct: The same natural instinct that kept you alive in the Maze.

Across the Glade, you catch him: Newt stands in the gardens, sleeves rolled and dirt smudged along his forearms. He isn't working. He's looking at you.

The moment your eyes meet, he flinches, like he hadn't expected you to notice. Then carefully, he lifts a hand and waves. The audacity of it makes your heart twist.

After everything he said, after shutting you down, after making it painfully clear what he thought about you, he waves like nothing's changed.

You lift your hand in return,

And flip him off.

Even from across the Glade, you can see the exact moment it registers. Newt's face scrunches up in irritation. His hand drops immediately, and he turns sharply back to the soil in front of him, stabbing at it.

Good.

You drop your gaze back to the cutting board and finish the potatoes with renewed precision. Dice after dice after perfect cube. You scoop them into a wooden bowl. Then rinse the board. Then wipe it down. You even sort the larger pieces from the smaller ones without being told.

When you step back and look at your work, it's flawless. The realization hits you hard: You're good at this. Too good. You hate that you've adapted so well to a life that isn't yours.

"Shuck." Frypan huffs under his breath, and you glance up. "Sorry, Kiddo. This morning, I forgot to grab the salt sack from the storage shed. Do me a favor and snatch it for me?"

You hesitate.

"Why me?" You ask, wiping your hands on a cloth. "Don't you usually send Mike for that sort of thing?"

"Yeah," Frypan admits. "But I figure you could probably use the air." It's an offer of space without positioning you as weak. His eyes flick briefly to your leg. "Unless your knee is acting up."

"No!" You stiffen immediately. "No. No, I've got it. Thanks Fry." He gives you a small nod and barely present smile before jerking his chin towards the door.

You step out into the sunlight.

The Glade looks painfully beautiful today. The grass glows in an almost violent shade of green. Light filters through the trees in soft golden strands. It's almost enough to make someone forget.

Almost.

It's deceptive. That's what it is. If you were like Gally, a stubborn, thick-skulled boy who's desperate to call this place home, you might even think this is peaceful.

You adjust your weight and start towards the shed. The uneven ground makes your limp more obvious. Every dip in earth yanks at your knee. Every step reminds you that you're slower than you were.

Slower than you should be.

The shed is dim and stale inside. Dust hangs in the air, visible through the beams of light slicing through cracks in the wood. Crates are stacked along the walls. Burlap sacks lay in lopsided towers. You crouch.

Bad idea.

Pain flares in your knee, stealing the breath from your lungs. You bite back, gripping the edge of a crate as you reach behind it. Your fingers brush a coarse fabric.

There.

You tug the sack free with a grunt, nearly losing your balance in the process. The bag slumps against your hip as you straighten, slower this time.

Careful.

If you're careful, it heals.

If it heals, you can run.

You shoulder the door open and step into the light. The walk back to the kitchen is slower, and your thoughts get louder in the silence: Does Frypan pity you?

He hadn't sounded pitying. He defended you this morning without hesitation. Sure, when you first arrived, he looked at you the way everyone else did: Suspicious. Annoyed. Waiting for you to mess up.

You did. Mess up. Over and over again. Yet, something changed. Somewhere along the way, he stopped looking at you like an untrainable pest.

Now, he trusts you with seasoning and tells you that you'll be back in the Maze soon enough. He sounds like he believes it. You want to believe it too.

It's the same with Minho. He didn't even used to talk to you. You were background noise. Another Glader in the way. Then, you ran into the Maze, and suddenly, he thinks you're gutsy.

When did you earn that?

What did you do to make Thomas look at you like you're already on the same team?

What did you do to make Chuck love you?

How do you make the rest of them see it?

How do you make Newt see it?

Your throat tightens.

Why are you thinking about him, of all people? He made his stance clear: 'You're not meant for this'. 'You make it so hard to protect you'. 'You're reckless'.

You don't need him to see it.

You don't.

You're so busy arguing with yourself, that you don't notice the shadow stepping into your path. Your bad foot catches first, then, something slams into your knee.

Pain explodes up your leg. You hiss as your balance disappears. The salt slips from your grip, hitting the ground with a heavy thud as you follow, palms scraping the dirt and grass.

"Oops," A voice drawls from above you. "You should probably watch where you're going." You look up and catch the culprit. It's Adam. He stands there; hands tucked casually behind his back like he didn't just ram his shin into your knee. "You're quite clumsy, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry," The pain pulses viciously through your leg. You swallow it down, pushing your palms against the dirt to push yourself up. "I didn't realize you were tall enough to block anyone's way."

You shift your weight to stand, and his foot lashes out again. It connects square with your knee. Your leg buckles instantly and you slam back into the ground.

Your knee screams in agony. You don't. Not a sound. You bite down so hard, your teeth ache. You refuse to give him the satisfaction. He laughs anyway.

"See? Clumsy." He taunts. You breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. "Y'know," He continues, pacing lazily in front of you. "I think the Creators sent you up here for a reason."

"Oh yeah?" You try to focus on your hands and the dirt under your nails.

"Yeah. Maybe you're just... Decoration. Something pretty to look at while the rest of us do the real work. Like a prize at the end of the day." You tune him out, but he keeps talking. "Let's be honest. You're not good enough for the Maze. Look at you. You can't even stand without falling over."

"I was—" You begin, but he doesn't let you. Instead, you have to steer your attention to planting one foot carefully on the ground.

"You make things so much harder on yourself, you know that?" He sighs. "You're always pushing. Trying to be something you're not." You push up fully. Your leg shakes. Ignore it. "Stick to cooking like a real woman—"

You don't hear the rest.

You use the motion. The momentum of standing. Your first swings before your brain can catch up. It connects straight with his nose, and a sickening crack echoes between you.

Adam stumbles back with a strangled shout, clutching his face. When he pulls his hands away, a sticky red streaks his fingers. He stares at the blood like he can't believe it's real.

"Oops." You shrug.

"You—" He sputters. "You hit me!"

"No kidding."

"That's against the rules!" He shouts. "You can't just— You can't hurt another Glader!" He takes another step toward you, and you shift your stance, disregarding the pain. Ignore it.

"Take one more step," You warn, raising your fists. "I'll fix the other side of your ugly face to match." His eyes flash with a mix of disbelief and fury.

"What the devil is going on here?"

Of course.

You don't even bother lowering your hands.

Newt appears from the direction of the gardens, moving fast. His eyes take in the scene in seconds: Adam's bloody nose, the salt sack on the ground, and you standing there with your fists clenched.

"She hit me!" Adam yells. "She hit me! Look! She's been a shucking problem since she got here! You've got to do something about her, Newt. This is getting out of hand!"

You finally drop your fists and cross your arms. What's the point of defending yourself? You already know how this goes. You're reckless. You're trouble.

Adam keeps rambling, words tumbling over each other about punishments and discipline and how you've always been a complication.

You stare straight ahead, detached, waiting for it: The disappointment. The lecture. The confirmation that you were wrong to ever think you could be anything more than you are.

Newt exhales, then he steps closer. His hand settles on your shoulder, and you stiffen immediately.

"I saw." He says quietly. For a flip second, irritation flares in your chest. Yeah. You saw. Congratu-fucking-lations. Then, he turns to Adam. "I saw you provoke her."

Oh.

"What?" Adam blinks. "No, that was an accident. She swung at me on purpose!"

"You kicked her knee."

"I barely—"

"You kicked her knee." Newt repeats, more firmly, and Adam's face reddens.

"That doesn't mean she gets to punch me."

"No. It doesn't," Newt's gaze flicks to you, and you roll your eyes, bracing for a lecture that doesn't follow. "But you can't antagonize someone and cry foul when they react." Adam opens his mouth again, but Newt cuts him off. "Go see a MedJack. Get it sorted out, then get back to work."

Oh.

"Unbelievable." Adam's nostrils flare, and he shoots you a look that's all promise and no subtlety. "I'm not done with you, Shank." He mutters before storming off, blood still streaking his upper lip.

Silence settles between you and Newt.

You look at him.

He looks at you.

Then, his eyes drop to your knee.

It's throbbing in angry pulses, the kind of pain that makes your eyes teary if you focus on it too long, but there's no blood. No torn fabric. No visible damage.

You shrug it off like it's nothing. Like you didn't just get kicked square in the injury that kept you out of the Maze. Instead, you're stuck on something else:

He defended you.

Not reluctantly.

Not hesitantly.

He defended you.

"Your knee alright?" Newt asks cautiously. No. Obviously, your knee is not alright. Still, his concern does something strange to your heart. You don't like it.

"Yeah." You lie, taking a small step back and widening the space between you. His hand slips from your shoulder. "it's fine." He doesn't look convinced.

"What've the MedJacks been saying 'bout it?" He presses, and you squint at him. Why does he care?

Maybe he wants it to be permanent. Maybe your bad knee solves everything for him. No more arguments. No more of you pushing for the Maze. Maybe it's a convenient little reason to keep you boxed up where you belong.

"They say it'll fully recover," It's half true. They say it can fully recover if you stop being a 'reckless shank'. "If I'm careful." You look away as soon as you finish speaking, fixing your eyes on the tree line.

Anywhere, but him.

You can feel his stare.

There's a long stretch of silence. Wind shifts through the leaves. Somewhere across the Glade, someone laughs. It's distant. Unimportant.

"Minho and I had a chat this morning." That makes you look at him. His lips are pressed into a thin line, and you remember Minho's promise: 'I'll talk to Newt'. Your heart gives a traitorous thump. "And—"

A thunderous boom erupts from the Maze.

The sound slams through the Glade like a tangible, physical thing. You whip around, eyes scanning the towering walls. There's no smoke. No movement. Just an echo.

"What the hell was that?" Someone in the distance shouts. Before you can even turn back, or determine who was shouting, Newt's fingers wrap around your upper arm.

"Come on." He mutters. He doesn't wait for agreement. He simply starts moving, tugging you toward the entrance of the Maze. You stumble forward, trying to keep up.

"Newt!" You start, but he's striding fast, grip urgent and unwavering. Your knee protests with every step, but you don't pull away. Somehow, you can't.

He holds your arm like you belong moving beside him. He knows, better than anyone, that you're the type who would've run towards the danger anyway.

You should yank yourself away. You want to. You want to hate him forever, and be petty about every nasty thing he's ever said to you. You never asked for his control. You never asked for his protection. Yet, when the ground shook, he didn't hesitate:

He reached for you.

As infuriating as it is, that makes you feel something.

You don't know what to do with the version of him that doubts you one moment and defends you the next. The version that says you're not ready for the Maze, but drags you toward it when something goes wrong.

You don't know whether to be grateful, or furious. So, instead, you settle for for silence, matching his pace, pretending your rapid pace has nothing to do with the feeling of his warm hand around your arm.

The closer you get to the Maze, the more Gladers spill out of huts and workspaces, drawn by the noise. Newt finally releases you at the edge of the Maze, and you both stare into that first corridor.

"Did they blow themselves up?"

"Are they okay?"

"Thomas must've done something."

The questions ripple through the Glade, bouncing off stone and fear. You don't say anything. Your eyes are locked on the Maze, staring so har, they start to burn. The passageways stretch endlessly, and curve just enough that you can't see past the bend.

Anything could be back there.

Debris.

Bodies.

Nothing.

Your heart won't slow down. It feels like it's trying to burst out of your chest. What if something had collapsed on them? What if they triggered some sort of trap?

You swallow hard.

You need them to walk out. You need to see Minho's sassy smirk. You need to feel Thomas' hopeful energy. You need them to be okay, and bring back proof that there's more to the Maze than dead ends.

If they're gone—

You don't let yourself finish the thought.

The crowd shifts restlessly behind you. Someone bumps your shoulder. Another voice mutters something about 'consequences'. Gally stands stiff a few feet away. Chuck nuzzles into your side.

Newt is still beside you.

Nothing feels louder than your pulse in this moment. Anxiety coarsest through your veins. Seconds stretch into eons. Wind moves through the Maze with a low sigh.

Then—

Movement.

Two familiar figures break around the bend at a jog: Alive. Dusty. Grinning like absolute idiots. Relief slams into you so fiercely, your breathing stutters.

"Now, what the hell's going on out there?" Newt demands as they're within earshot.

"We found something!" Thomas blurts, barely slowing down. He turns towards you, like the words matter most if you hear them first. "A new passage! We think it could be a way out." Your heart leaps.

"It's true." Minho adds, nodding. "We opened a door. Something I've never seen before. We think it must be where the Grievers go during the day." A collective murmur sweeps through the crowd.

"Wait— Woah, woah, woah!" Chuck blurts, eyes wide and bright as the moon. "You're saying you found the Grievers' home, and you want us to go in?"

"Their way in could be our way out." Thomas reasons, and you believe him without a doubt. This is change. This is something. Your soul fills with a beautifully dangerous kind of hope.

A way out.

You picture Chuck outside these walls, running under a sky that doesn't stop at stone. Him finding his parents. Him not having to settle in a prison where he wakes from constant nightmares.

You could make that happen.

You could walk him out of here.

"Yeah, or there could be a dozen Grievers on the other side." Gally snaps, shattering the fragile excitement. "The truth is, Thomas doesn't know what he's done, as usual!"

"At least I've done something, Gally!" Thomas fires back, spinning toward the towering brute and prodding a finger at him. "I mean, what have you done? Aside from hide behind these walls?"

The crowd goes rigid.

"Let me tell you something, Greenie." Gally growls, swatting Thomas' finger out of his face. "You've been here three days, alright? I've been here three years—"

"Yeah, you've been here three years, and you're still here! What does that tell you?" Thomas shouts. "Maybe you should start doing things differently!"

You see it happen in real time: The flicker in Gally expression is not just anger. It's hurt. Three years of building. Three years of survival. Three years that Thomas just labeled as failure.

"Guys—" Someone tries weakly.

"Hey, maybe you should be in charge." Gally sneers. "Since you've got it all figured out." The crowd presses in closer. Voices overlap. Fear turns defensive. You feel the pressure in the air: Everyone has to choose a side.

Everything feels too urgent: The Maze, the explosion, your knee, Newt tense beside you, and Thomas. Thomas has already decided that the future will be different, and he's counting you in.

You are.

"Hey!" Teresa's voice breaks through the noise, strained, but determined. "It's Alby." She shouts again, pushing her way through the crowd. "He's awake."

The impact of Teresa's yells hits you with a wave of guilt. You know what it's like to be a girl in a place like this. You know the stares. You know the assumptions.

When she arrived, you should've made yourself more present. You should've stood beside her. Instead, you've been so wrapped up in proving yourself, and fighting for a space that you forgot you may need to share.

You haven't even asked her how she's holding up.

No.

Focus.

This isn't the time for self-degradation. You can't just fall apart when things get overwhelming. You can't be distracted by the confusion of whatever is going on with Newt. You can't beat yourself up about Teresa.

You have one job.

One purpose.

Get Chuck out.

That's it.

Thank God for Teresa.

She's stationed at the strange metal door Thomas and Minho had discovered. Chuck stands beside her, clutching a spear that's almost too big for him, eyes darting nervously between the keypad and the battle unfolding.

You know he's safe with her.

Maybe it's instinct. Maybe it's some unspoken understanding between the only two girls who ever had to survive in a Glade full of boys. Maybe it's pure respect. Either way, you don't have to worry about Chuck.

Which is good, because you are in serious trouble.

"Thomas!" Teresa shouts over the chaos. "There's a code! Eight numbers!" Of course there is, because apparently escaping the Maze isn't dramatic enough without a secret password surrounded by a pack of mechanical nightmares.

You stagger backward toward the edge of a jagged drop in the stone floor, boots scraping dangerously close to the precipice. A Griever thrashes in front of you, its massive metal body convulsing violently. Your spear is buried deep in the side of its' head.

The creature shrieks, a horrifying blend of metal grinding and animal agony. Its' limbs snap wildly as it tries to reach you. Sweat pours down your face, stinging your eyes. You shove the spear down deeper.

"Stay down, you piece of—" You grit your teeth. The Griever lashes out with a bladed limb, sparks flying as it slams into the stone beside your head.

"Uhhh—!" Minho's voice cuts through the combat, somewhere to your left. "Seven! One! Five! Two!" He recites breathlessly. "Uh—! Six! Four!" A second Griever suddenly drops from the wall above like a spider, heading directly for Minho.

"Heads up!" Newt shouts too late. Minho disappears under the writhing mass of metal limbs. Jeff doesn't hesitate. He charges forward with a yell, driving a spear through the creature's skull with a wet crunch.

The Griever spasms violently, its' claws scraping against the floor as it collapses. Minho shoves it off with a grunt, scrambling to his feet, but Jeff doesn't get the chance to celebrate.

"Jeff!" You shout as another Griever lunges from the shadows and hooks a serrated arm around his torso. He barely has time to cry out before the machine yanks him backward across the stone floor.

His fingers scrape desperately at the ground. The scream that tears from his throat is horribly raw. The Griever drags him straight back into the darkness. There's the sound of tearing fabric. Then flesh. Then nothing.

"Minho! What's the sequence? Come on!" Chuck shouts, and the sheer panic in his voice sends a surge of adrenaline barreling through your veins.

Behind you, something grabs your arm. You whirl instinctively. It's Newt. He yanks you backwards, and a split second later, a Griever's stinger slams directly into the spot you'd been standing. Stone explodes beneath the impact, and you stare at the crater, your stomach flipping.

"Shuck." You mutter.

"Try not to die." He pants.

The remaining Gladers are pushed closer together now, forced back into the metal door as more Grievers crawl along the towering walls around you. The machines move like predators closing in. There's nowhere left to run.

"Uhh—" Minho gasps, his voice shaking with exhaustion. "Six, four, eight, three!" He slams another spear into a Griever lunging toward the group. "You got it?" He shouts desperately.

"Keep holding!" Thomas yells from the door. A Griever leaps at Newt. Its' jaw snaps around his spear, and the weapon splinters clean in half. You move without thinking.

You always do.

Your hand shoves Newt behind you as you step forward, leveling your spear towards the creature's snapping jaw. Newt's hands grab at your waist from behind, steadying you as claws swipe inches from your face.

Then,

DING

A chime rings out from the door behind you. The Maze begins to move. Stone walls from either side begin to grind inward. The sound is deafening.

Grievers scream as the stone crushes down on them, metal limbs snapping and twisting under the immense pressure. Oil and dark fluids splatter across the floor.

Too close.

You wrench your spear free and hurl it with everything you have. The weapon flies straight into a Griever's open mouth. It staggers backward just as the walls slam together.

You're dragged away just in time for the massive metal doors to slam shut with thunderous conclusion. Darkness swallows everything, and for a moment, the only thing you can hear is your own ragged breathing.

Is this it?

Are you free?

You realize Newt is still holding you. His arms are tight around your waist. He never let go after pulling you back. Somehow, in the pitch black, that brings a strange flicker of comfort.

The ground begins to rumble in a way that reminds you of the Box, and you instinctively grab onto the fabric of his shirt as the entire room shakes beneath your feet.

"Easy." He murmurs.

A blinding white light floods the chamber as another door slowly creaks open. You squint against the brightness, watery eyes blinking in adjustment.

You turn, and for a second, you and Newt just look at each other. It hits you that you're still clutching him, and your face heats instantly. You pull away a little too quickly, stumbling to catch yourself.

Right.

Near death experiences apparently aren't enough to cancel out embarrassment. You clear your throat and turn away before he can say anything.

You find Chuck. Your hands immediately start checking him over. His arms. His shoulders. His precious face. He squirms, tapping at your wrists.

"I'm good." He promises. You nod once, the relief loosening the tightness of your chest. Across the chamber, Teresa pushes cautiously against the newly opened door. It groans as it swings wider, revealing a dim hallway beyond.

Thomas steps forward first. One by one, the rest of you follow. Your hand closes around Chuck's as you guide him through the unfamiliar doorway.

The hallway is unnaturally long. Pipes snake across the ceiling and walls in tight clusters, humming faintly over unseen machinery. The air smells sterile and cold. Nothing like the damp stone of the Maze.

Your grip on Chuck tightens without you realizing it. Your hands are shaking. You glance toward Thomas at the front of the group. He looks back over his shoulder at the same moment.

Neither of you speaks.

You give a small nod.

Thomas nods back.

The group starts walking. Your boots echo down the hall as the silence stretches on. Everything is happening too fast. You escaped the Maze. You survived the Grievers. You've found the way out.

This is everything you've ever wanted since that stupid Box lifted you into the Glade: Escape. Change. Freedom. So why does your heart feel so tight?

The hallway ends at a seemingly regular door. Above it glows a neon sign that says 'EXIT'. Frypan squints at it, muttering a disbelieving 'seriously?'

The group hesitates, exchanging uncertain glances as if silently deciding who should be the first to open it. Thomas eventually steps forward. He places a hand on the handle, pauses, then pushes the door open.

The smell hits you first: Blood.

The room beyond looks like something out of a nightmare. Bodies are slumped against the walls and sprawled across the floor. Dark streaks of blood smear the white surfaces like someone attempted to escape, but failed.

You step forward slowly, and something pulls your attention to a window off to your right. There's another room behind it, filled with what seems to be white walls and stillness.

Then, your eyes adjust. Two shapes lie on metal tables, covered by thin white sheets. They're too motionless. Too familiar in shape. You take a step closer.

The glass is smudged. Your reflection stares back: Someone you barely recognize. You lean in anyway, squinting past it. Trying to make sense of what you're seeing.

The vent above the tables hums to life. The corner of a sheet lifts. Just barely. Just enough. You see a hand. You don't see all of it, but you don't need to.

You jerk back from the glass like it's burned you, a harsh gag erupting up your throat as you look away. You don't need to look again to know who's there:

Ben and Alby.

Your fingers crush painfully around Chuck's hand, pulling him with you. No once speaks as you move deeper into the facility. Hallways branch off in every direction.

Through glass walls, you glimpse rooms filled with machines you don't understand. Bodies lie everywhere. Some in lab coats, and some clutching weapons. It looks like a battlefield.

Eventually, you reach a larger room. This one is worse. Chairs are overturned. Bullet holes decorate the walls. More bodies in white coats are scattered across the floor like dominos. The air smells like burnt wiring and gunpowder.

Everyone slowly spreads out, examining the room in stunned silence. You find yourself drifting toward a row of strange machines along the wall, running your fingers lightly over the cold metal.

"Hello." A voice crackles over the speakers, and you jerk your head up. "My name is Dr. Ava Paige." A screen flickers to life across the room. The video shows a pristine looking older woman in a lab coat, standing in this very room. Behind her, scientists rush frantically back and forth. Their panic is visible, even through the grainy footage. "I'm Director of Operations of the World In Catastrophe Killzone Experiment Department."

"W... I... C... K... E... D..." You whisper under your breath.

"If you're watching this," The woman continues calmly. "That means you've successfully completed the Maze Trials. I wish I could be there in person to congratulate you, but circumstances seem to have prevented it." Behind her, several scientists begin rushing for the exits. "I'm sure by now you must all be very confused. Angry. Frightened. I can only assure you that everything that's happened to you, everything we've done to you, it was all done for a reason." She pauses. "You won't remember, but the sun has scorched out world."

"Oh my god." Teresa whispers as the screen shifts. Images rapidly flood the projection: Cities burning beneath a massive, merciless sun. Crops turned to dust. Entire landscapes reduced to ash.

"Billions of lives lost to fire. Famine. Suffering on a global scale." Paige says. "The fallout was unimaginable." The footage changes again. Now, the images are worse. People screaming. Hospitals overflowing. Chuck squeezes closer to you.

"It's okay." You whisper to him.

"What came after was worse. We called it the Flare. A deadly virus that attacks the brain. It is violent. Unpredictable. Incurable, or so we thought. In time, a new generation emerged that could survive the virus. Suddenly, there was a reason to hope for a cure, but finding it would not be easy. The young would have to be tested, even sacrificed inside harsh environments where their brain activity could be studied. All in an effort to understand what makes them different." She exhales slowly. "What makes you different."

Everything clicks.

The Maze. The Grievers. The trials. They've been watching you. You're more than just a prisoner. You are an experiment. You are all experiments.

Paige voice keeps talking, but the words begin to blur underneath the roar of your thoughts. Your hand squeezes tighter around Chuck's. You barely register the continued chaos on screen until a sharp bang cracks through the speakers.

Your head snaps up. Dr. Paige lies slumped on the floor. The camera continues recording as scientists scream in the background. You don't let chuck see it.

"Don't look." You grab his shoulders and force his eyes away from the screen. Before anyone can say anything else, a door hisses open to your left. A long, quiet hallway stretches beyond it.

The exit, maybe.

It's everything you've fought for.

Everything you've nearly died for.

"Is it over?" Chuck whispers.

"She said we were important." Newt is the first to speak. You look at him. He looks completely stunned, eyes moving between Thomas and you as if the two of you are somehow supposed to understand all of this. "What're we supposed to do now?"

"I don't know," Thomas exhales slowly. He looks unsettlingly uncertain. His eyes meet yours: Two fighters who've spent every day clawing toward escape together. Now, you're standing at the edge of it. When his gaze flicks away from yours, it points to the open hallway. "But let's get out of here."

"No."

The word cuts through the room like a blade.

Everyone turns.

Gally stands at the far end of the room. A gun tremors violently in his hand. Your heart stutters with relief first. Relief that he's alive. That he gets to escape with everyone else. Then, the dread lands.

"Gally—!" Thomas starts, taking a step forward.

"Don't." Teresa grabs his arm before he can get too close, whispering urgently. "He's been stung." You look closer, and the blood in your veins turns to ice.

Gally's eyes are wide, glassy, and unfocused. Dark veins crawl up his neck, almost black beneath his skin. Tears stream down his face as he struggles to hold the gun steady.

"You can't leave." He whimpers.

"We did." Thomas says gently, raising his hands in halfway surrender. "Gally, we're out. We're free."

"Free?" Gally chokes on a sob. "You think we're free out there? No." He tightens his grip on the gun. "No. There's no escaping from this place." Several Gladers step backward. You slowly wrap your arms around Chuck, pulling him closer into your side.

"Gally," Your voice comes out softer than you'd expected. "You're not thinking straight." His eyes flick toward you. "We can help you. Just— Just put down the gun. Please." The word 'please' feels strange in your mouth. You can't remember the last time you said it. If you ever have.

When this is over, when you're finally out, maybe things will be different. Maybe you'll learn to say 'please' more often. 'Thank you' too. Maybe you'll be kinder. Maybe the world outside the Maze is still the sort of place where people say things like that.

You will be kinder. You want to be. You want to gentler than you are. You will. You promise it to yourself. Someday, you and Chuck will look back and laugh at all of this.

Maybe—

"I belong to the Maze." Gally's voice snaps your hopeful thoughts apart. His hands tremble around the weapon as more tears rush down his face. "We all do."

A gunshot ruptures the room. Chuck jerks violently out of your arms. For a split second, nothing makes sense. The sound is still ringing in your ears when his weight disappears and his body stumbles forward.

Right in front of Thomas.

Another sound slices through the air. Minho's spear flies across the room and punches straight through Gally's chest. His eyes widen and the gun slips from his fingers with a hollow clatter. He drops to his knees, gasping, before collapsing onto the floor,

But you aren't looking at him anyway.

Your world is narrowed to one thing:

Chuck.

Chuck's still standing. That's the first thing your mind clings to. He's upright, and upright must mean he's uninjured. He's okay. He has to be okay.

He sways.

A dark red bloom spreads slowly across the front of his shirt.

Your mind scrambles, reaching for something that makes more sense, and suddenly, you're somewhere else entirely: You're with Chuck, standing in the gardens of the Glade with red berry juice splattered all over his shirt. You're laughing at him while he complains, urging him to relax while you wipe the stains away.

Oh, but this isn't berry juice, is it?

This isn't something you can wipe away.

His knees buckle and you lunge forward to catch him before he hits the ground, lowering him as carefully as you can. His head falls into your lap. You barely notice the broken glass digging into your knees as you drop to the floor with him.

"Chuck? Chuck? Shuck— J-Just hold on—" Your hands shake as you cradle his head, fingers brushing through his hair. Thomas is beside you in an instant, pressing both hands against the wound. "Look at me," You plead. "Look at me. You're going to be fine, okay?"

"Chuck, hey," Thomas says urgently, patting his cheek. Chuck's breath comes out uneven and shallow. "Look at us, okay? You just hang on. You hear me?"

"Thomas," Chuck whispers. Then his eyes shift towards you. Your name leaves his lips softly, and the pain in your chest cracks wide open. His mouth curves into the faintest smile.

Chuck slowly reaches into his pocket. His hand shakes as he pulls something out. It's the small wooden figure. The one he'd been carving. He tries to hold it out toward you, but his arm trembles, faltering half way.

"Hey— Hey— I've got you." Your voice breaks apart as you grab his wrist before it drops, guiding it back up. "You don't have to— Just— Keep your strength, okay?

"I made it better."

"I know." You choke out, but you don't know. You haven't looked at the figurine. Your eyes are glued to his face instead. "It's so beautiful, Chuck."

"I'm not scared anymore." He hiccups, gasping. "You were always here."

"What?" You whimper, shaking away your tears. "I'm still here. I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere, okay? Neither are you." Chuck looks between you and Thomas, then presses the carving into Thomas' hand instead.

"No. No, Chuck." Thomas shakes his head, his voice stern despite the trembling. "You're gonna give that to them yourself—"

"Take it." Chuck insists. He shoves it into Thomas' palm, forcing his fingers closed around the carving. Then, Chuck looks up at you. He leans weakly into your touch as your fingers continue combing through his hair. "Thank you." He murmurs softly. "Thank you."

His body relaxes suddenly. His chest rises once more, falls, then never comes back. You don't move. You just feel the weight of his head resting on your lap.

"No." Thomas voice cracks. "Chuck?" He grabs the boy's shoulders, shaking him gently. "Chuck! Hey! Come on!" Thomas' head drops against Chuck's blood soaked chest as he begins to sob.

You still haven't breathed. You stopped with Chuck. Your lungs burn, and your vision is so blurred with tears that the room disappears entirely.

Then, suddenly, air crashes into your chest.

You inhale sharply.

You blink.

Everything shatters.

A squeaky sob rips from your throat as your body curls around Chuck. You clutch him with all your strength, arms wrapping around him as if holding him hard enough might somehow keep him here.

"No— Come on—" You choke. The words barely sound like words. Just broken sounds spilling out between sobs. "No, Chuck— Stay. Please, just stay." His head slips closer to you. "Stop it!" You wail. "Stop! This isn't funny. Please, please, Chuck—"

He doesn't move.

He doesn't react.

He's gone,

And it's entirely your fault.

Do you see what you've done? You were supposed to protect him. He was the one person in the world you were never supposed to fail, and now, you have. This is what happens when you break the rules. This is what happens when you fight too hard.

You did this.

He's dead because of you.

You should've held him tighter. You should've been the one who moved instead. You should be the one bleeding out on the ground. Not him. Not Chuck.

Your fingers tighten in his hair until your knuckles ache. It should hurt him, but he doesn't react. He never will again, and it's entirely your fault. Look at what you've done to him.

His eyes are open, but there's nothing in them anymore. The brightness that used to live there, the constant curiosity and stubborn hope, has vanished.

Blood has soaked through the front of his shirt and smeared across your hands. Your arms. Your clothes. It stains everything. You can feel it cooling against your skin.

What have you done?

Somewhere far away, sirens begin to wail. Boots pound against the floor, but you can't hear them clearly. You can't hear anything except the sound of your own heart breaking.

"Get them to the chopper!" A rough pair of hands slam over your shoulders and rip you backward. Away from him. Away from your Chuck.

"No!" You thrash instantly, your entirely body snapping to life. "No!" Masked strangers drag you across the floor. Your boots scrape uselessly against the ground as you twist and claw at their arms. "We can't leave him here!" You scream. "Please! We can't leave him here!"

They don't stop. It's like they can't even hear you. You wrench yourself free, just long enough to hit the ground. You scramble forward on your hands and knees. Broken glass embeds in your palms. You don't feel it. You don't feel anything, but the burning need to get back to him.

"Take her legs!" They're on you again. Grabbing. Lifting. Dragging. Your voice dissolves into something unrecognizable, and you fight with everything you have.

It's not enough.

You're never enough.

The air changes. Blinding sunlight floods your vision and hot wind brushes your face. You're dragged out of the building and into a world you've never seen before. Sand stretches endlessly beneath a massive sky.

You're outside.

You're out.

You don't care.

They shove you toward a waiting helicopter, and panic surges all over again. You twist sharply, wrenching free enough to lunge for the open door.

You need to go back.

"He's still there!" You rasp as you fight your way toward the building. Strong arms catch you mid-lunge. Thomas and Newt. You slam hard into the frame of the helicopter as they drag you in.

Wind roars through the open cabin, whipping hair across your face as the ground begins to fall away. You shove, nails digging into fabric, skin, and anything you can reach. Newt swears under his breath as he locks his arms around your waist and hauls you backwards with full force.

"Stop it!" He snaps, his voice just as wrecked as yours. "You can't go back!"

"Yes I can!" Your movements are frantic as your body strains against his grip. "He can't be alone— He— He doesn't like it— He—" Your words break into barely coherent sobs. "Please, Newt— Please— Just let me—" The helicopter jerks upward. The ground drops faster.

"You can't." His voice is low. Strained. He says your name like it hurts and spins you, forcing you to face him. One arm locks your down while the other grips your chin. "Look."

"No!" You shake your head weakly. "No— He's just waiting f-for me—"

"Look."

"I don't want to—"

"Look."

Something in his tone makes it impossible not to.

Your eyes drag along the open side of the helicopter. The Maze stretches below: Endless walls carved into the desert, twisting in every direction.

From here, it looks both enormous and small. The Glade. The Maze. The place that once felt like the entire world. Now, it's only a piece of something much bigger. Your throat feels raw from screaming. Exhaustion crashes down on you as you force yourself to slow your breathing.

Chuck should've seen this.

Your body goes slack in Newt's arms, and his grip loosens slightly, but he doesn't let go. Your eyes drift across the cabin. Thomas is staring at you. The small wooden figurine rests in his hands.

Your chest caves in.

It was a quiet night.

The air was alive with chirping crickets and the hazy glow of moonlight hanging over the Glade. The silver beams stretched along the dirt path as you walked beside Thomas, Gally's footsteps falling heavy behind.

It's time for your punishment: One night in the pit.

One night that Thomas will wake up from as a changed man. A chosen man. By morning, he'd be a Runner. Meanwhile, you'll still be what you've always been: Nothing.

Being underestimated time and time again is sickening. The way they look at you is sickening. You've worked just as hard, learned just as fast, and pushed yourself just as far. Yet, none of it seems to matter. Not to them.

Not to Gally.

Gally, at least, has always been honest and unapologetic about his dislike. Newt's been quiet about it. More careful. That makes it so much worse.

There you go, thinking about Newt again.

Your mind spiraled as you walked, the same question looping over and over again until it pressed harder on your skull, demanding release.

"Gally?" You murmur.

"Hm?" His response is flat and uninterested.

"What is your problem with me?"

Thomas slows a fraction, his head turning towards you. There's sympathy in his eyes— No, maybe that's pity. You hate it instantly. You don't want pity from Thomas. You don't want pity from anyone.

For a moment, Gally says nothing. Then, he scoffs like the question insults him.

"You don't see what you are, do you?" He says. "You don't just break rules. You have no respect for anything or anyone. You make people nervous, and nobody knows what you're going to do next. You're a wild card, and honestly? It matters that you're a girl."

"What?" You clench your jaw. "So, you are sexist."

"No, but nobody had ever seen that before: A girl in the Glade. You broke a rule just by being here." Gally pauses. "Look, I don't hate you. I just wish you weren't here."

The pit comes into view before you can respond.

Gally strides forward and swings the makeshift door open. Thomas drops down first, landing on the compact ground. Then he turns and holds out his hand.

You take it.

The jump displeases your leg on impact, and a sharp twinge pulses through your knee. You bite back a hiss and steady yourself beside him.

The pit is cold. Damp earth clings to the walls and the air feels heavy in a way that you haven't felt since you came from the Box. Above you, the sky seems impossibly far away.

As Gally moves to secure the door, Thomas steps closer.

"Gally," He says. "You know we can't stay here forever, right?" Gally pauses only long enough to shoot Thomas a half exasperated, half weary look.

Then, Gally stands and walks away, the heavy sound of his boots fading away until there's nothing left, but the chirping crickets and the breeze.

Silence settles in.

Not a peaceful kind. This feels tight and uncomfortable. You shift where you stand, suddenly painfully aware that Thomas saw the start of your breakdown the other day. He saw tears you hadn't meant to show. Saw you storm out.

He clears his throat.

"Hey, uh, about earlier," He starts rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to—"

"Don't." You don't look at him. "I don't want to talk about it. Please."

"Okay." He nods. "...Yeah. Okay."

Then, more silence.

He sits down against the far wall of the pit, leaving all the space for you to choose from. You sink down on the opposite side, your back pressed against the cool wall.

Eventually, Thomas speaks again.

"For what it's worth, I'm on your team."

"We hardly even know each other if you think about it." You huff a weak laugh.

"I know," He replies. "But I've seen what you do. You don't quit. Not for anything or anyone. You're admirable, and people notice it. Even if they pretend not to."

"Admirable." You roll your eyes before letting out a loud sigh, head leaning back against the wall. "They all look at me like more of a liability than an anything. Newt, Gally, everyone."

"I don't know." Thomas frowns. "Newt doesn't treat you like he hates you. Annoyed, sure. Maybe irritated, but I don't think he looks down on you. He just treats you a little different."

"That's the problem."

"What?"

"He treats me different." You say. "I'm not an equal. When he looks at me, he gets that look. Like he's constantly bracing for something. Like I'm a mistake waiting to happen."

Thomas looks thoughtfully at you before his gaze drops to the dirt between his boots.

"No." He mutters. "It's not that. That look he gives you... Newt isn't looking at you with distain." He hesitates, eyes flicking back up to yours. "You know what I think it is?"

"What?" You raise your eyebrows.

"I think it's fear."

"Fear?" You blink.

"Yeah." He exhales. "I mean, all the evidence is right there. He knows you've got spirit. He knows how strong you are, body and mind. He can't deny that you deserve to be a Runner—"

"Then what's he scared of?"

"I think he's scared because he cares." Thomas shifts. Does he know something you don't? "He watches you. Even when you're not looking. I don't have to have been here as long as everyone else to see it."

"He watches me because he thinks I'm trouble." You shake your head.

"He watches you because he thinks you're big enough change things." Thomas corrects. "He watches you, because he's scared that you'll get swept away in the change. You should have seen him."

"Seen him when?"

"After you left. When you stormed out." He says, and your jaw tightens. The last thing you want is confirmation that anyone saw you like that. "He looked... Upset."

"I don't really care what you think he was feeling." That's a lie. You sort of care.

"It was obvious."

"Well, if Newt's feeling something," You snap. "Then maybe he should grow a pair and talk to me about it like a man instead of throwing a constant barrage of insults at me."

"Okay, but, in his defense, you can be kind of terrifying."

"I am not." You blink, huffing out a laugh.

"You absolutely are." He smirks. "I've only been here a few days, and I've already seen you dash headfirst into a Maze full of death monsters. Who knows what else you're capable of?"

"You ran in there too." You chuckle, and the tension eases a fraction.

"I'm serious, though." Thomas says, quieter. "I know one thing for certain. It doesn't really matter if he's afraid of you. He's definitely afraid for you."

"Did he tell you that?"

"He didn't have to."

Before you can respond, footsteps crunch against the dirt above you. Both you and Thomas jolt until a familiar, chunky silhouette leans into view.

"Hey, guys." A voice whispers, far too cheery for the hour.

"Chuck!" You breathe, relieved. "You scared the klunk out of us."

"Yeah, well, worth it." He grins, already crouching down outside the bars. He slips something through the gaps: Food wrapped in a soft cloth.

"You know you're not supposed to be here." Thomas whispers, taking the food anyway.

"I know," He shrugs.

"Wow. You're a rule breaker now, Chuck?" You tease.

"I learned from the best." The boy grins. Then, casually, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, he adds: "Can't let my big sister go hungry out here."

Big sister.

Your heart absolutely detonates.

You swallow hard, blinking fast, suddenly very invested in unwrapping the food in your hands.

Big sister.

Fuck being a Runner. This is a title worth protecting. Something worth fighting for. You would build the whole world around him if it meant keeping him safe.

Big sister.

You and Thomas pick at your food while Chuck sits right outside the bars, filling the silence with idle chatter. You find yourself listening more than speaking. If nothing else in this place was ever going to make sense, at least you have Chuck.

Your little brother.

"Hey," Thomas says eventually, nodding toward Chuck's hands. "What've you got there?" Chuck pauses, then holds it up so you can see.

It's a small wooden figurine. Crude, but carefully carved.

"That's pretty." You say. "What's it for?"

"It's for my parents." Chuck's voice drops.

"You remember your parents?" Thomas tilts his head.

"No." Chuck shakes his head. "I mean, I know I must have them, and wherever they are, I'm sure they miss me. I can't miss them 'cause I don't remember them." God, this place doesn't deserve someone who carries so much love without even knowing where it came from. "What do you think you're gonna find out there tomorrow?"

"I don't know," Thomas hesitates. "But if there's a way out, Minho and I are gonna find it." Chuck nods, thinking it over. Then, he slips the figurine through the bars and presses it into Thomas' hand. Thomas stiffens. "Chuck... Why would you give me this?"

"I can't remember them anyway." He shrugs. "Maybe if you find a way out, you can give it to them for me." Thomas just stares, and your brain short circuits.

What the hell does he mean? 'Give it to them for me'?

Absolutely not.

No.

Wrong.

That's not how the story will go. Chuck won't be left behind. This sweet, ridiculous, painfully good kid is going to escape with you. You don't care how. You don't care when. If there is an exit, Chuck is walking through it with you. If there isn't? You're tearing the walls down until there is one.

When you snap back to reality, Chuck is already stepping back. Where does he think he's going?

You look at Thomas in disbelief. He's still frozen, figurine clutched in his hand like he doesn't quite know how it got there. You nudge his arm, harder than necessary.

He jolts, blinking. One look at your face, and he knows. You don't have to say a word.

"Hey, Chuck?" Thomas calls. Chuck turns back, lantern light flickering across his face. "Come here. Put out your hand." Chuck obeys, and Thomas presses the figurine back into his palm. "I want you to give that to them yourself. We're getting out of here. All of us. I promise."

Chuck's breath catches, and he nods, clutching the little wooden man tightly. His eyes find yours, and you nod once. It's all he needs to fully accept the words as truth.

"Goodnight, Buddy." You whisper with a softness that isn't meant for anyone else.

"Goodnight." Chuck says, slowly turning away, lantern in one hand and figurine buried in the other. The pit feels exponentially quieter after that.

You settle into the corner while Thomas does the same across from you. Darkness stretches on, and just when you think sleep might actually take you, Thomas whispers your name. You turn your head.

"Yeah?"

"I meant what I said to him." He murmurs. "We're all getting out of here, and you—" He pauses, swallows, then continues. "You're going to be right in front. Leading us out."

The words settle slowly.

You imagine it: Running free, wind tearing past you, no walls, no rules, no one telling you to stay in line. You at the front, not behind. Not left behind.

You almost smile at the thought of shoving it in their faces, and proving that you're so much more than they were willing to give you credit for.

Then, Thomas' earlier words creep back in:

'He's afraid for you.'

The thought is restless and gnawing. Newt watching you: Is it worry or control? You try to shove it away, but it lingers, keeping sleep just out of reach.

"Wake up! We gotta go!"

Your eyes snap open. For a moment, you have no idea where you are. Everything feels heavy: Your limbs. Your head. Your chest. Someone grabs you by your shoulder.

"Come on." Newt says urgently, shaking you. "Up. We need to move." You inhale sharply, shivering yourself awake. Fresh memories crash back all at once.

Right.

The Maze.

The helicopter.

Your stomach twists as you push yourself upright. The helicopter door is already wide open, hot wind whipping through the cabin. It's dark outside now.

Newt grabs your arm and pulls you out. You don't argue. Your legs move automatically as you jump down from the helicopter and into the soft sand. The world is pulsing with noise. Gunfire cracks through the air and people are shouting everywhere.

"Kids, let's go!"

"Move it! Move it! Come on!"

"Tell them to take off! We're clear!"

Blinding floodlights cut through the darkness, illuminating a massive structure nearby. Soldiers in dark gear rush around you, waving the group forward in sharp gestures.

You run with the others, your mind still foggy from grief and sleep. The ground beneath your feet shifts from sand to smooth metal as you cross into the building.

Inside, noise echoes through a massive hanger filled with people and equipment. Buggies line the far wall. Armed guards sprint back and forth between clusters of people.

You look over your shoulder. Thomas is right behind you. The sight of him steadies the cloudy confusion in your mind. Your gaze searches the group again. Newt's here. Minho. Frypan. You keep looking. Your eyes search automatically for the one small figure that should be here.

Chuck.

He's not here, and the realization feels like a punch to the gut. Tears blur your vision, but yo force them back down. He's not here, and he will never be here again.

"Keep moving!" A small group of soldiers ushers everyone toward a hallway on the right side of the hanger. You follow the others without question.

Every instinct in your body screams that something is wrong. You spent too long surviving the Glade to trust a bunch of strangers with guns. Your eyes flick constantly between the guards, the doors, and the cameras mounted along the ceiling.

The hallway stretches longer than you expect: Cold metal walls. Harsh, fluorescent lights. Your footsteps echo loudly against the floor. Finally, the group is pushed into a large room.

The door slams shut behind you.

For a moment, no one moves.

Then, someone notices the table.

There's food. Real food. Loaves of bread, bowls of fruit, and plates stacked with things you can't even name. The room bursts into movement. They rush forward, grabbing whatever they can and devouring it like wild animals.

You don't move. The smell alone is enough to make you sick. Instead, you drift toward the corner of the room and lower yourself slowly to the floor. Your body feels like it's been running on pure shock. You pull your knees towards your chest and stare at nothing. You just want to be alone.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, you are not alone. A shadow falls over you. Minho crouches down beside you, holding out what looks like a roll of bread.

"Eat." He says firmly.

"...No." Your throat feels shredded from screaming earlier.

Minho studies you for a second. This is the same man you admired. The man you envied. Now, you dismiss him with the simple shake of your head.

Behind him, you catch Thomas and Newt standing a short distance away, pretending to talk while clearly watching your interaction with Minho. They probably sent him.

"Chuck thought the world of you." Minho sighs and sets the piece of bread on the floor beside you. Then, he places a hand on your shoulder. "Keep yourself alive. For him."

How dare he.

How dare he say Chuck's name. How dare he say it like Chuck is some sort of memory now. He's not a memory. He's a person. He can't just be neatly wrapped away.

Rage sparks viciously in your chest. Your jaw tightens and your nails dig painfully into your palms, but the anger burns out almost as quickly as it came.

Minho isn't wrong.

The thought only makes the guilt worse. You pull your knees closer to your chest and stare blankly at the concrete floor. Chuck's face keeps appearing in your mind.

You see the way he used to follow you around the Glade. The way he looked at you like you could fix anything. Like you were the bravest person he knew.

You failed him.

You weren't brave, were you? You were reckless. If only you had just stayed in the Glade. If only you'd just followed the rules like everyone asked you to. Maybe, if you hadn't pushed so hard to escape, he would still be alive.

Your fingers curl tighter around your arms, and time begins to feel strange. The room around you is a distant noise you barely register. Your mind just keeps circling the same thought over and over again:

You failed him.

You feel detached from everything, like you're buried underground while the rest of the world moves somewhere far above you. Somewhere out of reach.

You fought so hard for a way out, but you're not even sure you're safe here. Not that it matters. If the soldiers suddenly turned their guns on everyone in the room, you don't think you'd move.

You feel hollow. Broken in a way you've never been before. Maybe it would be easier if you just stopped trying altogether. You've never brought anything good.

"What do you think?" Thomas' voice pulls you out of the fog, and you blink slowly when you look up. He's standing mid-conversation with Minho and Newt a few feet away.

"Huh?" You swallow. He hesitates slightly.

"We were just talking about—"

"I don't really care, Thomas." Your voice comes out flat. You're not angry. You're not annoyed. Just empty. You don't care about whatever they're discussing.

Thomas' mouth closes. He looks like he wants to say something else. Instead, he presses his lips into a line and turns back to the others. You lower your gaze again.

The door on the same end of the room creaks open. You glance over your shoulder and watch a man step inside. He's older than most of the people you've seen here. His grey streaked hair is neatly combed, and his clothes are clean compared to the chaos surrounding this place. He carries himself with an unsettling calm.

"You kids doing alright?" He asks casually, scanning the room. "Sorry about all the fuss. We had ourselves a bit of a swarm."

"Who are you?" Thomas is quick to ask. You almost laugh, because of course Thomas is asking. Those used to be the kinds of questions you jumped on the moment they appeared.

Now?

You couldn't care less who this old geezer is.

"I'm the reason you're all still alive," He replies with ease. "And it's my intention to keep you that way. Now, come with me. We'll get you kids squared away." He gestures out the door.

People begin standing. Chairs scrape against the floor. You stay where you are. You don't want to move. You don't want to go anywhere. You don't want to do anything.

A familiar figure steps into your line of sight. Teresa crouches down beside you without saying anything, gently slipping an arm around yours and helping you to your feet. Your legs feel stiff, but she steadies you. Together, you follow the others out of the room. People rush past in every direction.

"You can call me Mr. Janson." The man says as he leads the group down a long hallway. "I run this place." He gestures vaguely around the facility. "For us, it is a sanctuary, safe from the horrors of the outside world. You all should think of it as a way station. Kind of a home between homes."

Home.

What does that word mean anymore?

"That means you're taking us home?" Thomas asks, his voice echoing with a tinge of hope.

"A home, of sorts. Sadly, there wouldn't be much left of wherever you came from," He stops walking and turns towards the group. "But we do have a place for you. A refuse outside of the scorch, where WICKED will never find you again." His hands spread. "How does that sound?"

Awful.

It sounds awful.

All you can think about is the Glade, and the simple routine you took for granted: Waking up every morning to the same grey walls, the same smell of grass, and the same grind of the Maze doors opening. Back then, it was suffocating. It was a cage you had to break out of at any cost.

You'd give anything to go back. To sit at the wooden tables during breakfast while the sun climbed over the stone. To hear the boys arguing over chores. To see Chuck running around with a grin, like he'd been waiting all morning just to talk to you.

He was the cost of freedom.

If only you'd known.

"Why're you helping us?" Minho questions suddenly. Janson's polite smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Let's just say the world out there is in a rather precarious situation. We're all hanging on by a very thin thread." His voice carries as he continues walking. "The fact that you kids can survive the flare virus makes you the best chance of humanities' continued survival. Unfortunately, it also makes you a target, as no doubt by now, you've noticed."

"Right." Someone mutters. Janson stops in front of a large metal door and pulls out a keycard. The lock beeps as he swipes it. The door slides open mechanically.

"Beyond this door lies the beginning of your new lives, but first things first." He adds with a small grimace. "Let's do something about that smell. Showers!"

The moment the word leaves his mouth, the group scatters. Some rush eagerly down the hall, desperate for clean clothes and water. Others move more slowly, still stiff and exhausted.

You don't move on your own. Teresa's hand slips gently around your arm again, steady and patient as she guides you down the hallway with the others.

She leads you into a wide room lined with shower stalls. Steam curls in the air, and piles of towels sit stacked neatly along a nearby counter. She brings you over to a small stool just outside one of the stalls. You sit without resistance.

"How can I help?" She asks softly.

"I don't know." You stare down at the tiled floor.

Your mind drifts back to the first day you entered the Glade: The fear. The confusion. The adrenaline. Even then, in the middle of chaos, you felt alive. You felt like the challenge of survival meant something. Like you had something to prove.

Now, the idea of another challenge makes you weary. You don't want to fight anymore. You don't want to prove anything. You just want to rest, and never wake up.

"Do you want help undressing?"

"No." Your voice cracks the moment the word leaves your mouth. It must be from all that wailing earlier. "I can do it." You manage. "Thank you, Teresa."

Thank you.

Thank you.

You don't feel thankful at all. You feel like the earth should open up beneath you and swallow you whole. Chuck is still back there. Left behind.

You left him there.

What if you ran out now? What if you bolted down the hallway and kept running until this whole place disappeared behind you? Maybe you could find your way back. Maybe you could reach him.

When you left the Maze, you promised yourself you'd be better. Kinder. That the world outside those walls would be different, but right now, you don't want to be kind. You don't want to say 'please'. You don't want to say 'thank you'. You don't want to do anything at all.

"I'll be over there." Teresa says quietly, squeezing your shoulder once before standing. She steps away toward another stall, leaving you alone on the stool.

"Okay." You whisper blankly to no one.

You sit there for a long while.

Maybe two long whiles.

Eventually, you force yourself to stand.

Your body feels stiff as you pull your clothing off piece by piece. The fabric clings slightly where dried blood has soaked into it, but you avoid looking too closely.

Once you're undressed, you step into the stall and twist the handle. Cold water washes down over your shoulders. You barely react. You simply stand there, staring down at your own worn body. Your skin is streaked in dirt and bruises. Scratches cross your arms and legs like thin red vines.

The water slowly begins to warm. Steam gathers around you. Thin trails of crimson start to snake down your skin, spiraling toward the drain. You watch them disappear.

You can't tell whose blood it is. Maybe it's Chuck's. Maybe it's yours. Maybe it's both. Your chest tightens, and you feel like you should cry, but nothing comes. You're too exhausted. You're too empty. It feels like you're standing here in someone else's body.

You reach for the soap. You wash your arms, then rise. Wash your hair, then rinse. You force yourself through each miniscule step with determination.

Just keep moving.

Just keep breathing.

That's enough.

Chuck was so close to being here, wasn't he? He was so close to seeing all this. He was right there. Right at the end. He would've loved this: A real meal, a warm shower, and a place to sleep without worrying about Grievers.

Chuck deserved this more than anyone.

You don't deserve this.

What is wrong with you?

You are disgusting.

You should've died in the Maze.

You should've never befriended Chuck.

You ruined his life.

You realize that, don't you?

You are the problem.

You always have been.

Chuck deserved this.

You relish in it instead.

You are selfish.

You killed him.

You killed Chuck.

Your hand shoots forward and slams the faucet with brutal force. The metal screeches loudly as the water cuts off. Before you can stop yourself, your fist crashes into the tile wall.

Pain explodes through your knuckles, and somehow, it feels good. You hit the wall again, and again, and again. Each strike sends another jolt of pain up your arm, but it barely slows you down.

The anger keeps boiling over, pushing you forward as your fist pounds against the unforgiving tile. Your knuckles split. Skin scrapes away. A dull smear of red begins to mark the wall. You keep hitting it. Maybe if you hurt yourself enough, you can pay for your sins.

"Hey," Teresa's voice echoes from outside the shower stall. You freeze. "I heard something." She says carefully. "I'm... I'm coming in. Okay?" You exhale slowly, taking a look at your hand. Your knuckles are swelling. Torn. Bleeding.

You did this.

You did this too.

The curtain rustles softly as Teresa peeks inside. She doesn't gasp. She doesn't make a sound. Her eyes flick once to your bleeding knuckles, then back to your face.

She helps you out of the stall. You don't resist. You barely even move on your own. Teresa wraps a towel around your shoulders and begins drying your hair in careful motions.

You don't deserve this much care.

She helps you pull on a clean set of clothes someone left nearby. Everything she does is so calm. So steady. Maybe if you'd been more like her, Chuck would still be here.

Finally, she takes your injured hand in hers. She cleans the blood from your knuckles with a damp towel, careful not to press too hard. The whole time, she never says a word.

When you're finished, Teresa slips your arm through hers again. Together, you leave the showers, and find a guard waiting in the hallway.

"Medical." He says simply, nodding for you to follow. Teresa sticks beside you as the two of you walk through the facility in silence. You're strangely grateful she isn't trying to talk to you. You're not sure you could handle it.

Every step makes you more aware of how pathetic you must look: Being half carried down the hallway while someone else cleans up your mess. You hate being seen like this. Weak. Pitiful.

At the same time, you know Teresa isn't judging you. She's only trying to help. The conflicting thoughts churn in your head as you swallow the anger down.

Teresa guides you through another set of doors. The room is bright. Too bright. Rows of beds line the walls, each one surrounded by strange machines and rolling carts filled with supplies.

People in clean uniforms move quickly from one patient to the next, their voices low and efficient. You're led onto one of the narrow beds, the paper crinkling beneath you as you sit.

Everything starts happening at once.

A cuff tightens around your arm, squeezing until your pulse pounds uncomfortably beneath it. Someone tilts your chin up, flashing a small light across your eyes. You blink sluggishly, trying to follow it, but it leaves streaks in your vision.

"Stay with me." A voice says distantly.

A nurse takes your injured hand. You finally truly feel it when she presses gauze onto your split knuckles. The sting is a delayed bloom, and it feels like your body is struggling to catch up. She cleans away any leftover dried blood, picking grit from the cuts before wrapping them tight.

A sharp prick from your other arm hits your senses. You flinch, more from the unexpected pressure than the pain. You watch numbly as a needle slides into your vein.

"Just a precaution." The needle wielder speaks. "Antibiotics. Have you got a name?" You answer. "Any dizziness? Nausea?" You answer that too, or maybe Teresa does. Her voice is somewhere nearby, filling in the gaps you leave behind.

Time means nothing anymore.

You're moved. You're turned. You're pressed. You're checked. At some point, you're sitting again— No. Still sitting? You could've sworn you were just speaking to Janson. Had you imagined it?

Focus.

You can't.

You can't focus enough to be present.

You don't deserve to be present in your own body.

"Let's take a look at this knee." A man in a cleaner coat crouches in front of you. When did he get here? He slides his hands carefully beneath your leg, lifting it. A sharp, deep pain shoots up your thigh. You don't move. "Hmm." He hums. His fingers press along the side of your knee. Then, just below. "Tender here?"

"Hm?" You blink. Teresa must've disappeared. She can't answer for you this time. Not that she'd know what your body feels. You don't even know what your body feels. "Oh. Yeah. I guess."

He bends your knee, and something catches. It's not a clean movement. More like the bone is dragging somewhere it shouldn't be. It hurts. You still don't move.

"Okay." He steadies the leg back down. He turns to the screen beside you, pulling up a scan you don't remember getting. A grainy image of your knee flashes into view with lines and shadows you can't make sense of. "Looks like you had a fracture along the plateau."

"Okay."

"Right here," He taps the image. "It started healing, but not cleanly. You've been putting too much weight on it too soon." Of course you have. You've been running for your life. "The joint's a little unstable now. That catching feeling? That's the bone and surrounding tissue not tracking the way it should."

"Okay."

"Good news is, you won't need surgery if we stabilize it properly, but you need to stay off it as much as possible. No running. No sudden turns. If you keep pushing it, you could lose what you've got left of your knee."

"Okay." It should scare you, but you really don't have the drive to say anything more.

A nurse steps up with a thick, structured brace, lined with supports. She wraps it around your leg and tightens the straps one by one. It locks your knee in place. Restricts it.

"Try standing." She asks softly. You hesitate, then slide off the bed. The sharp instability is gone, replaced by a dull, contained pressure. Held. Controlled. Wrong, but manageable. "Alright. How's that feel?"

"Good." It's a lie, but you don't have the energy for anything more than one word.

"That's what we like to hear." The nurse chimes. "If there are no further concerns, you're cleared to join the rest of your group in the cafeteria." You nod. Someone is already guiding you back into the hallway.

You follow the corridor until it opens up into a large cafeteria. It's wide, noisy, filled with long tables and the smell of food. You hesitate near the entrance, unsure of where to go.

You spot them: Familiar faces at one of the tables across the room. Frypan sees you first. His eyes widen slightly at your cleaner appearance before he pushes his chair and stands up.

"Hey, Trouble." He crosses the room quickly and pulls you into a hug. You stiffen at first, then your arms lift and wrap around him. "I was wondering where you'd gone." He pulls back, one hand still resting on your shoulder. "Come on."

He guides you back to the table, keeping an arm loosely around you the entire time. Thomas is already leaning forward from the moment you sit down.

"Where were you? What took so long? Did they run more tests?" His words come out in a rush. They're a flood of questions you don't have the energy to answer. You stare at the table, and Frypan squeezes your shoulder lightly. "Did you see Teresa?"

You shrug.

"What's this?" Minho drops onto the seat beside you, tapping the clunky brace on your knee. You glance down at it like you'd forgotten it was there.

"Brace."

"Right." He grimaces faintly, then exhales, sliding a tray of food in front of you. "Eat now?" Your stomach twists when the smell hits you. Your leg shifts slightly under the table as you curve away from the food. The brace resists, holding it up.

It's heavy. It's restricting. You could just take it off. You could unstrap it. Let yourself move. Let it hurt the way it's supposed to. Let it get worse. Maybe that would be fair.

"Not hungry."

Across the table, Newt is watching you. Directly. Unashamedly. His eyes don't leave your face. For some unfathomable reason, meeting his gaze only makes your heart squeeze painfully. It's worse than looking at anyone else.

So, you look away.

You move the tray and lower your head to rest your forehead against the cool surface of the table. The noise of the cafeteria fades into the background. Voices blur together. Silverware clatters against the table.

None of this feels real.

You imagine Chuck sitting across from you, elbows on the table, talking with his mouth half full like he always did, beaming whenever someone told him to slow down.

God, he should have been here.

Not you.

Vibrations.

Beneath you, around you, enveloping you as if you were drowning in the cold, salty depths of the sea. Except, you take a breath in, and there is no water. Only a metallic sting.

Inhale.

You inhale sharply, then exhale, only to inhale raggedly once more. Your eyes, they open, but you see nothing. Only darkness. A deep darkness which makes you wonder if you'd opened your eyes at all.

There's a hum, and you realize you're rising. Your mind is sharp with panic: An elevator. This is your conclusion. An elevator of sorts. You can't recall the last time you were in an elevator. Yet, you know what an elevator is with such certainty.

Actually, you can't recall anything, even the simplest thing such as your name. Your age. Where do you come from? Why are you here? Where is here?

Who are you?

What an odd question to ask your own self but now is not a time for pondering. Rather, you find your aching body moving before your mind can catch up.

It is truly awful to fumble in the dark, banging on what feels to be metal, the sound of your fists pounding against the unfamiliar surface is almost as nasty as the sound of your own hoarse yells.

How peculiar, that you can scream and shout, but you didn't even remember the sound of your own voice.

Then, the air grows warmer as you rise. Is it your own fear heating you? Then the scent of grass and soil overpower the metal.

Then light.

Sunlight.

Not that you remember the last time you'd seen the sun. You can hear the murmur of voices, the faint chirps of birds. The sound would've brought you comfort under different circumstances. Maybe it still does.

Several minutes pass. Enough time in this unknown prison to drive a person mad. Your shouts and screams are replaced by silence as you listen keenly. When did your fear become replaced by anticipation?

Then with a violent lurch, the elevator stops. There is nothing for several heartbeats, and the moments tick by like eternities. Then, the sky opens up like God is descending from the heavens himself to greet you. Had you died?

Was this the afterlife? Were you facing judgement? You couldn't even remember if you were the type of person who deserved heaven or eternal damnation.

The light is blinding, painful, and your palm rises over your face to shield your sensitive eyes. Then, you lock in on the flurry of voices around you.

"Greenie's here!"

"What's he look like?"

"What do you see?"

Your vision adjusts. There are boxes around you. Crates. Various items. Looking down at you? A crowd of boys. Young men who stare down with eager expressions like they're watching gladiators fight in a pit.

Fuck no.

You can't stand it. You tremble, but you know you refuse to be part of whatever this is. They've all gone silent, like looking at you was the biggest shock of their lives, but you won't wait around to see what they think of you.

You dash, faster than you thought your shaking body could take you, to the edge of whatever elevator contraption you're trapped in. Hoisting yourself up hurts, but your strength surprises you, adrenaline coursing through your veins.

You pull yourself over. Where are you? A field? You don't take a moment to understand your surroundings. Instead, you run, as fast as your legs will take you across lush grass.

"Woah!" Someone shouts behind you, and you hear the shouts of panic and confusion. Yet, nobody could possibly be as disoriented as you are.

Where are you going? Where are you running to? Does it matter? As long as it carries you far away from the strangers. A group of all boys. The thought makes you uneasy.

"She's running!" Someone says, as you hear the sound of dozens of footsteps following you.

"She?" Someone else exclaims.

Your eyes finally scan the area in a blur. It truly is just a field. An open square of grass, which is walled by enormous grey stone that seem to stretch hundreds of feet into the sky. Walls which look too perfect, inhumanely built.

That can't be normal.

"Stop!"

They're catching up to you. It's inevitable. After all, your body feels weak, tremoring. Your legs can only carry you so far, but fortunately, your gaze lands on a small pile of stones.

Well, suppose when flight is no longer a viable option, anything can be used to fight.

You roll onto the ground, and you hear the boys collectively sigh with relief, thinking you'd finally relented and crumpled into the ground. As if you'd ever be so weak. You didn't know yourself at all, but this felt right. The fire in your veins.

You grab a stone, standing, and holding the giant rock over your head, a threat.

"Stay back!" Are the first words out of your mouth. Your voice sounds hoarse, and weaker than you would've liked, but it works, a couple of the boys slowing and holding their hands up in surrender.

The first person you see is a big, broad-shouldered man. Dark skin with short black hair. His eyes glare sharply into you. He's intimidating. From the way he carries himself, you just know he's in charge. Right behind him, another boy. Tall, lean, with jostled blonde hair.

"Stay back, I said!" You shout again. "Are you deaf!?" Your voice sounds stronger this time as you find yourself. These boys certainly don't look afraid of you, but you wish they did.

"Just calm down-" The sharp leader takes another step forward, but you don't play around. You toss your stone at him, a warning, a near miss, bending down quickly again to rearm yourself.

"I told you, I'm serious! I'll knock your big ass out!" You say, gripping your new rock tightly.

Another boy nearby laughs. He laughs! The audacity. Your eyes flicker to him. He's Asian, and... Shirtless? What the hell is wrong with these people.

"Bloody hell Greenie, you've got legs to you." The blonde says as he takes several slow steps forward, hands raised. "Calm down, we ain't gonna hurt you."

"Newt, back it up." Unfortunately, the warning comes too late, and you throw the stone, nailing him right in the head. A couple others gasp, some stride forward quickly in an effort to forcefully subdue you. You don't stand for it, though, immediately acquiring another large rock.

"She actually threw it at him."

"Toss her in the pit, 'til she calms down."

"She's crazy!"

"Back off." The blonde presumably known as 'Newt' hollers to the others who approach you. "She's scared. Just give her space." He says calmly, as if you hadn't just assaulted him. You watched his fingers tap cautiously as the blood trickling down his temple. Part of you almost felt guilty.

Some others shuffle back, and the stern looking leader crosses his arms disapprovingly at you. Yet, he doesn't interfere. He watches, like a hawk eyeing prey.

"You've got a fire to you. Good that." Probably 'Newt' says, a friendly smile tugging at his lips. Then, the lunatic takes another step forward. "I'll take my chances if it means keeping you safe from yourself. Yeah? Now, please, put the rock down before some other bloke tries to be brave and gets hurt tryin'."

"Is there something wrong with you?" The sass slips out of your lips before you can stop yourself. "I just threw a rock at you, y'know." Maybe you'd given him a concussion, and he wasn't thinking clearly.

"Maybe you've got anger issues." He retorts, giving a faint huff of amusement. The blood is trailing down to his brow, but he doesn't seem to care. Instead, his eyes are locked right on you as he takes small, shuffling steps forward.

"Anger issues?!" It's almost comical the way you squeal out the words. "I don't have anger issues! I- I don't know where I am! Who even are you?!"

"My name is Newt." What kind of name is that? "Welcome to the Glade, Greenie." He's right in front of you now, reaching his blood smeared palm out to the rock you still fiercely held over your head.

His fingertips trace the rock, brushing against yours as he positions his hands around it, carefully removing it from your grasp, and you let him for some unknown reason. The hell else are you supposed to do? Hit him again?

His touch if meticulous, like he's handling a skittish bird who could fly away at any moment. He tosses the rock aside, without force, but like it means nothing.

"Told you I wouldn't hurt you." He says softly. So softly you nearly forget the situation you're in, surrounded now by a small crowd watching the blonde stranger disarm you.

"What's a Glade?" You suddenly feel almost naked, uncomfortable without your weapon, shrouded only in questions and the gaze of others. "Why am I here? Who are you? I can't remember anything."

"One thing at a time." Almost like he can sense your anxiety, Newt steps slightly closer, shielding you from prying eyes. "Minho, will you take the rest to the Homestead? Give us a minute?"

"C'mon Shanks!" The shirtless one waves off the others with exaggerated flair. "Show's over! Let Newt woo the girl in peace!" A few chuckles ripple through the group as they disperse.

"Newt, are you sure?" The supposed leader asks. Yet, it now leaves you question who's really the leader: Newt, or Mr. Tall, dark, and handsome.

"I've got her." Newt says surely. "Thanks Alby." So that's his name. Alby. Thank goodness, he turns away to leave. You feel more comfortable now that you're standing alone with Newt. If things went south, it would be much easier to defend yourself against Newt rather than Alby.

"I could kill you and run." You say, honestly speaking your mind. "You just sent away all your security."

"You could, yeah." He chuckles, still bleeding from his head. "Reckon I'd let you do it too. Hell, you could've killed me just now, the way you threw that thing at my skull like a bloody baseball."

"Well..." You chew the inside of your cheek nervously. "It was sort of your own fault. I told you not to come closer."

"Oh, my fault? I'll be sure to listen better next time." He chuckles, a tired exhale.

An awkward silence fills the air, and as your breathing slows, you finally get the chance to look around, truly. You watch the trees of the Deadheads and the Homestead's wooden beams, attention flickering wherever you saw movement.

"...Why am I here?" You ask again, slower.

"You're in the Glade." He says gently. "Center of nowhere, surrounded by 4 massive walls. They close every night at sundown. We all started out same as you. Don't remember a thing. Don't know why we're here. Just know we've got rules. Don't hurt each other, no slacking, and whatnot. Other than that, you'll figure it out."

"How long have you been here?" You ask coldly, still not ready to let your guard down. None of these answers he offered truly satisfied you.

"Been here... Longer than I care to count." He says, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. Yet, it sounds like a lie. His eyes flick away from your face and down to the ground. "No calendars, no birthdays, just sunrises, sunsets, and a new Greenie every month."

"Greenies? How many people are here?" Your questions seem endless. With every response you receive, you only feel more and more lost. "Where are the other girls?"

"Greenies are the newbies. Like yourself. Call ourselves Gladers. Several dozen of us now, split up into different roles. Builders, Slicers, Cooks, Med-Jacks, and others. Pretty organized lot, considering we all came clueless, one-by-one. Like I said, we keep the place running, together." He pauses, as if pondering his words carefully before he spoke. "...There've been only lads thus far. You're the first... Girl."

It sounds wrong. Almost nauseating to hear him say it like that. Another uncomfortable silence buzzes between you as you process the insanity that has been your day.

"...Someone's probably gonna lose their job for sending me up here then, huh?" You say, deflecting your discomfort with poorly timed humor.

Then out of the corner of your eye, you see Alby returning. You have no sense of how long you've been out here, bombarding poor Newt with questions while he still bled from his head.

"That's Alby. Reckon he's been here longer than any of us poor Shanks. He's the leader round here." Newt explains before you can panic over the approach of the other man.

"I'm not going to get another rock thrown my way, am I Greenie?" He stops a few feet away from you and Newt, hands raised in surrender, similarly fashion to how Newt had done earlier. "I made another rule among the others. Nobody will touch you, or harm you in any way. You're safe here. Anyone tries to mess with you, they'll have us to answer to. Okay?" He lowers his hands. "Come on back to the Homestead. I'm sure there's still a lot to fill you in on."

Looking between Newt and Alby, their timid movements around you, you almost wonder who's more afraid of who.

Yet, there's a foundation of trust between you and these strangers. Especially considering Newt had just let you clunk a rock against his head. He didn't yell. Didn't force. Nobody did. They simply accommodated you, patiently, with an understanding they only could show from having been in your position themselves.

So you take a step forward, nodding as you follow Alby's lead back to the Homestead. Your heart races and you feel comparable to a terrified alley cat who hisses at anyone who passes by, whether they're friend or foe.