Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PART 1

victims of circumstance

Thomas, without a memory to his name, is the newest prisoner of the Maze. Only this Greenie isn’t quite like those before him, he’s eager to see what lies beyond the walls, unable to sit still—or that might just be the ADHD in him.

He began his new life by jolting awake, surrounded by an almost unbearable heat and stale air.

Gears clinked and vibrated, lurching the cage—box really—upwards. He tried to scramble to his feet, but his knees buckled under his weight. He lay there on the uncomfortable floor, watching and feeling as the box ascend. His body was coated in sweat, his hair stuck to his forehead, and swiping his arm across it did little to remove the grimy feeling.

He crawled, pulling his body to one of the crates in this metal box with him in an attempt to sit up. His muscles twitched and spasmed beneath his skin. He groaned, and the noise he made sounded hoarse to his ears—that wasn’t what his voice usually sounded like.

He paused at the thought. Time seemed to crawl to a halt with the realisation that he could remember things. His mind produced thoughts, facts, images, and details about the world and how it worked. He knew what snow looked like, what autumn, summer and spring all looked like. He could easily picture the moon speckling the ground with its light, busy town centres, and the smell of car exhaust. He remembers eating curly fries and other foods. Could almost taste them on the tip of his tongue. He could recall fussing over someone to eat more healthfully.

Yet he couldn’t remember doing or seeing them himself—he just knew it all.

He didn’t even know his damn name.

There were images of people that flashed across his mind’s eye, but there was no recognition. Their faces are just smears of colour, distorted of any details that he could have used to recognise them if he ever saw them again.

Despite that, his mind functioned without flaw, trying to calculate his surroundings and predicament. The action felt calmingly familiar.

The room, despite the momentary sensation of time halting, continued to move upwards. He found himself growing immune to the endless rattling and clanking of the metal as he ascended to God-knows-where. A long time passed (or maybe it was minutes), but he found himself getting restless, his legs tensing with the need to move and pace.

A part of him, at the back of his mind, whispered that it had been roughly half an hour. He didn’t know where that voice came from, but his instincts knew that it could trust it. He felt that the voice had been helpful in a past he couldn’t remember.

With a groan and a loud grinding sound, the rising box halted. The sudden stop jolted him, and he groaned as his head slammed back into the crate he was sitting against.

Everything fell silent. The only sound was the buzzing of electricity and his heavy breathing.

A minute passed. Then two. His eyes flickered in every direction, but he only saw darkness. He groaned in frustration, the sound echoing through the stale air like a ghostly moan. He licked his lips and slipped his fingers in the grating to begin rising to his feet when, suddenly, a loud clank rang above him.

He sucked in a startled breath as he glanced up. A line of light appeared down the centre of the roof. He watched as it expanded.

Trapdoor, his mind supplied as the clanking was replaced by a grinding sound and the sliding doors slipped further apart. Without hesitation, the light forced its way in and filled every corner and crevice it could find. The sharp and unexpected brightness burned his eyes, and he shielded them with both hands.

Then he heard it.

Heard noise—voices—and his chest squeezed in fear.

“Look at that shank.”

“How old is he?”

“He’s human!”

“What? We’ve never got a human before!”

“Hope you enjoyed the one-way trip, Greenie.”

“Ain’t no ticket back, bro.”

He was hit with a wave of confusion, blistered with panic. The voices were odd, some words foreign, but he picked up others. Human—they’d called him human.

 He knew he was human—a simple, concrete fact. Mingled within that solid knowledge was the idea that there was a world of beings not entirely human, too.

It was the prompting he needed to lower his arm, willing his eyes to adjust to the sunlight. At first, all he could see was shifting shadows, but soon that turned into shapes of bodies—people bending over the hole in the ceiling, peering down at him curiously.

Then the faces were clearing. They were all boys—some young, some older. They were just teenagers. Like him. Some of his fear melted away, but not enough to calm his racing heart.

A rope with a big loop at the end is chucked down.

He hesitated for a moment before reaching out for the rope and slipping his right foot in. He’s yanked skyward. Hands reached down, lots of hands, grabbing him by the clothes—pulling him up, up, up. As soon as he’s free of the box, they released him and he fell onto his side, twisting onto his back, eyes wide as he stared up at all the boys surrounding him.

Too close.

They were too close and he couldn’t breathe—

A dark-skinned guy stepped forward, and they met eyes. His dark eyes flash—flash a piercing and dark red and—

Panic floods his chest because he’s seen eyes like those before (Alpha eyes, his mind supplied), and they send fear and panic flooding his veins because the firm and narrowed gaze reminds him of someone—people who also had red eyes.

No, no, no, no—please no. I can’t, please, no more. Not again.

He scrambled to his feet, the boys all stumbling out of his way as he forced himself through the crowd and—

“He’s fast for a human! Look at him run!”

“We’ve got ourselves a Runner it seems!”

He’s running—legs pumping and for a moment, as he felt the wind through his sticky hair and ground beneath his feet, he thought he remembered something. A brown-haired person with red eyes, he can’t make out their facial features. The image is gone, however, as he stumbled over his own feet, crashing into the dirt and rolling several times.

He groaned as his ribs protested the sudden impact. He laid there, gasping for air.

He could hear the laughter of the boys behind him but paid it little mind as he took several moments to gather his confused, racing mind. He pushed himself to his butt and finally took the chance to examine his surroundings.

Walls. Large and miles-high walls met his eyes. Walls covered in deep green and healthy vines. Walls that formed a large concrete rectangle around him like a prison, and where he sat, a little off the centre, was a large parcel of land and woodland, blocked in by those four intimidating walls.

What was this place? And why was he here? Why were any of them here?

Why couldn’t he remember anything?

“That was quite the run there.”

He glanced up at the dark-skinned guy who’d flashed his Alpha eyes. The guy approached at a leisurely pace. His heart still pounded a little from everything, but his mind had clear. He could breathe again, and his thoughts had rationalised.

“Seems that you’re unfamiliar with what I am—” he started, and before the guy could finish, he found himself cutting in.

“An Alpha wolf.”

The Alpha paused, staring at him with raised brows of surprise, but the expression was controlled. There was a tingling of I-know-that-look that poked at him, like the expression more than the face felt familiar.

“So, you know about the supernatural then?”

“Yeah,” a part of him wanted to say duh. A rational person would have probably had an entirely different reaction to some guy flashing red eyes at them. But he doesn’t say it despite the urge. Instead, he asked: “Where are we?”

The werewolf sighed and held out a hand to tug the human up. With slight hesitation, he allowed the wolf to pull him to his feet.

“First off, name’s Alby and I’m the Leader of this place. Got it?” Alby introduced, and he nodded. “You remember your name yet?”

“No, why—” he frowned deeply, wracking his brain for something but there was nothing new from the moment he had realised he remembered nothing. “Why can’t I remember anything?”

“Relax,” Alby said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “It's normal, it happened to us all. You'll get your name back in a day or two. It's the one thing they let us keep.”

Only thing they let us keep?

“So, what is this place?” he asked again, slightly differently this time.

Alby exhaled heavily, giving him a firm look. “Relax, Greenie. You’ll have your questions answered, but first you gotta let someone else speak.”

Fair enough, he, yet-to-remember-his-name, thought.

The sound of someone else approaching drew his gaze from Alby to the newcomer. The other was a taller boy, about late teens, with long, honey-blond hair loosely tied in a ponytail and olive-green eyes.

He slapped Alby on the back playfully, “Give the Greenie a break will ya, Alby?”

Alby rolled his eyes at the blond. “If you like the Greenie so much, why don’t you give him the tour?”

The blond smirked, “Alright then.” He turned from Alby to him. “The name’s Newt.”

“When I'm not around, he's in charge,” Ably explained, “Newt here is a puma.”

His brows went up. Puma? His mind exploded with questions. There was a rush of information—too much for him to process in that moment about the supernatural. He cocked his head. “I didn’t think that was a thing?”

Newt hummed with an upward tilt of his mouth. “As far as I’m aware? They’re not a common thing. The Glades is made up of a bunch of boys with varying abilities, but I’m the only puma, or feline in general.”

“From my limited knowledge, pumas weren’t a thing either,” Alby added, crossing his arms, “We’ve just concluded that whoever put us here might have done some experimenting before sending us up.”

Newt shook his head, throwing an arm over the Greenie’s shoulder, leading him away from Alby. “Let’s get started on the tour, yeah?”

Once they’d parted ways with Alby, Newt dropped his arm from the Greenie’s shoulder. “Y’know that was some dash you made earlier. For a second, I thought you had the chops to be a Runner… till you face-planted,” he chuckled. “That was great.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly. But he paused, mind snagging onto one word: “Runner?”

Newt pursed his lips together, and his expression twitched slightly. He shook his head after sparing a glance over his head towards the direction Alby had left. “I’ll explain later. It’ll be on the tour.”

He frowned but nodded.

“Anyway, we eat here. We sleep here. We grow our own food. We build our own shelter. The Box supplies the basics, and the rest is up to us,” Newt explained as they made a basic circle around the entire Glade. Newt occasionally added extra information about places, like the fact that he worked with the Track-hoes or pointed out certain people, like the Keepers of each section.

“The box? You mean the thing I came up in?”

“Yeah. It’s how we’re all deposited here. It's sent up once a month with fresh supplies and a new Greenie. This month, that's you. Congrats," Newt said, patting him on the shoulder.

He frowned again. “Sent up? By who, though? Who’d want to put us here?”

“Don't know,” Newt shrugged. “But we've worked hard to get the Glade like this. If you respect this place, we’re all gonna get along just fine.”

His eyes caught sight of the large gate, just one of four that were integrated into the large walls. The path into them split up, and it reminded him of the start of a maze in all honesty.

He pursed his lips, asking, “So what's out there?”

Newt stopped, turning to him with crossed arms. “Look, we only have three rules. First, do your part. No time for any freeloaders. Second, never harm another Glader. None of this works unless we have trust. Most importantly... never go beyond those walls without permission. Do you understand me, Greenie?”

He cocked his head, brows furrowing, but he nodded. Yeah, he understood that, but why was no one telling him what he wanted to know? He knew that they could, at the very least, answer some of them, but why not? Why string it out? It just made him all the more curious. He was just gonna keep asking until they answered, so why not get it out of the way?

Newt nodded as if to say the matter was settled before patting his back and starting to lead him back towards the hammocks, but he was hit with a thought.

No, a word.

A name…

“Thomas,” he blurted, and Newt stopped abruptly, blinking at him.

“What’d you say?” Newt asked.

“My name. It’s Thomas,” Thomas murmured, despite how… strange it felt in his mouth. Unfamiliar and yet he has no reason to doubt the fact that it was his name.

The blond smirked, patting the human’s shoulder again. “Well then, Thomas, nice to meet you.”

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

He was strange. That much was obvious, beyond the simple fact that Thomas was a human in a Glade full of supernatural creatures. Even then, Newt still found the Greenie to be seriously rather odd.

The brunet was quite literally the first full-human to step foot into the Glade, and yet he was too bloody curious for his own good, asking questions that he wasn’t yet ready for. Like he wasn't even scared, like he was used to something like this happening to him, like—

Newt didn't know what to make of that. He didn’t like it, that’s for sure. But Newt shook that off for now as they approached the hammocks, and Chuck was waiting there as Newt had requested.

“Chuckie,” he greeted the youngest Glader. He was glad the Creators didn't think it funny to send another young one up in the Box.

“Newt!” Chuck answered with a smile.

Chuck was a short, pudgy boy with brown eyes and curly hair to match. He couldn't be any older than maybe twelve or thirteen years old. Everyone in this Glade had a soft spot for the sometimes annoying, very talkative little guy.

His eyes turned to the Greenie.

“So you’re the new Greenie?” he asked Thomas.

“Uh, yeah?” he frowned, obviously still confused about all the Galder terms.

Newt chuckled, reaching over to pat Chuck’s shoulder. "Chuck here will help ya with your hammock, got it?”

Thomas met his gaze and nodded.

“Oh, and try not to overwhelm him with questions, Thomas,” Newt snickered and walked off.

“So your name's Thomas then?” Chuck questioned and the taller brunet nodded.

“Awesome! Anyway, I’m Chuck, but you already knew that and I’m a jackal!” He smiled before adding, “It’s gonna be great not being called the Greenie anymore!”

“Greenie? What does that mean?” Thomas questioned.

Chuck blinked. “Greenie is basically the newbie, that’s you… shank.”

Shank?

Thomas shot Chuck a confused glance. “And what does ‘shank’ mean?”

“Shank means friend,” Chuck answered. “We have other words too, like klunk, which is another word for poop. Shuck is basically what we say when frustrated. Slim it, good that, and jacked are pretty obvious about their meanings.”

Thomas pursed his lips and nodded, totally not at all feeling a single bit awkward.

“Anyway,” Chuck shrugged it off and picked up the fabric that had been sitting at his feet. “This is your hammock. We gotta put it up first though, obviously. Come on.”

Thomas sighed and followed Chuck through the already strung hammocks to find an open space to put his own. Turns out the only one was next to Chuck’s. Which, being honest with himself here, wasn’t such a bad thing as long as the jackal knew when to stop talking.

Thomas listened to Chuck explain and chatter his ear off, only partly paying attention. He knew he should be more freaked out, but honestly, the adrenaline rush from seeing Alby flash his eyes earlier had dissipated and frankly, left him drained.

Thomas watched Chuck adjusted his attempt to string up the hammock as a question popped into mind.

“Chuck, how… old do you think I am?”

The boy scanned him up and down.

“I’d say you’re seventeen. And in case you were wondering, six feet at most… dark brown hair and eyes. Oh, and not actually that bad looking if I’m being honest, you’ve got moles all over that pretty face of yours.” He snorted a laugh.

Thomas blinked, partly amused by his words (also a bit miffed that someone considered him pretty), but a metallic clicking sound from the branches above grabbed his attention, making him look up. A flash of silver and a red light caught his eyes just before disappearing around the trunk to the other side.

“That was one of them beetle blades,” Chuck explained.

Thomas turned back to the jackal. "A what beetle?”

“Beetle blade,” he answered, pointing to the top of the tree, in the direction the beetle had gone. “It's how the Creators watch us. Won’t hurt ya unless you’re stupid enough to touch one of ‘em.”

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

Thomas sat, knees to his chest and ankles crossed, with his back planted against a support beam, watching as the Gladers went about their business. Beside him, Chuck sat, for once silent, seeming to pick up on the fact that Thomas greatly appreciated the moment of silence to let everything sink in.

“So you’re the newbie,” a voice sneered, and Thomas looked up to see an older, short-haired blond with hazel-green eyes.

“Uh,” he said a little dumbly. “Yeah?” Thomas answered, a little unsettled by the sudden hostility the older boy gave him.

“And you're human?" He continued, although the tone of his question made it seem less like he was curious, and more like 'human' was supposed to be an insult.

“Gally,” Chuck grimaced, eyes flickering between the two older boys, evidently unsure what to do.

"Yes, I am." Thomas shifted in place, fingers more firmly curling into the fabric of his trousers. It wasn't that he was scared of Gally. Far from it, actually. He just had no idea what this bigger, older teen was, and what he could be capable of. "So if you've had your lovely time ogling the not-supernatural, please leave."

Yes, please leave. I would like to disengage from this situation.

Gally looked disgruntled but otherwise ignored him, pausing for a moment, his eyes trained on Chuck's. Thomas didn't know what the hell he was doing, but Chuck was suddenly looking extremely uncomfortable. There was finally some internal emotional response from Thomas, a defensive rise, even if he knew Chuck could probably handle himself physically better than Thomas could—being a supernatural creature and all—but it didn’t stop the itch to act. To defend. To protect.

And he almost allowed himself to do something. That 'something' being snapping at Gally.

Before he could, though, Chuck spoke up, frowning. "Stop talking like he's not here, Gally. And he's not dangerous. Alby would know, alright?"

There were several things wrong with that statement and Thomas didn't know where to start. Gally wasn't even talking? When the hell did he say Thomas was dangerous? How would Alby, even if he were an Alpha, know if Thomas was dangerous?

And then, lastly, Thomas didn't understand exactly how dangerous he was supposed to be against a bunch of were-creatures.

Him, a human with fragile skin and fragile bones whose only defences were fists and his sarcasm.

Both of which Thomas feels had gotten him into trouble numerous times in a past he can’t remember. It’s the ache in his knuckles, the sensation of missing something to grasp and swing, the concrete confidence that he would fuck you up if you threatened his—

But Gally seemed hellbent on convincing Chuck of Thomas's supposed danger just because he was the first human sent up.

"Chuck, he's gotta have some sort of ulterior motive and—no, kid, I'm pretty sure the Creators sent him here for a reason. Maybe he might even be one of the Creators."

Thomas massaged his forehead. Barely a day in and he was already an enemy to some people. Great. Must be a world record.

He flinched when Gally whirled on him, his eyebrows drawn together.

"Well, shuckface? Got anything to say?" He pushed Thomas' shoulder, a little harder than a human could—ow, that kinda hurt but Thomas wrote it off because there were more important things.

"I have nothing to say. I don't know what the hell you want me to say?!" Thomas answered exasperatedly.

"Why would the Creators send up a pesky shuckfaced human like you?" He growled, and Thomas was really starting to get a headache.

"I don't know, Gally, maybe they wanted diversity," Thomas said tiredly, glaring at the taller boy. "I'll be sure to ask them if I ever meet one, yeah?”

Someone coughed, and the three turned to see Newt, who shot Gally a very pointed look. Something unsaid went between them, just as it had with Gally and Chuck. The short-haired blond rolled his eyes and left, but not before shooting a glare Thomas’s way once more.

Chuck mumbled a quiet thanks to Newt, who patted his shoulder.

“What’s his problem?” Thomas asked. That brewing headache finally decided it wanted to really make itself known in a slow, painful pulse behind his forehead. 

Newt sighed, “Don’t mind Gally too much, yeah? He’ll lighten up in a week or so once he realises you’re just a plain old shank that was sent up.”

Thomas didn’t know whether or not to feel offended by that but shook it off with a rub of his forehead. Newt raised a brow, smelling how his headache shifted his scent.

“I envy you supernaturals with your lack of ability to get headaches,” Thomas mumbled.

Newt snorted, and Chuck gave an amused smile, as if mocking him. Thomas side-eyed him playfully.

Chuck grinned, “Poor human Thomas.”

Thomas just grumbled, tempted to flip him off, but held back.

There was a rumble, and Thomas flinched, his eyes turning to the large stone gate forward of his position, watching as it began to shift and slide closed.

Newt patted his shoulder, and he flinched away at the pain, still tender from where Gally jabbed him. Both boys paused, surprised by the reaction. Newt blinked, peering curiously down at Thomas as the other frowned.

“You… okay?” Newt asked slowly.

Thomas blinked up at him, seemingly only hearing him speak but not his words, “Huh?”

“I asked if you’re okay, Greenie,” Newt repeated, the curiosity shifted, his brows rising into an expression Thomas couldn’t put a name to.

“Oh, yeah, fine. Just surprised me, is all,” Thomas answered, shrugging—ow, shouldn’t have done that—which made Newt frown, but Thomas ignored it as he turned back forward to release the strain on his shoulder. That jab Gally had done wasn’t so subtle now.

Newt didn’t miss the skip of his heartbeat that signalled Thomas had lied. The blond pursed his lips.

“So, what’s with the closing doors?” he asked, and Newt sighed.

Does this kid never stop asking questions?

Newt understood the need for answers—he does, just like everyone else here—but it was weird how curious Thomas was. They were supernatural, but most of them had been scared and crying when they’d come up. But here was the newest Greenie, who had been almost entirely fine until Alby had flashed his Alpha eyes and fled, but after stacking it had been completely fine again.

The Greenie hadn’t been here for more than a handful of hours, didn’t have an ounce of supernatural in him (if Newt was trusting his sense of smell), and he was acting as cool as a fucking cucumber like he’d been here for longer than Chuck.

“The Maze is out there.”

“The maze?”

“Yeah. I’ll explain later, shank.”

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

“So what exactly is this about?” Thomas asked as Newt tugged him down to sit against a log. The rest of the Gladers behind him were having some sort of party around a large bonfire and drinking an amber liquid that Thomas guessed to be homemade moonshine.

Newt exhaled with a twinge of exasperation—that seemed to be Newt’s default expression with Thomas—and glanced at him as he took a bite of his skewer and chewed his mouthful. The deadpan expression gave nothing away but there was a clear spark of amusement in his eyes.

“Do you ever stop asking questions?”

“I’ll stop asking when you answer them.”

Newt sighed and glanced back at the closed gate. He held out the jug of amber liquid to Thomas. “Here. Put some hair on your chest.”

Thomas eyed it for a moment, debating if he wanted to even drink that, before gingerly taking it and bringing it to his lips. It didn’t smell bad necessarily, if a little sweet, like sugarcane but—

It was disgusting, and Thomas is sure he’d never tasted something as horrible as that.

He spat it out, gagging, “Oh, oh my God! What is that?”

Newt laughed, grinning widely as he took the jug back, watching as Thomas used his sleeve to wipe his mouth and tongue.

“I don't even know. It's Gally's recipe, it's a trade secret,” Newt hummed, taking another swig of the drink.

Thomas coughed and spat on the grass to try and get rid of the taste from his mouth before he answered, “Well, he's kind of an asshole.”

Newt sighed, “Like I said, he’ll lighten up in a bit. Give him time, yeah?”

Thomas blinked, turning his eyes back to Newt with an oddly blank expression, his scent not really giving away what he was feeling either. Which Newt found, yet again, odd because he was human and yet he had knowledge on how to control his chemosignals—or was he unknowingly doing it?

Newt swallowed, but before he would open his mouth to say anything else, the screeching of the Grievers out in the Maze had drawn Thomas’s attention away from him.

“You gonna answer my question now?” he asked.

Newt groaned, head lulling back in annoyance. “Alright, the Glade is in the centre of a maze, okay? It's large, and the only people allowed out there are the Runners, so truthfully, only they really know what’s out there. The Runners are the strongest and the fastest of us all. And it's a good thing because if they don't make it back before those doors close, then they are stuck out there for the night and no shank’s ever survived a night in the Maze.”

Thomas kept his gaze steady on the closed doors. “What happens to them?”

“Well, we call them Grievers.” Newt took another drink, needing it for this conversation. “They come out at night mostly but on occasion they are known to come out during the day.”

“So, we're trapped here then, aren't we?”

“For the moment,” Newt sighed. He twisted around and Thomas, seeing this, copied and followed Newt’s finger. “You see those guys? There, by the fire? Those are some of the Runners.”

Thomas’s eyes landed on a trio. He couldn’t make out much in the darkness, and they were too far from the fire, but in the middle, a guy of Asian descent, Japanese if Thomas had to guess, was sitting on a crate while the other two mingled with those around them.

“That guy in the middle there, that's Minho. He's an earth Kitsune and the Keeper of the Runners. Every morning, when those doors open, they run the Maze... mapping it, memorising it, trying to find a way out.”

The term Kitsune set something off in his mind, but Thomas couldn’t pinpoint it. But Thomas shook that off and glanced back to Newt, asking, “How long have they been looking?”

“Three years.”

Thomas frowned. “And they haven't found anything?”

Searching the maze for three entire years, and they’d found no sort of clue? Surely had there been any, they would have found them… right? Unless they were keeping quiet about what they had found.

“It's a lot easier said than done,” Newt added, seeing the thoughtful expression on Thomas’ face. His brown—more amber in the light from the bonfire—eyes flickered back to him. Newt raised a finger, pointing to the Maze. “Listen beyond the Griever sounds, do you hear it? It's the Maze, changing. It changes every night.”

Thomas paused, straining his ears for that daunting sound he now realised was shifting concrete in the far distance, “How—? How is that even possible?”

“You can ask the people who put us in here, if you ever meet the bastards,” Newt shrugged. Then, before Thomas could ask anything else, Newt stood. “Right, that’s enough questions for tonight. Come on, you're supposed to be the guest of honour.”

Thomas’s eyes widened at the realisation of what Newt meant. “Oh, no... No! No, come on.”

That was the last thing Thomas wanted to do right now, gut churning sickeningly. Yet Newt, with his strength, pulled Thomas to his feet anyway, tugging the human into the crowd with an arm over his shoulder.

“Let me show you around.”

“Wait, wait,” Thomas protested, stumbling over his feet, but Newt didn’t let up. Instead, he laughed as Thomas nearly stacked it.

“Don’t worry, Tommy. I’m just gonna introduce you to some of the shanks,” Newt explained once the human had found his footing.

Thomas shot him an uneasy look. The idea of being introduced to so many people so quickly left him feeling anxious and nervous. He didn’t understand it; all he knew was that the large number of boys in the Glade set him on edge. It was all overwhelming for him.

“It’ll be fine,” Newt soothed as if sensing his nerves. “You’ll need to learn their names eventually, so why not start now, yeah?”

Thomas sighed and allowed Newt to guide him towards a dark-skinned boy, who turned to them at their approach.

“Hey Newt, Greenie,” he greeted.

“Thomas, this is Frypan. He’s a… mage, of sorts,” Newt introduced.

Thomas's brows shot up. “Frypan?”

Newt laughed, and Frypan smirked, crossing his arms, “It’s a nickname, I hate my actual name.”

“Oh,” was all Thomas said, and Newt snickered again.

Frypan shook his head in amusement. Their attention turned to another boy, who looked to be of Italian heritage (and Thomas could recall Newt having pointed him out earlier at the Bloodhouse), as he approached, “Hey Winston.”

“Fry, Newt,” he turned to Thomas, “Greenie.”

“You remember Winston, right?” Newt asked, hand landing on Thomas’s shoulder as the latter nodded. He had been one of those who helped pull Thomas from the box.

“Nice to officially meet you.” Winston held out his hand and Thomas, with only a second of hesitation, shook it before Winston moved away to join a few other boys.

Someone slammed into Thomas’s shoulder hard enough to send him stumbling. He yelped, startled, before Newt caught his arm and pulled him back out of the fray. The air thrummed with noise Thomas hadn’t been paying attention to previously—shouts, laughter, the thud of boots on packed dirt. At some point, a crowd had shifted toward a makeshift arena carved into the dirt, and boys had been hollering encouragement and jostling one another for a better look.

Thomas blinked at the sight of Gally standing in the ring, chest heaving and shirt clinging to his back with sweat. The bonfire’s glow hit the teen’s almost buzzed head, glinting off the damp skin of his face.

The boy who’d crashed into him groaned, muttered an apology, and dusted himself off. Thomas waved him off, his attention snagging back on Gally.

“What about you, Greenie?” Gally’s voice carried over the noise, rough and taunting.

Thomas frowned, the name still strange in his ears. “What about me?”

Gally’s mouth curved into a knowing smirk, his arms folding across his broad chest. “Wanna match?”

The words hung there. Thomas tilted his head slightly, feeling every set of eyes in the Glade turn toward him. He glanced at Newt beside him. The older boy’s expression tightened immediately, all sharp worry and disapproval.

“Don’t do it, Thomas,” Newt warned, his accent thickening as his brows pulled together in a way that made his stomach churn. “Trying to fight for your bloody ego isn't worth a few broken bones or probably something worse!”

The concern was nice—and, okay, sweet—but Newt didn’t understand. Thomas didn’t care much about his own ego and pride. He didn’t even care about what Gally thought, didn't particularly care about proving himself to this large, angry ball of lack of trust and misplaced anger.

“Yeah, Greenie, guess I shouldn't fight you. Humans are fragile,” Gally sneered. There was a titter of laughter from all around.

Thomas’s jaw clenched. Humans. The word caught somewhere strange in his chest this time. He wasn’t sure why.

“Tommy, I’m serious,” Newt hissed.

Thomas’s gaze slid back to him. He didn’t say it aloud, but this would be about proving something to himself (and he also kind of wanted to maybe punch Gally in the face, nobody can read his mind, right?) and that he wasn’t helpless here. That he wasn’t just another scared kid dropped into someone else’s experiment. He didn’t remember who he’d been before the Box, but something deep in him rebelled against the idea of sitting still, of waiting to be told what to do.

No one else might understand that—not yet—but Thomas had to move.

He needed to act.

He needed answers. 

And maybe, in a strange way, he needed to fight.

Because the truth was, the Glade wasn’t home. It wasn’t even safe. It was a cage that pretended to be a haven. The walls that towered above them weren’t protection—they were containment. Every instinct in his body told him that.

And as his gaze drifted, briefly, to the stone walls where beyond the maze stretched unseen, something in his chest itched—an old, restless curiosity that whispered that whatever waited out there mattered more than anything happening inside these walls.

Thomas doesn’t remember anything before waking up in that Box, but in the few short hours he’d been awake, he had come to realise a few important details about himself.

One, he had been aware of the supernatural world, meaning he was involved in some form or fashion.

The thought unsettled him only a little. It wasn’t just a passing sense of déjà vu—it was bone-deep familiarity. The word supernatural tugged at something buried, like the echo of a conversation he’d once had or a lesson he’d once learned thoroughly.

He caught himself scanning the Glade differently because of it: the way the ivy crawled unnaturally high up the stone walls, how the air seemed to hum faintly with a rhythm he couldn’t place, how some of the shadows stretched just a little too long.

Two, he might be too inquisitive for his own good;

Ever since the moment he’d stumbled out of that metal box, he couldn’t stop asking questions—about the walls, the rules, the people, the sky that looked just a bit too perfect. Every answer he got only opened up three more.

Newt and the others were patient, but he saw the way they exchanged glances when he pressed too hard, when he questioned why things were exactly the way they were. It wasn’t enough for him to accept that this place worked—he needed to know how and why. And maybe that was dangerous here. Maybe that kind of curiosity was what got people hurt. Still, the more he learned, the more he couldn’t stop himself.

Three, there was an itch to understand what he didn’t;

It wasn’t just curiosity—it was a compulsion. Every brick of the Glade felt like part of a larger puzzle, every face a potential clue. He could feel it crawling beneath his skin, that hunger to piece it all together.

The maze beyond the walls called to him, loud in a way nothing else was. It was the unknown, the forbidden, and that made it necessary. Staying here, within the fences of familiarity, was unbearable. The Glade was too small to contain the questions burning through him.

And those three facts meant he needed to see what the Glade just didn’t offer. Thomas needed to go beyond these walls and explore the maze, to understand, to calculate—to align his mind to what the Creators of this place might be thinking or trying to do.

Because something inside him whispered that he’d been here before—not here in the Glade, but in the feeling of being tested, observed, measured. And he wasn’t going to stay still long enough for whoever was watching to decide what happened to him next.

He didn't want to be like the rest of them, wasting years in this cage, never knowing why they were here and always wondering if this was where they were sent to die.

He shook his head at the morbid direction his thoughts had taken. "Either pin him down for three counts, or push him out of the ring? Sure," Thomas said, half-glaring at the smirk on Gally's face. He grumbled a little playfully under his breath: "I'll show you to stop underestimating me."

Gally's smirk sharpened, and from the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Newt's shoulders tense. "Tell me how dirt tastes when I'm through with you, yeah Greenie?"

(Gally–

No, Newt. You know the rules, if he accepts the challenge, it happens.

...You can't harm another Glader, especially someone who can’t keep up.

Ain't no harming happening. Just some friendly game.

Gally, I swear, you're going to get thrown in the bloody– 

Relax, shuckface. I'll try to go easy on him. Now slim it.)

Thomas didn't answer, instead observing the way Newt's jaw clenched, eyes narrowed at Gally and realised that there was some weird silent conversation going on that he wasn’t privy to. His attention turned when Gally stepped forward and rolled his eyes.

"C'mon, Tommyboy." Gally made an exaggerated bow, sweeping his arms out to his sides. "Step in the circle."

A deep breath. A quick glance at everyone watching with anticipation. A step forward.

Thomas calmly entered the ring drawn on the ground, planting his feet in a stance that felt steady for him. His palms itched with the need to hold onto something—a stick? A bat?—whatever it is, it feels strangely important, but he can't grasp at the memory.

And he shouldn't be grasping at the memory, because Gally's was already lunging at him. Thomas scrambled to jump to the side and managed to avoid getting tackled, but Gally grabbed his ankle on his way down and pulled.

As soon as that happened, he knew he couldn’t win with sheer strength. Well, he should've known before that, but maybe he let his annoyance get the better of him. Whatever, at least he knew for certain now.

He puts his hands out to catch himself, and they get scraped, but it's not like they were soft and clean and flawless in the first place so he doesn't care. What he does care about is looking good in front of Newt. And possibly the Kitsune—Minho, right?—who was the leader of the Runners.

He kicked at the fingers still wrapped around his ankle with his other foot and stood up—less gracefully than he'd have liked, but he turned to Gally, who'd also gotten up, a slight golden-yellow gleam to his eyes. 

"Flashing your eyes like a broken flashlight isn't scary, Gally. I should've known you were all bark and no bite."

Scattered laughter erupted from around them, and something flickered in Gally's expression (surprise? fondness? who cares?) before he snarled. "I'll show you bite, Greenie."

Thomas anticipated the lunge this time, and he almost didn't anticipate the enhanced speed, but he had learned never to underestimate a supernatural creature, pissed or otherwise. So he dropped down and barreled straight against Gally's legs, making him topple over Thomas’s shoulders.

A hush fell on the Glade. Save for the crackling of fire, the heavy breathing of Thomas, and the distant sound of walls shifting, their world is silent for three whole seconds.

Then someone cheered and someone else groaned, and it all went downhill from there.

"Shuck, Greenbean's winning so far!"

"Gally, I bet on you with half my breakfast!"

Thomas hadn't even won yet…? Them saying those definitely made him less pressured and more relaxed. Yep. Totally.

Never mind that. He had to work fast.

He moved quickly, hoping to at least push Gally out of the circle or maybe pin him down, but his plans were thrown out of the circle when Gally retaliated faster than Thomas could even say something snarky.

The world flipped around him and he landed hard on his back, his head knocking into the ground and stars burst before his eyes, making him dizzier than he already was. His breath feels like it's been whooshed out of him, and he vaguely realised there's a heavy weight on him, a hand on his chest pinning him down.

Only vaguely, because everything was out of focus. He couldn't hear the Gladers' cheers anymore, couldn't see the shadows dancing as the flames moved, couldn't feel Gally’s concerned, pinched gaze on him—

No, there was this girl. She was beautiful, and Thomas had the sneaking suspicion that she was important to him. She was smiling at him, her brown eyes bright, her dimples showing. She was like light, like sunshine. Thomas felt like maybe he loved her—not romantically, that one's for sure, but like a sister. Like family. Like pa—

There's a swish of something through the air and she's not smiling anymore. Blood painted her lips red and a sword was piercing her chest.

Thomas feels a surge of emotions swell up inside him, cresting like a tidal wave about to crash and consume him. Because he looks down and the sword’s handle is in his hands.

"Alli—?"

"..mas? Thomas!"

Thomas is pulled up by Alby, and he tried not to look too shaken or frazzled, tried to rein in his scent again as he's sure his control slipped, from how everyone's looking at him curiously.

"Sorry, I’m—I—hit my head harder than probably intended," he stammered, feeling awfully like he's still trapped in the Box. "I'm okay."

"He says he's good, boys!" Alby said, waving a hand to dismiss the slight tension. "Let's continue and have more of Gally's recipe!" He turns back to Thomas. "Have a drink as well, kid. Let loose. Tomorrow you start a new day."

Newt gripped Thomas's shoulder and looked like he was about to protest, but Gally extended his hand to Thomas and cut off whatever Newt wanted to say. "Welcome to the Glade, Greenie."

Thomas stared at the outstretched hand for a moment before taking it with a small smile. It might be more of a grimace, but Gally would take what he could give.

He knew Gally still didn't totally trust him, still didn't really like him that much. Maybe Gally was just being nice out of pity or out of some concern for how hard he'd slammed Thomas down. Maybe not.

But for now, they were good.

Gally walked away, and Thomas finally risked a look at Newt. The blond was clearly displeased, jaw tight as he glared after the retreating Glader before muttering something sharp under his breath.

"You okay, Newt?"

Green eyes snap to him, and the scowl doesn't fade but it did soften a bit. "Do you want me to yell at you?" Newt asked snappishly, his gaze sweeping over Thomas like a hen counting her chicks. It made his stomach tingle and he almost laughed—thinking about chickens made him hungry? "Shuck, Thomas. Are you okay? I told you to—"

"I did well, didn't I?"

"—not do it, but you..." Newt faltered, blinking in confusion. "I—what?"

"I did good for a human?"

Newt stared at him like he’d just grown another head. Then, slowly, a small smile tugged at his mouth. “Yeah. You were bloody brilliant for a human against a werewolf.”

“Good enough to—”

What Thomas was about to say clicked in Newt’s head fast. His eyes went comically wide. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Tommy!”

He grabbed Thomas by the shoulders, shaking him wildly and Thomas? Thomas just burst out into laughter. It started as a choke, then turned into a real, full-bodied laugh, spilling from him bright and unrestrained.

The puma stood there, caught off guard and still grasping Thomas’s shoulder, staring, eyes wide for a different reason this time. Thomas was laughing unrepentantly. It was a lovely sound, stewing something strange in Newt’s stomach in a way he can’t name—a warmth bloomed right under his ribs.

Thomas was laughing without a care, all because of Newt. A part of him wondered if that had been Thomas’s goal, to loosen him up from his fretting.

The bond was alive with amusement now; the others had clearly noticed. Snickering voices brushed the edges of Newt’s mind, packmates teasing him for standing there like an idiot.

Realising it, he yanked his hands back as if burned, turning half away. His heart thudded unhelpfully fast.

"We'll continue this tomorrow, if you're that hellbent on it..." Newt said stiffly.

Thomas finally gathered himself, wiping at the tears in his eyes. He hiccupped once, trying to visibly push down his glee at Newt’s response.

"But I'm not making any promises. We'll talk, and that's it,” Newt finished. “We’re not bending any rules because you want to fast-track trying out to be a Runner, got it?”

Thomas reached out and curled his fingers around Newt's elbow, trying to make sure he didn't walk away. He didn’t want to be left to himself. Thomas's grip tightened slightly when Newt tried to pull his arm back. The blond stopped struggling, but Thomas knew that if he wanted to, Newt could just walk away right now. So he doesn't feel bad about acting all sad and lonely.

"Thank you, Newt," he says quietly, genuinely.

Newt doesn't bother replying to that, patting Thomas' hand gently instead.

There's a beat of silence where they both just stare at each other, before the blond smiles again. Bright and warm like the fire.

"So, want more of Gally's recipe?"

“Hell no, that shits disgusting.”

Newt snorted.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

“Hey Thomas,” Chuck spoke. It was late, almost every Glader was asleep in their hammocks and Thomas gave a low groan as Chuck’s voice disturbed him. He curled deeper into his blanket.

“Yeah?” he slurred slightly. He was cold and felt too awkward to get up and ask for another blanket.

“What was up with the sudden wash of emotions that you felt when Gally slammed you down?” he asked.

Thomas stilled, heart leaping to his throat. He had tried to forget about it, almost had until now.

“Thomas?”

“Uh. When I hit my head, I saw a girl,” Thomas explained. Chuck shuffled and his head popped up into Thomas’s sight. His brows were up in surprise and interest.

“Why the negative emotions then? If you saw a girl then—”

“She was dead.”

Chuck went silent.

“—And I think she was important to me too. Can I go to sleep now, Chuck or you gonna ask something else?”

Chuck spluttered before answering, “Yeah, yeah, sorry.”

“It’s fine.” 

Chapter Text

It was very early, and the sun had yet to rise over the towering walls that blocked the Gladers in, and Newt was one of the few awake since it was his job to see the Runners off in the morning.

But that wasn’t quite his task yet. Instead, he wanted Thomas to see why being a Runner was an abysmal idea, especially for a human.

Weaving through the hammocks full of sleeping teens, Newt made his way toward Thomas. The hammocks swung gently in the morning breeze and the lack of sun made the Glade chilly this time of day, but with the Gladers’ supernaturally warm bodies, it didn’t bother them.

To Newt’s surprise, Thomas was awakened. He paused briefly but Thomas had clocked him already, peering at Newt from beneath the blanket he was bundled in.

Cute shank.

“Newt?” he questioned.

“Yep,” he popped the p. “Up ya get up, Greenie. I wanna show you something.”

Thomas scrambled out of his cocoon and slipped on his shoes, following Newt out of the collection of hammocks and sleeping boys.

Newt spared a glance over his shoulder, watching as Thomas yawned and rubbed at his arms. His eyes looked darker in the very early morning light, almost black. Newt turned his eyes away before Thomas could catch him staring. That would be embarrassing.

Once they left the sleeping section and the ground turned to grass, damp with morning dew, Newt broke into a jog, eager to work off the stiffness in his bad leg and led Thomas toward the western wall. Thomas hesitated for only a second but quickly followed after him.

The light that lit the Glade was sparse, and the walls didn’t help as they loomed over them, darkening the area further. Despite that, Thomas managed to keep up, stopping beside Newt as the blond paused. They stood before the massive wall that towered above them like a skyscraper, another random image that floated in the murky pool of his memory-wipe. 

Thomas noticed small red lights flashing here and there along the wall’s face, moving about, stopping, turning off and on. Those weird surveillance beetles?

“So why’d you bring me over here?” he asked, voice cracking slightly from lack of use as he watched the twinkling red glowing lights which left him feeling unsettled.

Newt stood just a couple of feet in front of the thick curtain of ivy on the wall. He sighed, sparing a deadpan look over his shoulder. It was too early for Tommy’s questions.

“I’m getting there, Greenie,” Newt grumbled.

“I’d have thought all my questions yesterday would've clued you in that I don't shut up.” Thomas paused, surprising himself by adding: “Shank.” He threw all the sarcasm he could into the syllable.

Newt broke out into a laugh, though he quickly stifled the sound. “I like you, Tommy, but please, slim it for a moment and let me show you something.”

Newt stepped forward and dug his hands into the thick ivy, tugging several vines away from the wall to reveal a dust-frosted glass pane, a window about two feet wide. It was dark through it, as if it had been painted black.

“...What’re we looking for?”

“Bloody hell, hold your undies, Tommy. One’ll be coming along soon enough.”

A minute passed, then two—several more. Thomas fidgeted on his feet, wondering how Newt could stand there, perfectly patient and still, staring into nothing but darkness. Maybe it was just him who couldn’t deal with standing still? Even the thought of standing still and doing nothing annoyed him.

But his attention was drawn back to the glass pane as something shifted in the darkness. Glimmers of an eerie light shone through the window, casting a wavering spectrum of red across Newt’s face, as if he stood next to a lighted swimming pool. It made Newt look strangely handsome. A frown twitched at Thomas’s brow with the thought, but his attention went back to the window as he squinted, trying to make out what was on the other side. A thick lump grew in his throat.

“Out there’s the Maze,” Newt whispered, eyes wide as if in a trance. “Everything we do revolves around the bugging Maze. Every lovin’ second of every bloody day we spend in this godforsaken thing, trying to solve something that might not even have a bloody solution, y’know? And I wanna show you why it’s not to be messed with. Show you what those bugging walls keep out and why they keep us safe. Show you why you don’t wanna be a Runner, Tommy.”

Newt stepped back, still holding on to the ivy vines. He gestured for Thomas to take his place and look through the window.

Thomas did, leaning forward until his nose touched the cool surface of the glass. It took a second for his eyes to focus on the moving object on the other side, to look past the grime and dust and see what Newt wanted him to see, wanted him to understand. And when he did, he felt his breath catch in his throat, like an icy wind had blown down there and frozen the air solid.

A large creature, a blob-like collection of flesh that was meant to be the creature, was held in a robotic suit of sorts with four metal spider-like legs. It looked like something Thomas would imagine to be in a sci-fi horror movie, but maybe, this was a real-life horror movie.

He watched, fascinated almost, as its metal legs clanked with every step, and he flinched as it screeched before darting off down a corridor, its long tail with a sharp point wagging behind it like a dog's, oblivious to the two humans watching it.

“That was one of ‘em Grievers,” Newt answered Thomas' unspoken question. “Nasty bugger, eh? Like I said yesterday, they mostly come out at night, but occasional Runners have, well, run into them during the day. It’s rare, and normally in the outer Sections, but still. There’s always that chance you’ll run into one and meet your end.”

Thomas swallowed, wondering how he could ever go out there. His desire to become a Runner had taken a major blow, but he had to do it. Somehow, he knew he had to. It was such an odd thing to feel, especially after what he’d just seen.

Newt looked at the window absently. “Now you know what lurks in that bloody Maze, my friend. Now you know this isn’t a joke. You’ve been sent to the Glade, Greenie, and we’ll be expecting you to survive and help us do what we’ve been sent here to do.”

“And what’s that?” Thomas asked, even though he was terrified to hear the answer, but didn’t allow it to show or tint his scent.

Newt turned to look him dead in the eye. The first traces of dawn had crept up on them, and Thomas could see every detail of Newt’s face, his face tight, his brow creased.

“Find our way out, Greenie,” Newt said. “Solve the bugging Maze and find our way home, of course.”

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

“You’ll be starting as a Track-hoe today, Thomas. Then go on to working with the Slicers in the afternoon,” Alby said as he approached the Greenie and Newt once they had finished their breakfast.

Thomas blinked up at him. Track-hoes. They worked in the gardens tending to the crops. He remembered hearing Newt explaining it the day before during the tour. A group that spent half their day digging in the dirt and the other half trying not to die of boredom.

“That means you’ll be working beside me,” Newt interjected, his accent thick with amusement. Right, that was a thing too.

Thomas just nodded, and Alby patted his shoulder before walking away once more to do whatever it was he did as Leader of the Glade. Thomas wasn’t sure what being Leader really meant for them, other than everyone listening when Alby spoke and trying not to tick him off.

He shook himself free of his tangent and turned back to face Newt, who’d grabbed his empty plate and stood. The blond moved toward the drop-off, and Thomas watched as he returned their dirty plates and wandered back over, gesturing for him to follow. Thomas did so, trailing him out toward the gardens.

Not even an hour later and Thomas was honest when he said he absolutely, totally, utterly, completely, could never deny that he wholly hated working in the gardens.

He’d thought it might be relaxing—the sun, the soil, the smell of something fresh and alive—but no. It was hot, his hands itched, and somehow the bugs were getting everywhere. His shirt stuck to his back like glue.

To make matters worse, Chuck had shown up halfway through the morning, grinning like the shuck idiot he was.

“Alby says I’m on loan again,” Chuck had announced proudly, puffing out his chest. “Guess that makes me the official Glade helper today. Track-hoes in the morning, Builders in the afternoon.”

Newt rolled his eyes. “Jack of all trades, master of none, eh, Chuck?”

Chuck shrugged, unbothered. “Hey, someone’s gotta keep you guys from dying of boredom.”

Thomas couldn’t help snorting. “Pretty sure boredom’s already killing me.”

“That’s ‘cause you can’t sit still for five seconds,” Newt teased, tossing a clod of dirt toward him.

Thomas ducked, grinning despite himself. “ADHD does that to a person,” he shot back.

Chuck let out a bark of laughter. “So that’s what it’s called! I just thought you were built with extra energy or something.”

“Yeah, well, if I don’t move, I’ll explode,” Thomas said, half serious. He shifted his weight again, trying not to fidget too obviously.

He just couldn’t deal with sitting or standing still for long periods—it made him antsy, like his skin was crawling. He squirmed for what could’ve been the hundredth time, and Newt eyed him from nearby.

The blond was more than aware of the fact that Thomas already loathed working in the gardens, and while a little disappointed, he understood. Thomas wasn’t someone who could purposely sit still for long stretches of time.

Newt sighed and focused back on his work. Thomas would just have to deal with it up until lunch, when he’d switch to working alongside the Slicers. Newt doubted he’d enjoy that either.

He absently listened as Zart—the quiet, broad-shouldered Keeper of the Track-hoes—also seemed to notice that Thomas wasn’t enjoying this experience one bit. Zart straightened up, squinting against the sun, and said, “Hey, Greenie. Go grab another bucket of fertiliser, yeah? Stretch your legs.”

Thomas eagerly agreed, practically jumping to his feet. “On it,” he said, brushing the back of his trousers clean. Zart handed him a dented metal bucket.

“Chuck,” Newt called, glancing up from his row, “show him where it is before he gets himself lost.”

Chuck groaned but grinned. “Aye aye, Captain Blondie.” He jogged after Thomas, who was already halfway down the path.

As they walked, Chuck chattered about everything and nothing—how the Slicers had nearly started a food fight yesterday, how Frypan had yelled at him for taste-testing the stew, how he was totally going to be the next Keeper one day “of something cool, not gardening.”

Thomas only half listened, but he didn’t mind the noise. It was better than the silence of the gardens. Better than the heat and the stillness and the itch in his hands.

They stumbled their way through the trees and followed the path worn from plenty of use. The air was cooler here, shadows dappling the ground, the faint hum of insects filling the space between his footsteps. He adjusted his grip on the bucket, the metal handle cutting into his palm, the smell of fertiliser clinging stubbornly to his nose.

As he moved through the trees, something off to his right caught his eye—a shape too deliberate to be natural. He slowed, curiosity getting the better of him, and stepped closer. It was made of wood, roughly nailed together, the surface weathered from time and rain.

Thomas crouched down, setting the bucket aside, and brushed the dirt from the plank. A single name had been carved into it.

George

The sight gave him pause.

The realisation hit after a few seconds—a grave. Or at least, some kind of memorial. He stared at it in silence, lips pressed thin.

Footsteps sounded behind him. “You found George’s marker, huh?” Chuck said quietly.

Thomas looked over his shoulder. “Who was he?”

“One of the first guys up and leader before Alby, apparently. He died about two years ago,” Chuck answered, voice unusually subdued. “It was his shift as a Runner and didn’t make it back. They… found what was left the next morning.”

Chuck’s words hung heavy.

Thomas stood and stepped back, keeping his distance from the grave. He didn’t know George, but the thought of dying out here—trapped in this strange place, buried under a nameless patch of dirt—made something twist in his gut.

“Come on,” Chuck murmured, trying to shake off the tension. “Fertiliser’s just ahead.”

Thomas nodded and followed. The silence stretched as they moved along the worn path, until the sound of movement broke it—a rustle, quick and sharp, too heavy to be the wind.

Thomas froze. “Did you hear that?”

Chuck frowned, scanning the trees. “Probably just—”

A figure stumbled out of the undergrowth.

Thomas’s breath caught. Blond hair, blue eyes. He’d seen him the night before with Minho. Ben.

Only this Ben wasn’t the same boy who’d cheered on Thomas’s match with Gally. His skin was ashen, sweat running down his temples, hands trembling uncontrollably. His eyes—murky blue, unfocused—looked wild.

“Ben?” Thomas said carefully.

Chuck blinked, confused. “Who’s—? Oh, shuck, that’s—” He took a hesitant step forward. “Hey, you okay, man? You look—”

“Chuck, wait—” Thomas started, but it was too late.

Ben’s head snapped toward them, eyes flashing yellow-gold. A guttural sound tore from his throat, half human, half beast, and before Thomas could blink, Ben lunged.

Chuck yelped, stumbling back as Ben’s hands shot forward, claws extended. Ben barely missed him, catching Chuck’s shirt instead and tearing a large hole.

“Chuck, get back!” Thomas shouted, instinct kicking in. His gaze darted wildly until it landed on a fallen branch, thick enough to serve as a weapon. He grabbed it without thinking and swung.

The crack echoed through the trees as wood struck skull.

Ben staggered, collapsing to the dirt, growling low in his throat as his gaze snapped to Thomas—and then his body convulsed.

His spine arched, a wet cracking sound filling the air as bones shifted and reshaped. Fur burst through his skin, spreading across his limbs. His face elongated into a muzzle, his teeth sharpening into fangs. Within seconds, the boy was gone—replaced by a wolf, its fur bristling, eyes glowing.

Thomas stumbled back, heart pounding. “Oh, fuck—”

A voice spoke, low and unimpressed, curling around his thoughts like smoke: “Start the car, or I’ll rip your throat out. With my teeth.”

Thomas didn’t know who the voice belonged to but something in him listened as Ben lunged at them.

Chuck barely had time to yell before Thomas shoved him aside. Ben’s jaws clamped down hard into Thomas’s shoulder, teeth sinking deep through fabric and flesh. Thomas screamed, the sound tearing from his throat raw and desperate as he hit the ground. The wolf snarled, shaking his head violently, trying to rip deeper. White-hot pain shot through Thomas’s arm, blood soaking his sleeve.

“Thomas!” Chuck’s voice cracked with panic. He darted forward, shouting into the bond for help as loud as he could.

Thomas twisted, shoving his elbow into the wolf’s ribs, kicking out blindly. “Get—off—me!”

The wolf jerked back just long enough for Thomas to roll away, gasping for breath. He could feel the blood pulsing down his arm, hot and sticky. The pain made his vision flicker.

Then Ben came again, snarling, teeth bared.

Thomas swung the branch again, hitting the wolf square across the muzzle. It wasn’t enough to stop him, but it bought seconds—just enough for voices to break through the trees. “Hold him down!”

Newt burst through the underbrush, shovel in hand. Without hesitation, he swung—hard. The shovel smacked against the wolf’s side with a brutal thud. Ben yelped, stumbling, and Gally tackled him from behind. Another boy joined, forcing his weight down onto the thrashing creature.

The wolf howled, snapping his jaws, foam and blood flecking the dirt, but there were too many of them now. They pinned him tight.

Thomas slumped onto his back, one hand pressed to his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers. His breath came fast, shallow. The world tilted around him.

“Tommy!” Newt was beside him in an instant, dropping the shovel and gripping his good shoulder. “Stay with me, yeah? Look at me.”

Thomas tried, but his vision blurred. His lungs refused to work. Air wouldn’t come.

“Breathe, Tommy,” Newt urged, voice low but firm. “You gotta breathe.” 

Thomas wheezed, panic clawing up his throat. He couldn’t. His body wouldn’t listen.

“Fuck.” Newt pulled him upright, Thomas’s head falling against his shoulder. A hand pressed to the back of his neck, and a strange warmth spread through him—the steady draw of his pain being taken, soothing the edges of his panic.

Newt’s own breathing hitched as he took on the pain that radiated from Thomas. “You’re okay,” he muttered, more to reassure himself than anything.

Across the clearing, Alby stormed in, face set. “Make sure he’s secure!”

“Already on it!” Gally grunted, tightening his grip as the others dragged heavy chains over.

Ben snarled and thrashed, but even as they forced him down, his movements grew weaker, more tired. Ben had worn himself out.

“Search his fur,” Alby ordered.

They did, and it didn’t take long to reveal the sting mark along the wolf’s flank—an angry, swollen welt, with sickly black veins creeping outward beneath the skin.

Several of the boys swore under their breath.

“Chain him and put him in the Pit,” Alby said flatly. “Now.”

The command was followed instantly. The others hauled Ben away, the chains and his snarls echoing until he grew too far.

Newt stayed crouched beside Thomas, still keeping pressure on his wound. Clint ran up with his flask, summoning water that shimmered with faint blue light.

“This’ll sting,” he warned.

Thomas only nodded weakly.

The cool water magic pooled over the wound, and he hissed at the pain. The pain dulled slightly replaced by a throbbing ache as the wound was cleansed.

Gally crouched nearby, glancing at Thomas’s pale face. “You really don’t do anything halfway, do ya, Greenie?”

Thomas didn’t answer. His eyes were a little glazed, and his head still spun, but his breathing had steadied.

“He needs a proper bandage,” Clint said, inspecting the cleaner wound. “Maybe even stitches, depending on how bad it is.”

Newt glanced up, his expression hard. “Then let’s get him to Homestead.”

Alby gave a short nod and walked off toward the Pit, no doubt going to oversee the process. Newt’s chest squeezed with too many questions.

“Come on, Tommy.” Newt shifted, looping Thomas’s good arm around his shoulders. The brunet’s body trembled, weak from blood loss and shock. Gally caught Thomas’s other side when his knees threatened to buckle.

Newt tightened his hold and stood, bearing most of the weight.

“Easy now,” he murmured, voice low as they started toward the Homestead.

Behind them, the woods had gone eerily silent. Newt didn’t like it. Not one bit.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

The walk back to the Homestead was a blur. Thomas leaning heavily into Newt’s side, every step sending a sharp pulse through his wounded shoulder. The world tilted with each breath—heat, the copper tang of blood, the far-off echo of voices—and then, mercifully, cool shade as they crossed the threshold into the Med-jack hut.

Clint had beaten them there, supplies already gathered. The moment Newt helped Thomas onto the cot, Clint moved with brisk efficiency, sleeves rolled up, eyes flicking from the blood on Thomas’s shoulder to the dirt smudging his temple.

“Sit still for me, Greenie,” he muttered. “Let’s see the damage.”

Thomas winced when Clint helped guide Thomas’s arms from the shirt, allowing him to pull the ruined thing off and away from the wound. Newt stayed close, a steady hand on his uninjured arm, that Thomas barely registered through the haze.

Clint worked quickly, cleaning the wound again, this time with disinfectant. With it, pain flared bright and immediate. He bit down on a groan. But it was over soon enough, allowing Clint to bandage the area.

“I’m not gonna stitch it cause I don't think it needs it,” Clint explained.

When Clint finished binding the shoulder with fresh white gauze, he moved on, checking Thomas’s head. “You take any good hits, Thomas? Feel dizzy? Sick?”

Thomas blinked tiredly. “Just… sore,” he muttered. “Bit lightheaded, maybe.”

Clint nodded, probing gently along his scalp where dirt clung. “No swelling. No bleeding. You might’ve bumped it, but I don’t think you’ve got a concussion. Still, if you start feeling nauseous, seeing double, anything weird, you tell me or Jeff straight away.”

Thomas managed a weak nod. His limbs felt leaden, like someone had filled him with sand.

“Exhaustion and blood loss,” Clint said under his breath, glancing at Newt. “You already drained most of the pain, didn’t you?”

Newt gave a quiet hum of confirmation. “Didn’t want him passing out on the way here.”

“Good call.” Clint reached for a glass of water from the bedside table and pressed it into Thomas’s good hand. “Drink this, and all of it. Then rest. You’re not going anywhere for a while.”

Thomas looked down at the cup like he’d forgotten what water even was.

“I’ll make sure he does,” Newt said, his voice soft but certain. His eyes hadn’t left Thomas once.

“Good that.” Clint straightened, gathering his things. “He’s stable. Just keep him calm, let him sleep it off.” With that, he gave Newt a small, final nod and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

For a moment, the only sounds were the distant murmur of Gladers outside and the slow drip of water in the basin.

Newt leaned against the wall, crossing his arms loosely. “Best do what he said. Docs know best after

all.”

Thomas raised his head at that, the corners of his mouth twitching despite the exhaustion weighing him down. A small chuckle escaped him, rough and hoarse.

Newt smiled, relief loosening his shoulders. The sound of that laugh—quiet but real—was more grounding than anything. He pushed off the wall and dragged a chair over, sitting beside the cot.

Thomas lifted the cup with his good hand, shaky but determined, and took a few gulps. The cool water stung his throat before settling into something soothing. He let out a slow breath, lowering the cup to rest against his knee, eyes half-lidded.

“If you’re tired, sleep, Tommy,” Newt offered quietly.

Thomas blinked up at him. “Is it… alright if I do?”

Newt huffed an incredulous little laugh. “’Course it is. No one’s gonna fault you for nappin’ after nearly getting mauled, yeah?”

The brunet gave a faint, sheepish grin. “Right. Guess that makes sense.”

“Smart lad.”

Newt stood, meaning to give him space, when a hand caught his wrist. He froze, glancing down. Thomas’s fingers trembled slightly, but his grip was there, uncertain and hesitant.

“Could…” Thomas’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Could you stay?”

For a beat, Newt just stared, caught off guard. The request hit something deep and unexpected in his chest.

Thomas noticed his silence and immediately let go, his face flushing. Oh god, he’s gonna think I’m a goddamn wimp now. I shouldn’t have asked. God, why did I do that? Idiot.

“Sorry. That was stupid. You probably have things to do.” Oh god, he definitely thinks I’m a wimp now. Attacked once and now he thinks I’m a weak fucking—

“Oi,” Newt cut him off.

Oh god, he definitely thinks I’m a fucking whimp. Probably thinks I’m scared of the shuckin’ dark too.

“None of that.” He crouched back down, meeting Thomas’s wide, embarrassed eyes. “S’fine, Tommy. You just caught me by surprise, is all. I’ll stay if you want.”

Thomas blinked, surprised himself. Was his panicked spiral for nothing then? “O-oh. I didn’t mean to—”

“Tommy.” The firmness in Newt’s tone made him fall quiet.

Newt rested a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “It’s alright, yeah? No one’s gonna think less of you for wantin’ company. It’s normal after what happened out there. So quit overthinking, I can practically hear the gears turning.”

Thomas huffed a small, breathy laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing. He nodded, eyes lowering again.

“Good.” Newt took the half-empty cup from his hand, setting it on the bedside table. “Now lie down and try to sleep, yeah? I ain’t going anywhere.”

Thomas murmured a quiet “thank you” and shifted carefully, curling onto his good side. He drew the pillow close, burying his face in it. A slow, tired exhale slipped through his nose, and the trembling in his hands finally stilled.

Newt stayed seated, watching as the Greenie’s breathing evened out, his body sinking deeper into the mattress. There was something disarmingly peaceful about it—about the way Thomas, even bruised and bandaged, could look so small, so human, after everything that had just happened.

Without thinking, Newt reached out, brushing a lock of dark hair off Thomas’s forehead. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat longer than they should have.

He froze, realisation dawning like a slap. Bloody hell.

He leaned back slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, a rueful smile ghosting across his lips. He’d

known the guy for two days. Two bloody days. And yet—

Newt glanced at Thomas again, at the rise and fall of his chest, the faint crease smoothed from his brow.

Yeah. He was in trouble.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

An hour passed, and Newt still sat beside the sleeping boy. He hadn’t moved once, save to shift his weight or make sure Thomas’s bandage hadn’t come loose. Despite the quiet, his thoughts were anything but.

That realisation from earlier still echoed in his chest like a trapped bird, fluttering and relentless. A crush. On the shuckin’ Greenie. Brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant.

But he wasn’t going to let that stop him from keeping his word. He’d promised Tommy he’d stay, and Newt wasn’t about to break that promise—mental breakdown at his newfound revelation be damned.

Thomas stirred.

Newt blinked, the spiral of thoughts breaking as he turned to look. The brunet let out a low breath, lashes fluttering before a pair of dazed, brown eyes blinked open.

Thomas’s gaze drifted unfocused around the hut, the soft glow from the curtained window lighting his face, before finally landing on Newt.

“Hey, Greenie,” Newt said, voice soft but warm.

Thomas blinked again, his eyes clearing as awareness settled in. “Newt.” His voice was still rough from sleep. He pushed himself up a little, wincing at the pull in his shoulder. “You… stayed?”

Newt smirked. “I promised I’d stay, didn’t I?”

Thomas’s cheeks flushed faintly, and Newt caught the shift in scent that came with embarrassment. He tried not to smile wider at that, but it was a losing battle.

“Thanks,” Thomas murmured, rubbing at his face with his good hand. “But you didn’t really have to stay the whole time, you know.”

Newt shrugged, leaning back slightly. “Nah, it’s fine. I ain’t got much to do anyway. I’m sure the shanks in the gardens managed without me for an hour.”

Thomas gave a tired chuckle, shaking his head. “Still. You didn’t have to.”

Newt hummed noncommittally, but his eyes lingered. There was something about that crooked smile, the way the sunlight through the window picked out colour in Thomas’s hair. Now that he’d finally admitted it to himself, he couldn’t unsee it.

Couldn’t unfeel it. And Gods, was that a strange thing—liking someone when he didn’t even remember what that used to feel like before the Wipe.

The thought wasn’t unpleasant, though. Just… new.

The soft crunch of boots on gravel outside made Newt glance toward the door. He caught Alby’s scent a second before the Alpha wolf pushed the door open.

“Alby,” Newt greeted.

“Newt.” Alby nodded, then turned his sharp, assessing gaze on Thomas. “You doing better, Greenie?”

Thomas straightened slightly. “Yeah. M’fine.” He scratched absently at his jaw, trying not to look self-conscious under that steady gaze.

“Good that.” Alby gave a curt nod before glancing back to Newt. His dark eyes glinted, a trace of amusement there. “Mind if I steal the Greenie for a bit?”

Newt blinked, fighting the sudden warmth that crept up the back of his neck. Oh, bloody hell. Did Alby know? He couldn’t possibly, right?

“Sure,” he managed, standing. “See ya in a bit, Tommy.”

Thomas offered a faint smile as Newt slipped out. The door closed behind him, leaving the Alpha and the Greenie alone.

Alby pulled up the chair Newt had been using and sat, elbows on his knees, rubbing his palms together. For a moment, neither spoke. The silence pressed in—heavy, but not hostile.

“What happened to him?” Thomas finally asked, voice quiet but steady.

Alby met his gaze. “We call it ‘The Changing.’” His tone was level, but there was something weary in it. “It’s what happens when someone gets stung by a Griever.”

Thomas frowned, brows knitting. “The Changing,” he echoed.

Alby nodded, exhaling through his nose. “We haven’t been able to get much out of Ben since it happened. Chuck said he just stumbled out of the brush and went for you both the second you called out. You didn’t notice anything off before that?”

Thomas let out a shaky breath, shaking his head. “No. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even look like he knew who we were. He just… attacked.” He hesitated, then added, “Is that what the sting does? A chemical reaction or something—makes you feral?”

Alby’s expression darkened. He looked down at the wooden floorboards, jaw tight, and for a moment, grief flickered across his face like a shadow.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter. “We’ll explain more later. For now, you just focus on resting.”

He stood, moving for the door.

“Alby?”

The Alpha paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

Thomas swallowed, eyes searching his face. “What’s gonna happen to him?”

A beat passed. Then Alby licked his lips, gaze hardening with resignation. “He’ll be banished at sundown, Thomas. Whether he’s stung or not, he attacked you—and we don’t tolerate that.”

Thomas’s throat tightened, but he stayed silent.

Alby looked away. “And either way… there’s no cure for the sting. We’ll be doing Ben a mercy by banishing him.”

The Alpha opened the door, sunlight spilling across the floor, and stepped out. The door shut behind Alby with a low, final thunk, leaving the hut steeped in quiet. The faint rustle of leaves outside and the hum of distant Gladers moving about were the only sounds that filled the air. Dust drifted lazily through a streak of light cutting across the floorboards, and for a long moment, Thomas didn’t move.

He just sat there, elbows on his knees, staring at the space where Alby had stood moments before.

He’ll be banished at sundown.

Banishment.

He didn’t need anyone to spell out what that meant. The walls, the Maze—he already knew what waited out there when the light faded. The Grievers. He’d heard them the first night,  their mechanical shrieks echoing through the dark, something both living and monstrous all at once. Even without remembering his past, every instinct told him that going out there was a death sentence.

That was what they meant by mercy.

No one wanted to kill someone who was still one of their own. So they let the maze do it instead.

Thomas swallowed hard, his fingers tightening on the edge of the cot. It was easier to understand it in theory—the practical necessity of it all—than it was to feel it. Ben hadn’t chosen this. Whatever the Griever sting had done to him, it had taken his mind. And yet, the rules of the Glade didn’t bend. Not for anyone.

It made sense. It was fair. It was survival. But it didn’t sit right.

Thomas’s stomach turned.

His throat felt tight, dry. He’d seen how the others had looked at Ben when they dragged him away—half fear, half pity. Not a single one had argued against Alby’s order.

Because they all knew what it meant.

He understood the fear that ruled this place now. Understood why every Glader’s eyes flicked to the walls whenever the shadows started to lengthen. But even knowing what waited out there—what killed out there—didn’t change the feeling gnawing at the back of his mind.

He thought of Newt’s warnings—the way he’d looked Thomas dead in the eye and said he didn’t want him anywhere near the Maze. That it wasn’t what Thomas thought it was. That no one wanted to be a Runner once they truly understood what that meant.

But Newt hadn’t seen inside Thomas’s head—hadn’t felt that deep, inexplicable pull every time he looked at those towering stone walls.

Even after what happened.

Even after seeing what the Grievers could do. That pull was still there.

It made no sense, and it terrified him. But it was as certain as the air in his lungs. He didn’t belong in the fields, or the kitchens, or the builders' yard. Not really.

He was supposed to run.

Thomas clenched his hands, staring down at the bandages wrapping his shoulder. The ache there was dull now, the pain numbed thanks to Newt and Clint, but it throbbed faintly with every heartbeat—a reminder. A pulse of memory that said you lived, and he won’t.

And for what? For being stung by something none of them could control?

He swallowed hard, guilt clawing its way up his chest. He knew Ben had attacked him, that he’d not been himself—feral and wild—but the image of those panicked wild eyes as the others dragged the wolf off wouldn’t leave Thomas’s mind.

It hadn’t been malice. It had been fear.

And now they were going to send him out to die.

The cot creaked quietly as Thomas lay back down, the exhaustion of the day settling in like a weighted blanket. He stared up at the ceiling beams, jaw tight, mind spinning in quiet turmoil.

He’ll be banished at sundown.

The word hung there, soft but final, and Thomas felt something shift in his chest—an understanding he didn’t want but couldn’t unlearn.

Out there, beyond those walls, there was no mercy. Not for Ben. Not for anyone.

The Maze was dangerous. It was fatal. It was everything he’d been warned against.

But none of that changed what he felt.

Thomas settled his head into the pillow, closing his eyes, listening to the faint sounds of life beyond the hut walls. It was safer here, yes. Predictable. But even as exhaustion weighed on him, the Maze still pulled at him like a heartbeat in the dark.

And he knew—sooner or later—he wouldn’t be able to ignore it no matter what Newt hoped.

Chapter Text

The Glade was quiet after the Banishment. Too quiet.

The last of the firelight had faded from the courtyard, and with it, the boys’ voices. No one had wanted to linger after the doors closed on Ben’s screams. Most turned in early, pretending that sleep might erase the sound—or the guilt.

Thomas lay curled on his side, staring at the rafters above. His thin blanket did little to ward off the chill that crept in. He’d stopped shivering only because his body was too tired to keep it up. Sleep wouldn’t come. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Ben again—thrashing, pleading, then gone as the doors closed.

He’d understood, logically, why it had to be done. But that didn’t make it easier to live with.

A soft rustle caught his ear. He turned his head and spotted Newt, still awake across the room, sitting up on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floorboards. The light from the torch at the foot of his bed brushed across his features, catching in his eyes. He didn’t look tired—just… weighed down.

“You’re still up?” Thomas asked quietly.

Newt’s head lifted, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Could ask you the same, Tommy.”

Thomas huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Too cold to sleep.”

“Right,” Newt muttered, pushing himself up with a small grunt. “You’re human. Forgot you lot freeze easy.”

Thomas tried for a smile, but it didn’t last. The cold bit at his fingertips, and his breath misted faintly in the air. Newt noticed instantly.

“Bloody hell, Tommy, you’re more than cold.” He approached Thomas, limp more noticeable as he crossed the short distance between them. “You’ll freeze stiff at this rate.”

Thomas frowned a little, envious. “Guess that’s one advantage you all have.”

Newt gave him a look. “Yeah, that and a tail, but I wouldn’t call that much of a benefit.”

That managed to earn a quiet but real chuckle out of Thomas, yet it faded fast as a shiver rippled through him.

“Tommy,” Newt muttered, eyeing him with concern.

“I’m fine,” Thomas said automatically, even as his teeth nearly chattered through the words.

Newt arched a brow. “Sure, and I’m a bloody sunshine fairy. C’mere.”

Before Thomas could protest, Newt guided him up and out of the hammock toward his bed—a low bushcraft cot that was nestled into the corner where two walls met.

“Take the bed, yeah? It’ll be warmer out of the direct line of the breeze,” Newt said, motioning toward it.

Thomas shook his head quickly. “No, I’m fine. Besides your leg—”

Newt fixed him with a look. “Tommy.”

The word held the kind of quiet authority that made arguing pointless. Still, Thomas stood his ground. “I’m not taking your bed. You said sleeping in a hammock isn’t good for your leg. We can… I don’t know, share? It’s not a big deal.”

Newt hesitated. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes darting anywhere but Thomas’s face. “Share,” he repeated, slow, as if testing how it sounded out loud.

Thomas nodded, trying to play it casual even though his pulse had started to pick up. “Yeah. I mean, it’s big enough. It’s not like either of us are giants.”

For a second, Newt just looked at him. Then he sighed, muttering something under his breath about stubborn shanks.

“Fine. But wait here a tick.”

Thomas frowned as Newt limped out toward the Homestead. He vanished inside the hut before returning, two thick, folded blankets cradled in his arms.

“I forgot, but seeing you shivering reminded me,” Newt said, voice soft with apology. “These came up in the Box with you. None of us knew why at the time. Guess it makes sense now.”

Thomas blinked at the heavy wool in Newt’s hands. “Those were for me?”

“Looks like it,” Newt said, offering a faint smile. “They’re thicker, meant for someone who can’t heat themselves like the rest of us. It’s why it confused us, but it should have been obvious, eh?”

He spread one across the straw mattress, smoothing it out, then climbed in and motioned for Thomas to do the same. The cot dipped slightly under their combined weight. They were close but not uncomfortably so.

Newt pulled the second blanket over them both, tucking the edges around Thomas without thinking, then froze halfway through the motion when he realised what he was doing. Thomas didn’t seem to notice—or if he did, he didn’t mind.

They lay facing one another, only a foot apart, the air between them thick with a quiet awkwardness neither wanted to acknowledge.

“You alright?” Newt asked after a moment, his voice low.

Thomas nodded but didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Just… can’t stop thinking about it.”

Newt’s gaze softened. “Yeah. None of us can, not really.”

“I get why it had to happen. I know it’s mercy, but…” He hesitated, voice faltering. “He looked terrified, Newt. He didn’t even seem like himself anymore.”

Newt’s expression gentled. “That’s what the Changing does. It changes people mentally. All that was left was instinct.”

Thomas’s brow furrowed. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No,” Newt agreed. “But it’s mercy, in a way. When the sting takes hold, it reaches a point where there’s not enough of the person left. It’s how we know when it's time to banish them… because it breaks the bond. Our pack one. That shit hurts like hell to feel, but that’s the final tell. We—we chose to banish because that means no one has to be the one to end it.”

Thomas frowned. “You all feel it when the bond breaks?”

“Yeah,” Newt said softly. “We’re all connected, in a way. A pack’s not just words, Tommy, it’s instinct and connection. When someone’s cut out of that, it’s like tearing a limb off.”

Thomas was quiet, absorbing his words. It sort of aligned with what Thomas knew of pack bonds, but also… not. His memories said packs were emotionally connected, yes, but not in the way the Gladers seemed to be. There was no nonverbal communication or trading emotions like Chuck had explained. He knew broken bonds caused discomfort, but nothing painful.

And yet, the Gladers had that.

Despite the clear con Newt had just mentioned, Thomas felt somewhat envious about it too. To have that level of connection. But he wasn’t a part of that.

Newt must’ve sensed where his thoughts turned because he added, “You’re not part of it, at least not yet. That’s why it hits different for you. You see the act, not the break. We understand it wasn’t Ben anymore, even if it's heartbreaking to banish someone.”

Newt took a breath, and for a moment, he looked every bit his age—and then some. “He’s gone, Tommy. Whatever he was before the sting, that Ben was already dead. The Maze just makes it official.”

The words settled like cold iron between them. Thomas exhaled slowly, trying not to picture it—the endless dark, the sound of the Grievers, the shifting walls.

Newt must’ve also noticed the tension creeping into his shoulders because he shifted closer, lowering his voice. “Don’t think about it too much, yeah? Your heart’s just gotta catch up with your head.”

Thomas nodded as his eyelids began to droop despite himself. The warmth and steady presence beside him pulled the tension from his body. He shifted closer, unconsciously seeking more heat.

Newt stiffened for half a second before relaxing, careful not to move too much as Thomas’s head settled against his shoulder, breath evening out.

Newt stared down at him—at the soft curve of his jaw, the moles that freckled his face, the way his hair fell across his forehead—and tried not to think too much about the warmth spreading through his chest. His heart was pounding, loud and fast, and he prayed Thomas couldn’t hear it.

He adjusted the blanket higher over Thomas’s shoulder, mindful of his injury as he tucked it gently beneath his chin.

“Sleep, Tommy,” he murmured. “You’ve not got anything to worry about, okay?”

Thomas murmured something unintelligible in reply, already half-asleep, his breath ghosting warm against Newt’s collarbone.

Newt stayed still, eyes tracing the beams above. Outside, the wind rustled faintly through the trees of the Glade. Newt closed his eyes, willing his racing pulse to quiet.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

The first thing Newt became aware of was warmth. The second was the low murmur of voices.

The air was cool, the morning light still dim through the gaps in the wooden walls. Then the warmth against his chest shifted, and memory clicked into place.

He blinked groggily, his cheek pressed against soft hair that wasn’t his own. For half a second, he thought maybe he’d dreamed the night before, but the steady breathing against his chest, the faint tickle of Thomas’s hair, and the weight of a shared blanket said otherwise.

Right. Thomas had been freezing. He’d brought him here, and they'd ended up sharing Newt's cot.

Newt sighed quietly through his nose, debating whether to move or just pretend to still be asleep when he finally caught what the voices were saying.

“Look at them,” Gally whispered, amusement threading his tone. “Ain’t that just the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”

A stifled snicker came from Chuck. “Think we should wake ’em?”

“Not unless you want claws in your face,” Minho’s voice said dryly.

Newt’s lips twitched. He didn’t bother opening his eyes before mumbling, “If any of you shanks so much as breathe near us and it wakes Tommy, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

There was a muffled snort—Minho, by the sound of it—and a quieter laugh that could only be Chuck.

“Oh, he’s awake,” Gally grinned. “Didn’t know you were such a cuddler, Newt. Bit domestic for a kitty of your size, ain’t it?”

Newt cracked an eye open, glaring half-heartedly. “Piss off, Gally.”

The laughter grew, and Newt couldn’t even pretend to be annoyed. Not really. Thomas didn’t stir. He stayed curled where he’d been all night, his hair standing up in every direction, pressed against Newt’s chest, one hand loosely clenched in Newt’s shirt. The brunet’s breathing remained slow and steady, completely unaware of the crowd gathering at the foot of the bed.

Newt sighed, careful not to move too much. “Before you lot start runnin’ your mouths anymore,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, “he was freezin’ last night. Human, remember? He doesn’t have our heat, and he was like a bloody ice block. Stubborn shank refused to take the bed if it meant I had to sleep on a hammock.”

Alby, standing slightly behind the others with his arms folded, gave a slight hum of agreement. Through the bond, Newt felt his budding amusement, even if he refused to show it. “Should’ve realised that sooner,” he said. “We didn’t think much of it when those thick blankets came up with him. Makes sense now.”

“Should’ve,” Newt muttered, more to himself than anyone, tugging the top of the blanket a bit higher over Thomas’s shoulder.

Minho leaned forward slightly, uncrossing his arms, gaze narrowing as something caught his attention. “Hold up,” he said. “What’s that?”

Newt tried to follow his line of sight but struggled in his position as Minho carefully reached toward Thomas’s head, brushing a lock of hair away from just behind his left ear. There, faintly imprinted, was a small, backward 5. It didn’t quite look like a tattoo nor a scar of any sort.

Minho went very still.

“What is it?” Alby asked, stepping closer with concern.

Minho’s brow furrowed deeper, the humour gone from his face. “Self,” he murmured.

The others exchanged confused glances.

“It’s a Japanese kanji,” Minho explained, voice low. “An Oni mark. Used to prove a person’s self—that they aren’t possessed or something. I… only have knowledge on Oni regarding Nogitsune.”

Chuck blinked, clearly lost. “A… Nogi-what?”

Minho’s expression darkened. “Nogitsune. A type of Kitsune. A dark spirit. Tricksters that feed on pain and chaos. They like to possess people—use them to wreak havoc to feed—and when they’re done, they leave the person in ruin or worse, dead. Real nasty bastards. When one possesses someone, it’s almost impossible to tell until it’s too late.”

A tense silence fell over the room. Even Gally’s smirk faded.

“So you’re sayin’…” Gally began carefully, “the kid might’ve been possessed?”

“Or nearly was,” Minho said. “That mark can be used as a ward, I think? But someone put it there for a reason. Maybe to check Thomas wasn’t possessed, or to keep it from getting in again.” He paused, glancing at Thomas’s peaceful face. “Could’ve been a precaution… or a sign he’d been possessed.”

Alby exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. Chuck looked between his elders with wide worried eyes.

Gally glanced between them all too, unease threading through his voice. “So, what, you’re saying the kid might’ve been shoved up here because of some demon fox thing?”

“Might be,” Minho said with a shrug, though his expression was far from casual. “If a Nogitsune was using him and it was forced out, that might have sparked the Creator’s interest in him. Survival after a Nogistune possession isn’t exactly what someone considers common.”

The weight of that hung heavy in the small room.

Newt’s eyes lingered on the faint scar, a quiet unease coiling in his gut. Thomas looked far too human—too normal despite his oddities—to have been tangled up in something like that. But then again, nothing about the boy had been ordinary since the moment the Box brought him up.

Alby’s voice broke the silence first. “No one breathes a word of this. There is no need to start rumours or concern Thomas with this if it's all in the past.”

Thomas stirred faintly as if in reaction to his name, but didn’t wake, curling instinctively closer to the warmth beside him. Newt froze, breath catching for half a second before he relaxed again.

Chuck snickered softly at the sight, and Gally shook his head, grinning again. “You’re turned into a right sap, Newt.”

“Go eat breakfast and let him rest,” Newt muttered without heat.

“That’s right, so chop chop.” Alby shooed away.

Minho straightened, stepping back with a final glance at the mark. “Yeah. Still… I’m gonna keep an eye on him.”

“Join the club,” Newt muttered under his breath, eyes softening as he watched Thomas shift again.

Chuck smiled at the sight before being nudged toward the door by Gally. One by one, the others filtered out, the area growing quiet again until only Newt remained.

He sighed, casting his gaze to the ceiling. His hand hovered briefly above Thomas’s shoulder before he pulled it back.

“Bloody mystery, you are,” he murmured.

Thomas made a soft sound in his sleep, but didn’t wake. Newt’s lips quirked faintly, despite everything.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

Thomas spotted Alby and Minho near the east wall just as he stepped out into the light. They were armed, shoulders squared with grim purpose, and he didn’t need to ask what they were doing.

They were going out to find Ben.

Or… what was left of him.

He tore his gaze away before the image could root too deep, swallowing hard and joining Chuck and Clint at the breakfast tables, pretending not to notice the way conversation died when he passed.

“Easy on that arm, Thomas,” Clint warned, handing him a bowl. “You stretch too much, you’ll make yourself bleed again.”

Thomas gave him a look halfway between exasperation and resignation. “You’ve told me that three times already.”

“And I’ll say it a fifth if you keep pretending you’re fine.”

“I am fine.”

Chuck snorted into his porridge. “You sound like Newt when he pretends.”

“Gee, thanks, Chuck,” Thomas muttered, but didn’t argue, spooning at his food. Fine. The word didn’t even sound convincing to his own ears.

He tried to focus on the taste of the food, on the scrape of wood benches, on anything that felt normal. But there was something different about the Glade today—an edge that hadn’t been there before.

Voices were quieter. Jokes died out halfway through. Even the air felt heavy, thick with unease. He didn’t need anyone to tell him why.

Things had been fine—orderly, routine—before he arrived. And now, in just three days, someone had been stung, someone had been banished, and the unspoken rules of this strange, half-wild place must’ve felt like they were fraying.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow, all of this chaos had started because of him.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

When breakfast ended, most Gladers scattered toward their jobs. Thomas lingered, unsure what to do next, until Newt appeared behind him.

“You’ll be joinin’ me again today,” the puma announced, casual but brooking no argument.

Thomas twisted in his seat. “Okay?”

Newt tilted his head, grin tugging at his lips. “Add a little less enthusiasm next time, won’t you, Tommy?”

Thomas blinked, sputtering, cheeks warm, when he caught the smirk. “I—that’s—”

Newt laughed, the sound light and genuine, and clapped him on his right, non-injured shoulder. The movement made Thomas jolt instinctively, muscles tightening before he could stop them. He hated how fast it happened—how fast the memory of Ben flashed behind his eyes.

“S-sorry,” Thomas stammered, forcing a breath. “It’s just—”

“I’m teasin’, Tommy,” Newt cut in gently, his grin softening. He ruffled Thomas’s hair in a habitual motion that was half affection, half reassurance. “Don’t go gettin’ all flustered.”

Thomas huffed, batting his hand away. “Don’t pat my head.”

Newt only chuckled. “C’mon, then.” He jerked his chin toward the open field. “We’re makin’ rounds. Alby doesn’t want you doin’ anything taxing yet.”

Thomas followed, if a bit reluctantly. “I am fine, you know.”

Newt arched a brow. “You say that like it’s proof.”

“It is?” Thomas muttered, a little confused. “I don’t see the problem.”

“You were nearly mauled yesterday, Tommy.” Newt’s tone wasn’t necessarily sharp, just weary. “And maybe some head trauma that hasn’t reared its ugly head yet. So maybe just, how about taking it easy?”

“So what?” Thomas shrugged, almost bristling as he moved his left arm. There was pain, yes, but nothing that would stop him from working if he took it lightly. “It’s nothing major. I can still work.”

Newt stopped dead. Thomas nearly walked into him. The blond stared at him, something unreadable flickering in his gaze before it settled into clear disbelief. “Please tell me you’re pullin’ my leg.”

Thomas frowned. “What?”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Newt rubbed his brow, frustration bleeding into his sigh. “You were attacked, Tommy. Bitten. Knocked half senseless. And you wanna go back to work like nothin’ happened?”

Thomas blinked, taken aback by the intensity in his voice.

“It’s alright not to be okay,” Newt said finally, voice lower now.

Thomas wanted to argue—he wasn’t even sure why—but the words stuck in his throat. Before he could respond, Newt exhaled through his nose and slung an arm loosely over his shoulders, guiding him forward.

“C’mon,” he said quietly. “Let’s just get through the rounds.”

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

The first stop was the Track-Hoes. Zart straightened when they approached, earth caked on his hands.

“How’s the shoulder, Thomas?” he asked, tone gentle.

“I’m fine.”

Zart nodded, though his eyes said he didn’t believe it.

(I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine. Why did those words sound like an echo of something he’d said before—somewhere else, to someone else? Thomas hated how automatic it sounded now, like muscle memory from the life he couldn’t remember.)

They left the gardens and headed for the Slicers. Thomas’s nose wrinkled instantly at the smell. Even after days here, it hit him hard—metal, blood, and the faint musk of animals. He didn’t understand how any of them could stand it, especially with heightened senses.

He was quiet as they passed through, not trusting his voice not to crack.

By the time they reached the Kitchens, the noise and warmth were almost welcome.

“Hey, Fry,” Newt greeted, waving at the cook.

“Newt. Greenie,” Frypan nodded, wiping his hands on a towel. “What’s the word?”

“Just rounds.”

Fry’s eyes flicked to Thomas, who was absentmindedly rubbing at his shoulder again. “You doin’ alright?”

Thomas nodded. “Fine.”

That one word earned him a raised brow that looked way too much like Clint’s.

“Sure,” Frypan accepted and said he was clearly anything but accepting. “If you say so. Everything’s solid here, anyway.”

“Good that,” Newt said with a grin, tugging Thomas lightly by the sleeve to move on.

Thomas followed without protest. It was easier that way. He didn’t trust himself not to say something that sounded wrong, or reveal how much the quiet stares and ‘are you okay’ got under his skin.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

Newt had noticed it—the way Thomas’s voice had gone quieter with each question, the way his expression got a little blanker the further in the rounds they got. The difference from the sharp, defiant kid who’d argued every little thing two days ago was almost painful. Something in Newt’s chest tightened.

They reached the Builders next. The rhythmic clang of hammers carried across the field as they repaired the Pit of the damage Ben had managed to do. Thomas hesitated on the edge of the work area, posture tightening, as his eyes caught on Gally’s broad figure at the centre of the group.

“Hey,” Newt murmured, leaning closer so only he could hear. “Gally already warmed up to you, if that’s what's botherin’ you.”

Thomas blinked, startled. “How’d you—”

Newt just smiled faintly. “Lucky guess.” He gave his elbow a light squeeze. “Relax, yeah?”

Thomas nodded. “Okay.”

“Good lad.”

When Gally looked up, he set his hammer aside, brushing off his hands. “Newt. Greenie.”

“Gally.” Newt’s arm slipped away from Thomas’s shoulders, but his tone stayed warm. “Usual rounds.”

“Figured.” Gally’s gaze turned to Thomas, steady and unreadable. “Not gonna ask if you’re fine. You’d just lie, even if you don’t realise it.”

Thomas froze.

“So just don’t push yourself, got it?” Gally finished.

Thomas blinked at him, completely thrown by the tone. It wasn’t sharp or mocking. It almost sounded… concerned. Possibly. Maybe. No, no, it was definitely something else, Thomas decided stubbornly.

“Okay,” he said after an uncertain pause.

“Good that,” Gally grunted and turned back to his work.

Newt chuckled beside him, nudging his shoulder. “See? Told you.”

Thomas gave a faint smile.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

They were still a hundred feet away and the door was closing fast, seeming to quicken its pace the more Thomas tried willing it to slow down. There were only seconds left until it shut completely. They had no chance of making it in time. No chance at all.

Thomas turned to look at Newt running. He’d only made it halfway to Thomas and Chuck. He looked back into the Maze, at the closing wall. Only a few feet more and it’d be over.

Minho stumbled up ahead and fell to the ground. They weren’t going to make it. Simple as.

Thomas heard Newt scream from behind him. “Don’t do it, Tommy! Don’t you bloody do it!”

The loud crunching and grinding of the stone doors filled the air almost deafeningly, tauntingly.

Five feet. Four feet—

Thomas knew he had no choice. He moved. Forward. Away from Chuck’s reaching grasp and squeezed past at the last second, stepping into the maze.

The walls slammed shut behind him, the echoing boom bouncing off the ivy-covered stone dauntingly.

For several long seconds, Thomas felt like the world had frozen in place. A thick silence followed the thunderous rumble of the door closing, and a veil of darkness seemed to cover the sky, the sun abruptly vanishing as it had never been there to begin with.

Thomas leaned back against the door, overcome by disbelief at what he had just done. His body filled with terror at what the consequences might be.

Then a sharp cry up ahead snapped Thomas to attention. Minho was on the floor again. Thomas pushed himself away from the door and ran to the two Gladers.

Minho had pulled himself up and was standing once again, but he looked terrible, even in the pale light still available—sweaty, dirty, scratched-up. Alby, on the ground, looked worse; his clothes were ripped, his arms covered with cuts and bruises. Thomas shuddered. Had Alby been attacked by a Griever?

“Greenie,” Minho began, voice low and full of pure disbelief. “If you think that was brave comin’ out here, listen up. You’re the shuckiest shuck-faced shuck there ever was. You’re as good as dead.”

Thomas resisted the urge to allow his annoyance to show—he’d expected at least a tiny bit of gratitude. “I couldn’t just sit there and leave you guys out here.”

“And what good are you with us?” Minho rolled his eyes. “Whatever, dude. Break the Number One Rule, kill yourself, whatever.”

“You’re welcome. I was just trying to help.” Thomas felt like booting him in the face.

Minho forced a bitter laugh, then knelt back on the ground beside Alby. Thomas took a closer look at the collapsed boy and realised just how bad things were. Alby looked on the edge of death. His usually dark skin was losing colour fast as a fever raged through him, and his breathing was coming out in quick and shallow bursts. Almost like…

Hopelessness rained down on Thomas. “What happened?” he asked, trying to put aside his annoyance. The more information he had, the better he could calculate the situation and consider his options.

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” Minho said as he tilted his head, eyes closed, and Thomas reckoned he was listening to Alby’s heartbeat. “Let’s just say the Grievers can play dead really well.”

So Thomas’s suspicion had been right. He knelt beside Alby, spotting the small patch of dried blood on his dark shirt. Thomas tugged it down to inspect the wound, which appeared similar in nature to a bullet wound, the raised edges looked sore and irritated. It sat below his collarbone, clear of any organs but right where his ribcage wouldn’t protect. Already dark veins were spreading across Alby’s chest. 

Thomas clenched his jaw. “Right. How long does it take before Alby goes feral?”

“Doesn’t fucking matter. We're dead,” Minho mumbled.

Thomas wanted to scream. Why wasn’t Minho at least trying?

“Do people die from a sting on their own after enough time has passed? How long is the incubation time?” While he was pretty sure that wasn’t the term he was looking for. Still, Thomas forced himself to ask, cringing at how shallow and empty it sounded. Like he was familiar with the idea and a part of him felt almost comforted about that fact, as sick as it made him feel.

“Since we didn’t make it back before sunset, yeah. Could be dead in a few hours. I don’t know, we normally banish them ‘cause they get too feral. Of course, we’ll be dead, too, so don’t get all weepy for him. Yep, we’ll all be nice and dead soon,” he said it so matter-of-factly that Thomas could hardly process the meaning of the words.

But fast enough, the dire reality of the situation began to hit Thomas. “We’re really going to die?” he asked, sceptical, unable to accept it. “You’re telling me we have no chance?”

“None.”

Thomas found himself immediately annoyed at Minho’s constant negativity. “Oh, come on, there has to be something we can do. How many Grievers’ll come at us?” He peered down the corridor that led deeper into the maze, as if expecting the creatures to arrive then, summoned by the sound of their name.

“How the hell am I supposed to know?”

Fair enough, Thomas supposed, but he wouldn’t allow himself to give in to Minho’s hopelessness. He didn’t want to give up and die just like that. A thought sprang into Thomas’s mind, giving him hope. “Has anyone ever been caught outside the walls at night and lived through it?”

“Never.”

Thomas scowled, wishing he could find one little spark of hope. “How many have died, then?”

Minho stared at the ground, sat there with one forearm across his knees. He was clearly exhausted, almost in a daze. “At least twelve. Haven’t you been to the fucking graveyard?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, those are just the ones we found. There are more whose bodies just never showed up.” Minho pointed absently back toward the sealed-off Glade. “That freaking graveyard’s in the woods for a reason. Nothing kills happy time more than being reminded of your slaughtered packmates every day.”

Minho stood and grabbed Alby’s arms, then nodded toward his feet. “Grab those ‘em. We gotta carry him over to the door. Give ’em one body that’s easy to find in the morning.”

Thomas couldn’t believe how morbid a statement that was. He made a sound of frustration—to think someone would just give up like that and accept their death like this was so fucking—

“Quit your crying. You should’ve followed the rules and stayed inside. Now come on, grab his legs.”

Thomas walked over and lifted Alby’s feet as he was told. They half-carried, half-dragged the almost-lifeless body a hundred feet or so to the vertical crack of the door, where Minho propped Alby up against the wall in a semi-sitting position. Alby’s chest rose and fell with struggling breaths, and his skin was drenched in sweat. He looked like death warmed over.

Minho folded his arms and leaned against the wall.

“What about yourself? Did the Griever manage to get you?”

Minho threw his hands out. “Maybe it did. Maybe I’ll collapse any second.”

“They…” Thomas began, but didn’t know how to finish. He couldn’t tell if Minho had been serious, so he just gave him a deadpan look.

“There was no they, just the one we thought was dead. It went nuts and stung Alby, but then ran away.” Minho looked back into the door, which was now almost completely shrouded in darkness. “But I’m sure it and a whole bunch of them suckers’ll be here soon to finish us off with their needles.”

“Needles?” Things just kept sounding more and more disturbing to Thomas, and for some reason, he felt like he had a somewhat high standard for these types of situations. Maybe he did, or maybe he didn’t—he wouldn’t know anyway.

“Yeah, needles.” Minho didn’t elaborate, and his face said he didn’t plan to.

Thomas looked up at the enormous walls covered in thick vines—desperation had finally clicked him into problem-solving mode. “Can’t we climb this thing?” He looked at Minho, who didn’t say a word. “The vines, can’t we climb them?”

Minho let out a frustrated sigh. “I swear, Greenie, you must think we’re a bunch of idiots. You really think we’ve never had the ingenious thought of climbing the stupid walls?”

For the first time, Thomas felt anger creeping in to compete with his fear. “I’m just trying to fucking help. Why don’t you quit moping at every word I say and actually talk to me?”

Minho abruptly jumped at Thomas and grabbed him by the shirt. “You don’t understand, shuck-face! You don’t know anything, and you’re just making it worse by trying to have hope! We’re dead, you hear me? Dead!”

Thomas didn’t know which he felt more strongly at that moment—anger at Minho or pity for him. He was giving up too easily.

Minho looked down at his hands clasped to Thomas’s shirt and shame washed across his face. Slowly, he let go and backed away. Thomas straightened his clothes defiantly.

“Ah, man, oh man,” Minho whispered, then crumpled to the ground, burying his face in his hands. “I’ve never been this scared before, dude. Not like this.”

Thomas wanted to say something, tell him to grow up, tell him to think, tell him to explain everything he knew. Because out of everything Thomas did know, it was that panic when in trouble wouldn’t help you—in fearful situations, you needed your head on straight to think and plan, and most of all—survive. He gave a quiet “tch” under his breath.

He opened his mouth to speak but closed it quickly when he heard a noise. Minho’s head shot up. He looked down one of the darkened stone corridors. Thomas felt his own breath quicken.

It came from deep within the maze, a low, haunting sound. A constant whirring that had a metallic ring every few seconds, like sharp knives rubbing against each other. A series of echoing, eerie clicks joined in. Thomas thought of long fingernails tapping against glass. A hollow moan filled the air, and then something that sounded like the clanking of chains.

All of it together was horrifying, and the small amount of courage Thomas had gathered began to slip away.

Minho stood, his face barely visible in the dying light. But when he spoke, Thomas imagined his eyes wide with terror. “We have to split up, it’s our only chance. Just keep moving. Don’t stop moving!”

And then he turned and ran, disappearing in seconds, swallowed by the maze and darkness.

Thomas stared at the spot where Minho had vanished.

A sudden dislike for the guy swelled up inside him. Minho was a veteran in this place, a Runner. Thomas was a newbie, just a few days in the Glade, a few minutes in the maze. Yet of the two of them, Minho had broken down and panicked, only to run off at the first sign of trouble.

How could he leave me here? Thomas thought angrily. How could he do that!

The noises inched louder. The distinct sound of clanking metal against stone and the chains hoisting machinery in an old, grimy factory. And then came the smell, it was weak from this distance, but it was clear enough for Thomas to make sense of it—something burning, oily. Thomas couldn’t begin to guess what was in store for him. He’d seen a Griever, but only a glimpse, and through a dirty window. What would they do to him? How long would he last?

Stop, he told himself, taking a deep breath. He had to quit wasting time waiting for them to come and end his life.

He faced Alby, who was still propped against the wall, now only a mound of shadow in the darkness. Kneeling on the ground, Thomas found Alby’s neck, then searched for a pulse. For some sort of life.

buh-bump, buh-bump, buh-bump

Still alive.

Thomas rocked back on his heels, then ran his arm across his forehead, wiping away the sweat. And in that moment, in the space of only a few seconds, he learned a lot about himself. About the Thomas that was before.

He won’t leave any, whether that person was friend or foe—he’d never leave them for dead. That was who he was.

He reached down and grabbed both of Alby’s arms, then squatted into a sitting position and wrapped the arms around his neck from behind. He pulled the lifeless body onto his back and pushed with his legs, grunting with the effort. But it was too much, Thomas collapsed forward onto his face and Alby sprawled onto his side.

The frightening sounds of the Grievers echoed off the stone walls of the maze. Thomas thought he could see bright flashes of light far away, bouncing off the night sky. He didn’t want to meet the source of those lights, those… sounds.

Trying a new approach, he grabbed Alby’s arms again and started dragging him along the ground. He couldn’t believe how goddamn heavy the guy was, and it took only ten feet or so for Thomas to realise that it just wasn’t going to goddamn work.

Where would he fucking take him, anyway? Thomas gave a deep, agitated sigh.

He pulled Alby back over to the nearest wall, and propped him once more into a sitting position, leaning against the stone wall.

Thomas sat back against it himself, panting from exertion, thinking. As he looked into the dark recesses of the Maze, he searched his mind for a solution. He could hardly see anything, and he knew, despite what Minho had said, that it’d be absolutely stupid to run even if he could carry Alby. Not only was there the chance of getting lost, he could actually find himself running toward the Grievers instead of away.

He thought of the wall, the ivy. Minho hadn’t explained, but he had made it sound as if climbing the walls was impossible. Still…

A plan began to stitch itself together in his mind. It all depended on the unknown abilities of the Grievers, but it was the best thing he could come up with.

Thomas walked a few feet along the wall until he found a thick growth of ivy. He reached out and grabbed one of the vines that went all the way to the ground. It felt thicker and more solid than he would’ve imagined, maybe a half-inch in diameter.

He pulled on it, and with the sound of thick paper ripping apart, the vine came unattached from the wall—more and more as Thomas stepped away from it. When he’d moved back ten feet, he could no longer see the end of the vine way above, it disappeared in the darkness. But the trailing plant had yet to fall free, so Thomas knew it was still attached up there somewhere.

Hesitant to try, Thomas steeled himself and pulled on the vine with all his strength. It held.

He yanked on it again. Then again, pulling and relaxing with both hands over and over. Then he lifted his feet and hung onto the vine, his body swinging forward.

The vine continued to hold.

Quickly, Thomas grabbed other vines, ripping them away from the wall, creating a series of climbing ropes. He tested each one, and they all proved to be as strong as the first. Encouraged, he went back to Alby and dragged him over to the vines.

A sharp crack echoed from within the Maze, followed by the horrible sound of grinding stone. Thomas, startled, swung around to look, his mind so concentrated on the vines that he’d momentarily shut out the Grievers. He searched all directions of the Maze. He couldn’t see anything coming, but the sounds were louder—the whirring, the groaning, the clanging.

At least one Griever was coming their way, he knew that without a doubt.

Thomas pushed aside the swelling panic and set himself to work.

He grabbed one of the vines and wrapped it around Alby’s right arm. The plant would only reach so far, so he had to prop Alby up as much as he could to make it work. After several wraps, he tied the vine off. Then he took another vine and put it around Alby’s left arm, then both of his legs, tying each one tightly. He worried about the Alpha’s circulation getting cut off, but decided it was worth the risk.

Trying to ignore the doubt that was seeping into his mind about the plan, Thomas continued on. Now it was his turn.

He snatched a vine with both hands and started to climb, directly over the spot where he’d just tied up Alby. The thick leaves of the ivy served well as handholds, and Thomas was elated to find that the many cracks in the stone wall were perfect supports for his feet as he climbed. He began to think how easy it would be without…

He refused to finish the thought—he couldn’t leave Alby behind. Once he reached a point a couple of feet above the Glade Leader, Thomas wrapped one of the vines around his own chest several times so it was snug against his armpits for support. Slowly, he let himself sag, letting go with his hands but keeping his feet planted firmly in a large crack. Relief filled him when the vine held.

Now came the really hard part.

The four vines tied to Alby below hung tautly around him. Thomas took hold of the one attached to Alby’s left leg and pulled. He was only able to get it up a few inches before letting go—the weight was too much. He couldn’t do it.

With a frustrated hiss, he climbed back down to the maze floor, deciding to try pushing from below instead of pulling from above. To test it, he tried raising Alby only a couple of feet, limb by limb.

First, he pushed the left leg up, then tied a new vine around it. Then the right leg. When both were secure, Thomas did the same to Alby’s arms—right, then left. He stepped back, panting, to take a look.

Alby hung there, seemingly lifeless, now three feet higher than he’d been five minutes earlier.

Clangs from the maze. Whirrs. Buzzes. Moans. Thomas thought he saw a couple of red flashes to his left. The Grievers were getting closer, and it was apparent that there were more than one.

He got back to work.

Using that method of pushing each of Alby’s arms and legs up two or three feet at a time, Thomas slowly made his way up the stone wall. He climbed until he was right below the body, wrapped a vine around his own chest for support again, then pushed Alby up as far as he could, limb by limb, and tied them off with ivy. Then he repeated the whole process.

Climb, wrap, push up, tie off. Over and over again.

The Grievers at least seemed to be moving slowly through the maze, giving him time.

Over and over, little by little, up they went. The effort was exhausting, his shoulder was bleeding again and Thomas heaved in every breath, felt sweat cover every inch of his skin. His hands began to slip and slide on the vines. His feet ached from pressing into the stone cracks.

The sounds grew louder—those awful, awful sounds. Still, Thomas worked on.

When they’d reached a spot about thirty odd feet off the ground, Thomas stopped, swaying on the vine he’d tied around his chest. Using his drained, rubbery arms, he turned himself around to face the Maze. An exhaustion he’d not known possible pulled every inch of his body. He couldn’t push Alby up another centimetre. He was done. Completely and utterly done. He just didn’t have the strength to continue going higher.

But this was where they’d hide. Or make their stand at the very least.

Unbidden, a dark joke came to him: why did the monkey fall from the tree? Because it was dead.

Grimacing, Thomas turned his eyes up. He’d known they couldn’t reach the top, it just wasn’t possible by himself. His only hope was that the Grievers couldn’t or wouldn’t look above them. Or, at the very least, Thomas hoped he could figure out a way to fight them off from high up, instead of being overwhelmed on the ground.

He had no idea what to expect. He didn’t know if he’d see tomorrow. But here, hanging in the ivy, Thomas and Alby would meet their fate head on.

A few minutes passed before Thomas saw the first proper glimmer of light shine off the Maze walls up ahead. The terrible sounds he’d heard escalate for the last hour took on a high-pitched, mechanical squeal, like a robotic death screech.

A red light to his left, on the wall, caught his attention. He turned and almost screamed out loud—a beetle blade was only a few inches from him, its spindly legs poking through the ivy and somehow sticking to the stone. The red light of its eye was like a little sun, too bright to look at directly. Thomas squinted and tried to focus on the beetle’s body.

The torso was a silver cylinder, maybe two inches in diameter and five inches long. Three legs ran along each side the length of its bottom. The head was impossible to see because of the red beam of light shining right at him, though it seemed small —its only purpose, perhaps, surveillance.

But then Thomas saw the most chilling part. He thought he’d seen it before, back in the Glade when the beetle blade had scampered up the tree. Now it was confirmed: the red light from its eye cast a creepy glow on six capital letters smeared across the torso: WICKED.

Thomas couldn’t imagine why that one word would be stamped on the beetle blade, unless for the purpose of announcing to the Gladers that it was evil?

He knew it had to be a device for spying for whoever had sent them here—he’d been told as much, saying the beetles were how the Creators watched them. Thomas stilled himself, held his breath, hoping that maybe the beetle only detected movement. Long seconds passed, and his lungs screamed for air.

With a click and then a clack, the beetle turned and scuttled off, disappearing into the ivy once more. Thomas sucked in a huge gulp of air, then another, feeling the pinch of the vines tied around his chest.

Another mechanical squeal screeched through the Maze, so close now, followed by the surge of low rumbling machinery. Thomas tried to imitate Alby’s lifeless body, hanging limp in the vines.

And then something rounded the corner up ahead and came toward them.

Something he’d seen before, but through the safety of thick glass.

A Griever.

Chapter Text

Thomas stared in horror at the monstrous thing making its way down the long corridor of the maze.

It looked like something from a nightmare. Part animal (or would blob be a more appropriate word?), part machine, the Griever shuffled along like a spider but only had four legs and said legs were metal, which clicked along the stone pathway. Its entire body—flesh and machinery alike—resembled a mutated spider, sparsely covered in hair and glistening with slime, grotesquely pulsating in and out as it breathed. It had no distinguishable head, but from the tail at the end, it was obvious which was the front—maybe they had a mouth too? Thomas grimaced at the thought, if it has a mouth, then it probably had teeth too.

He watched as the four-legged thing slowly moved through the pathway. Stopping every now and then to seemingly look around.

But hair and legs were not the only things protruding from the Griever’s body.

Its long tail was curled up like a scorpion's, with a needle at the end attached alongside that bright red light.

Thomas wondered what—or who—could create such frightening, disgusting creatures.

The source of the sounds he’d been hearing made sense now. When the Griever moved its tail, it made the metallic whirring sound, like the spinning blade of a saw. When it moved, it created the creepy clicking sounds, metal against stone. But nothing sent chills up Thomas’s spine like the haunted, deathly moans that escaped the creature, it sounded like dying men left on a battlefield.

Seeing it all now—the beast matched with the sounds—Thomas couldn’t think of any nightmare that could equal this hideous thing coming toward him. He fought the fear, forced his body to remain perfectly still, hanging there in the vines. He was sure their only hope was to avoid being noticed.

Maybe it won’t see us, he thought. Just maybe. But the reality of the situation sank like a stone in his stomach. The beetle blade had likely already revealed his exact position.

The Griever moved and clicked its way closer, zigzagging back and forth, moaning and whirring. Every time it stopped, the metal tail unfolded and turned this way and that, like a roving robot on an alien planet looking for signs of life. The red light cast eerie impressions across the maze.

A faint memory tried to escape the locked box within his mind—shadows on the walls when he was a kid that would scare him. He longed to be back to wherever that was, to run to the mum and dad he hoped still lived, somewhere, missing him, searching for him.

A strong whiff of that burning oil stung his nostrils. A sick mixture of overheated engines and charred flesh. He couldn’t believe people could create something so horrible and send it after kids.

Trying not to think about it, Thomas closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on remaining still and quiet. The creature kept coming.

whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

click-click-click

whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

click-click-click

Thomas peeked down without moving his head. The Griever had finally reached the wall where he and Alby hung. It paused by the closed door that led into the Glade, only a few yards to Thomas’s right.

Please turn back, Thomas pleaded silently. Please!

Yet the Griever remained oblivious to his silent desperation.

whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

click-click-click

It came to a stop, then moved once more, right up to the wall.

Thomas held his breath, not daring to make the slightest sound. The Griever now sat directly below them. Thomas wanted to look down so badly but knew any movement might give him away. The beams of light from the creature shone all over the place, completely random, never settling in one spot.

Then, without warning, it went out.

The world turned instantly dark and silent. It was as if the creature had turned off. It didn’t move, made no sound—even the haunting groans had stopped completely. And with no more lights, Thomas couldn’t see a single thing.

He was blind.

He took small breaths through his nose, his pumping heart crying out desperately for oxygen.

Could it hear him? Smell him? Sweat drenched his hair, his hands, his clothes, everything. A fear he had never known filled him to the point of insanity.

Still, nothing. No movement, no light, no sound. The anticipation of trying to guess its next move was killing Thomas.

Seconds passed. Minutes. The ropy plant dug into Thomas’s flesh, his chest was beginning to feel numb.

He wanted to scream at the monster below him: Kill me or leave!

Then, in a sudden burst of light and sound, the Griever came back to life, whirring and clicking and—

—it started to climb the wall.

The Griever’s spiked legs tore into the stone, throwing shredded ivy and rock chips in every direction. A bright light on the end of the tail pointed directly at Thomas, only this time, the beam didn’t move away.

Thomas felt the last drop of hope drain from his body.

He knew the only option left was to run.

I’m sorry, Alby, he thought as he unravelled the thick vine from his chest. Using his left hand to hold tight to the foliage above him, he finished unwrapping himself and prepared to move. He knew he couldn’t go up—that would bring the Griever across the path of Alby. Down, of course, was only an option if he wanted to die as quickly as possible.

He had to go to the side.

Thomas reached out and grabbed a vine two feet to the left of where he hung.

Wrapping it around his hand, he yanked on it with a sharp tug. It held true, just like all the others. A quick glance below revealed that the Griever had already halved the distance between them, and it was getting faster, no more pauses or stops.

Thomas let go of the rope he’d used around his chest and heaved his body to the left, scraping along the wall. Before his pendulum swing took him back toward Alby, he reached out for another vine, catching a nice thick one. This time he grabbed it with both hands and turned to plant the bottom of his feet on the wall. He shuffled his body to the right as far as he could possibly get, then kicked off and grabbed another one. Then another.

The name Tarzan flickered into mind and that what he was going he’d seen the person do before—he didn’t let himself pause and question who the fuck was Tarzan and who’d name their poor kid that and continued onward.

The sounds of his pursuer went on relentlessly, only now with the bone-shuddering addition of cracking and splitting rock joined in. Thomas swung to the right several more times before he dared to look back.

The Griever had altered its course from Alby to head directly for Thomas.

Finally, Thomas thought, something went right. Pushing off with his feet as strongly as he could, swing by swing, he fled the hideous thing.

Thomas didn’t need to look behind him to know the Griever was gaining on him with every passing second. The sounds gave it away. Somehow, he had to get back to the ground, or it would all end quickly.

On the next switch, he let his hand slip a bit before clasping tightly. It burned, but he’d slipped several feet closer to the ground. He did the same with the next vine. And the next. Three swings later he’d made his way halfway to the Maze floor. Scorching pain flared up both his arms, the vines leaving the skin raw on his palms.

The adrenaline rushing through his body helped push away his pain and fear. He was locked single-minded on not stopping.

On his next swing, the darkness prevented Thomas from seeing a new wall looming in front of him until it was too late. The corridor ended and turned to the right.

He slammed into the stone ahead, losing his grip on the vine. Throwing his arms out, Thomas flailed, desperately reaching and grabbing to stop his plunge to the hard stone below. At the same instant, he saw the Griever out of the corner of his eye. It had altered its course and was almost on him, swinging its tail almost wildly.

Thomas found a vine halfway to the ground and grasped it. His arms were almost torn from their sockets at the sudden stop. He pushed off the wall with both feet as hard as he could, swinging his body away from it just as the Griever charged in with its front left leg.

Thomas kicked out with his own, connecting with the metal leg. A sharp screech revealed a small victory as it slid down the wall slightly, but any elation ended when he realised that the momentum of his swing was now pulling him back down to land right on top of the creature.

Pulsing with adrenaline, Thomas drew his legs together and pulled them tight against his chest. As soon as he made contact with the Griever’s body, disgustingly sinking inches into its gushy skin, he kicked out with both feet to push off, squirming to avoid the swing of the needle coming at him. He swung his body out and to the left. Then he jumped toward the wall of the Maze, trying to grab another vine. The Griever’s front leg claws out at him from behind. He felt the wisp of motion as it barely missed his back.

Flailing once again, Thomas found a new vine and clutched it with both hands. He gripped the plant just enough to slow him down as he slid to the ground, ignoring the horrible burn. As soon as his feet hit the solid stone floor, he took off, running despite the screaming of exhaustion.

A booming crash sounded behind him, followed by the clanking, cracking, whirring of the Griever. But Thomas refused to look back, knowing every second counted.

He rounded a corner of the maze, then another. Pounding the stone with his feet, he fled as fast as he possibly could. Somewhere in his mind he tracked his own movements, hoping he’d live long enough to use the information to return to the door again.

Right, then left. Down a long corridor, then right again. Left. Two Rights. Another long corridor. The sounds of pursuit from behind didn’t relent or fade, but he wasn’t losing ground, either.

On and on he ran, his heart ready to pound its way out of his chest. With great, heaving breaths, he tried to get oxygen into his burning lungs, but he knew he couldn’t last much longer. He wondered if it’d just be easier to turn and fight, to get it over with.

When he rounded the next corner, he skidded to a halt at the sight in front of him.

Panting uncontrollably, he stared.

Another Grievers was up ahead, shuffling along as they dug their legs into the stone, coming directly toward him at a sedated pace.

Thomas turned to see his original pursuer still coming, though it had slowed a bit, wagging its tail slowly and purposefully as if mocking him.

It knows I’m done, he thought. After all that effort, here he was, blocked in by two Grievers. It was over. Not even a week of salvageable memory, and his life was fucking over.

Almost consumed by grief, he made a decision. He’d go down fighting.

He ran straight toward the Griever that had chased him there. The ugly thing retreated just an inch, almost reeling, as if shocked at his boldness. Taking to heart the slight falter, Thomas started screaming as he charged.

The Griever came to life, and the needle extended with a hiss. It moved forward, ready to collide head-on. The sudden movement almost made Thomas stumble, his brief moment of insane courage washing away, but he kept running.

At the last second before the collision, just as he got a close look at the metal and hair and slime, Thomas threw himself to the ground. Unable to stop its momentum, the Griever zoomed straight past him before it skidded to a halt. With a metallic howl, it swivelled and readied to pounce on its victim.

But now, no longer surrounded, Thomas had a clear shot away.

He scrambled to his feet and sprinted. Sounds of pursuit, this time from both Grievers, followed close behind. Sure that he was pushing his body beyond its physical limits, he ran on, trying to rid himself of the hopeless feeling that it was only a matter of time before they got him.

Then, three corridors down, two hands suddenly reached out and yanked him into the adjoining hallway. Thomas’s heart leapt into his throat as he struggled to free himself.

He stopped when he realised it was Minho.

“What—”

“Shut up and follow me!” Minho yelled, already dragging Thomas away until he was able to get his feet under him.

Without a moment to think, Thomas collected himself. Together, they ran through corridors, taking turn after turn. Minho seemed to know exactly what he was doing, where he was going; he never paused to think about which way they should run.

As they rounded the next corner, Minho attempted to speak. Between heaving breaths, he rasped: “I just saw… the dive move you did… back there… gave me an idea… we only have to last… a little while longer.”

Thomas didn’t bother wasting his own breath on questions, he just kept running, following Minho. Without having to look behind him, he knew the Grievers were gaining ground at an alarming rate. Every inch of his body hurt, inside and out. His limbs cried for him to stop running. But he ran on, hoping his heart didn’t quit on him.

A few turns later, Thomas saw something ahead of them that didn’t register with his brain. It seemed… wrong. And the faint light emanating from their pursuers made the oddity up ahead all the more apparent.

The corridor didn’t end in another stone wall.

It ended in blackness.

Thomas narrowed his eyes as they ran toward the wall of darkness, trying to comprehend what they were approaching. The two ivy-covered walls on either side of him seemed to intersect with nothing but sky up ahead. He could see stars. As they got closer, he finally realised that it was an opening—the maze ended abruptly.

What is this? he wondered.

Minho seemed to sense his thoughts. “We… call it… the… Cliff,” he said, barely able to get the words out.

A few feet before the end of the corridor, Minho stopped, holding his hand out over Thomas’s chest to make sure he stopped, too. Thomas slowed, then walked up to where the Maze opened out into a dead end. The sounds of the onrushing Grievers grew closer, but he had to see.

They had indeed reached a cliff like Minho had said. All Thomas could see in every direction, up and down, side to side, was empty air and fading stars. It was a strange and unsettling sight, like he was standing at the edge of the universe, and for a brief moment he was overcome by vertigo, his knees weakening before he steadied himself.

Dawn was beginning to make its mark, the sky seeming to have lightened considerably even in the last minute or so. Thomas stared in complete disbelief, not understanding how it could all be possible. It was like somebody had built the Maze and then set it afloat in the sky to hover there in the middle of nothing for the rest of eternity.

“I don’t get it,” he whispered, not knowing if Minho could even hear him.

“Careful,” the Runner replied. “You wouldn’t be the first shank to fall off the Cliff.”

He grabbed Thomas’s shoulder. “Did you forget something?” He nodded back toward the inside of the Maze.

Seeing the vast, open sky in front of and below him had put him into some kind of hypnotised stupor. He shook himself back to reality and turned to face the oncoming Grievers. They were now only dozens of yards away, single file, charging in with a vengeance.

Everything clicked, then, even before Minho explained what they were going to do.

“These things may be vicious,” Minho said, “but they’re dumb as dirt. Stand here, close to me, facing—”

Thomas cut him off. “I’m ready.”

They shuffled their feet until they stood scrunched up together in front of the drop-off at the very middle of the corridor, facing the Grievers. Their heels were only feet from the edge of the Cliff behind them, nothing but air waiting after that.

The only thing left for them was courage.

“We need to be in sync!” Minho yelled, almost drowned out by the ear-splitting sounds of the thundering legs scrapping along the stone. “On my mark!”

Why the two Grievers had lined up single file was a mystery. Maybe the Maze proved to be just narrow enough to make it awkward for them to travel side by side. But one after the other, they practically flew down the stone hallway, clanking and moaning and ready to kill.

Dozens of yards had become dozens of feet, and the monsters were only seconds away from crashing into the waiting boys.

“Ready,” Minho said steadily. “Not yet… not yet …”

Thomas hated every millisecond of waiting. He just wanted to close his eyes and never see another Griever again.

“Now!” screamed Minho.

Just as the first Griever’s tail extended out to nip at them, Minho and Thomas dove in opposite directions, each toward one of the outer walls of the corridor. The tactic had worked for Thomas earlier, and judging by the horrible screeching sound that escaped the first Griever, it had worked again. The monster flew straight off the edge of the cliff. He listened as it continued to fall, then heard a body hit the ground from a height. He swallowed the bile that threatened to escape.

Thomas had landed against the wall and spun just in time to see the second creature tumble over the edge, not able to stop itself either. The sound hit his ears again, and this time he didn’t try to stop himself from puking, spewing whatever he’d had in his stomach onto the ground.

His last ounce of strength disappeared, and he curled into a ball on the ground.

Then, finally, came the tears.

A half hour passed.

At some point, Minho—who faintly glowed a green for a hot minute and shrugged as Thomas’s confused look—had tugged the human towards him, holding him close. Thomas didn’t doubt it was because Minho needed that comfort as much as he did.

When Thomas had finally stopped crying, he couldn’t help wondering what Minho would think of him. Despite his lack of memory, he was sure he’d just been through the most traumatic night of his life.

He unborrowed his face from Minho’s neck to get a look at the dawn. The open sky in front of him was a deep purple, slowly fading into the bright blue of day, with tinges of orange from the sun on a distant, flat horizon.

He tried moving, but even tensing his muscles had him groaning. Everything seemed to hurt on him and inside him that he’d never known existed before. At least the doors would be opening soon, and they could return to the Glade.

He looked up at Minho. “I can’t believe we’re still alive,” he said.

Minho said nothing for several long moments, just nodding. Then he snorted. “Somehow we made it to sunrise.” He shifted his body, actively trying not to jolt the younger boy in his arms, and he winced and groaned. “I can’t believe it. Seriously. We made it through the whole night. Never been done before.”

Thomas knew he should feel proud, brave, something. But all he felt was bone tired. “What did we do differently?”

“I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to ask a dead guy what he did wrong.”

Thomas couldn’t stop wondering about how the Grievers’ enraged cries had ended as they hit the ground.

With a jolt, all thoughts of the Cliff were forgotten. Instead, Thomas remembered Alby. “We have to get back.” Straining, he forced himself to get to his feet. “Gotta get Alby off the wall.” Seeing the look of confusion on Minho’s face, he quickly explained what he’d done with the ropes of ivy.

Minho looked down, his eyes dejected. “No way he’s still alive, even if he is… he’s strung, Thomas. It would have been a mercy for you to leave him.”

Thomas refused to believe it. “It doesn’t matter now. Come on.” He started limping back along the corridor.

Minho sighed and joined Thomas in his slow walk back toward the Glade. “I don’t know, I guess this has never happened before. A few guys have been stung by the needles during the day, but we’ve always had to banish them because they went deranged. The poor shanks who got stuck out in the Maze at night weren’t found until later—days later, sometimes, if at all. And all of them were killed in ways you don’t wanna hear about.”

Thomas shuddered at the thought. “After what we just went through, I think I can imagine.”

They turned yet another corner, Minho suddenly taking the lead. The boy’s pace was picking up, but Thomas stayed on his heels, surprised at how familiar he felt with the directions, usually even leaning into turns before Minho showed the way.

“Weird, though,” Minho finally continued. “I still think you’re pulling my leg.”

Thomas almost laughed, feeling like a part of him was used to being doubted.

They tried to pick up the pace, but their bodies hurt too much, and they settled back into a slow walk despite the urgency. The next time they rounded a corner, Thomas faltered, his heart skipping a beat when he saw movement up ahead. Relief washed through him an instant later when he realised it was Newt and a group of Gladers. The west door to the Glade towered over them and it was open. They’d made it back.

At the boys’ appearance, Newt rushed over to them. “What happened?” he asked. He sounded almost angry. “How in the bloody—”

“We’ll tell you later,” Thomas interrupted. “We have to get Alby.”

Newt’s face went white. “What do you mean? He’s alive?”

“Just come here.” Thomas backtracked slightly, craning his neck to look high up at the wall. It made him dizzy to do that, like all the blood rushed from his head, but he searched along the thick vines until he found the spot where Alby hung anyway.

Without saying anything, Thomas pointed up, not daring to be relieved yet. He was still there, and in one piece, but there was no sign of movement.

Newt finally saw his friend hanging in the ivy and looked back at Thomas. If he’d seemed shocked before, now he looked utterly bewildered. “Is he… alive?”

Please let him be, Thomas thought, backing up to lean on the opposite wall to stop himself from stumbling. “I don’t know. Was when I left him up there.”

“When you left him…” Newt shook his head, still looking very disbelieving of what he was witnessing.

“And here I thought you were pulling my leg,” Minho rasped quietly. “Holy fuck, shit man.”

Thomas blinked, feeling as the blood drained from his face and went all the way down to his feet in one great rush. His mouth went dry, the back of his eyes throbbed, and his palms felt sweaty—even more than before if possible, and it stung the burns on them. His entire body felt like it was on fire.

“Tommy?”

Thomas looked, almost sluggishly, up at Newt, who took a slow step towards him when he noticed the odd behaviour from the brunet. “You good?”

Thomas swallowed, ignoring the bitter taste from when he’d vomited because if he didn’t, he was more than sure he’d do it again.

Newt took another step forward as Gally came jogging over, eyes wide. He stopped abruptly. “Newt, what’s—?”

“I don’t—” Thomas stumbled over his words, tongue heavy, as his vision danced. Then, with what strength he had left, he pushed off the wall and staggered toward Newt, grasping at his shirt just as he collapsed, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“Thomas!”

Newt caught hold of him, arm coming up to support Thomas’ neck as he gently lowered the human to the ground.

“Jesus Christ!” Gally hissed as both he and Minho moved to kneel beside them,

“I knew he was tired, but—” Minho started, but cut himself off with a groan, his own legs giving out when he tried to kneel. Gally latched onto the Kitsune, heaving him upright.

“We need to get you both to the Med-jacks, now,” Newt ordered. “Gally, use the scaffolding to get Alby down. Minho, with me.”

Newt stood, lifting Thomas bridal-style into his arms, and didn’t waste a moment before storming back into the Glade and towards Homestead. Over the packbond, he privately forewarned Clint of the impending arrivals as he ignored all the onlookers that had come to the doors. He absentmindedly noted Chuck among them, staring wide-eyed with worry at Thomas.

He rushed into the infirmary, Clint immediately pointing for Newt to put Thomas on one of the beds. He wandered over holding a bucket of water and several flannels. He set them on the side table.

He rested a hand on Thomas’ forehead, exhaling sharply. “Fever.” Clint spun around to Minho, barking out, “What are you standing there for? Lay down, slinthead!”

Minho jumped but did as ordered, groaning and almost immediately passed out the moment his head touched the pillow.

Clint glanced back at Newt. “I wanna take his shirt off, check for damage.”

Check for a sting, goes unsaid.

Newt nodded and helped hold Thomas up so Clint could remove the bloodied shirt. As the puma set Thomas down once more, Clint dunked a flannel in the cool water, squeezing out an extra before setting it on the human’s forehead. Then he went about gently poking about to check his injured shoulder, which was where all the blood had come from—thank goodness, Newt thought—then his hands and chest for the raw burns.

“What woulda cause them?” Newt questioned, frowning at the sore-looking red marks.

Clint tilted his head, frowning. “Looked like something was wrapped around him?”

It clicked for Newt. “The vines.” Clint glanced at him. “Tommy used the vines to lift Alby up the wall. He’d of had to climb up himself.”

Clint pulled on his magic, guiding it to the worst of Thomas’s injuries, encouraging them to soothe. Before their eyes, through the gentle blue glow, the bright raw marks eased off into a pale pink.

Thomas let out a gentle sigh, tension easing from his body.

The strung-tight tension in Newt eased off too—one he hadn’t realised was there—and he began inspecting Thomas’s trousers for any stinger holes. He found none and that beat down the rest of the immediate worry. “He’s clear.”

“Good. Would have hated after all he’d been through for him to just end up stung,” Jeff mumbled from across the room where he was tending to Minho.

Clint snorted. “Thomas ain’t no wuss, that’s for sure. No hesitation whatsoever.”

Anger prickled Newt, stupid bloody Thomas not doing what he’s told but—

Minho was alive. Alby was alive too, and maybe that would give them time to mourn and accept what needed to be done when Alby eventually lost himself.

He listened as the other Glades brought Alby into the room across from them. Clint and Jeff took that as their cue to head over there. If they could make the process any easier for Alby…

But what would happen when Alby died? He was their leader. Their Alpha.

Newt shuddered, lost after everything that had happened in the last forty-eight hours. Ben, and now Alby.

With one final glance at Thomas and Minho, Newt left. He was in charge now.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

Thomas woke to the sound of breathing, slow and steady, and certainly not his own.

For a few long seconds, he didn’t move. His whole body ached, every muscle a dull, pulsing reminder that he was still alive. When he finally blinked his eyes open, he saw the familiar ceiling of the med-jack hut above him, that uneven planking with streaks of sunlight from the window.

He blinked hard, trying to pull his thoughts together, but his head felt foggy, half-floating.

How did I—

The memories slammed into him before he could finish the thought. The Maze. The darkness. The metallic shriek of the Griever. The way its legs scraped stone. Minho’s voice—Run!—and Thomas refusing to leave Alby.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it worse. The sound of gears grinding, the smell of oil and blood, the weight of Alby’s body across his shoulders—all of it flooded back too fast.

He pressed a fist to his mouth to stifle the noise. It hit him in waves, silent at first, then harder, until his shoulders trembled with it.

Three days. He’d only been here three days.

The tears came.

They welled hot and sudden, burning behind his eyes, spilling down before he could blink them away. He pressed the heel of his palms into them like that would stop it, but it only made his chest shake harder. He tried to breathe quietly, to hold it all in, but the more he remembered—the screaming, the fear, the things chasing them—the harder it became to keep the noise down.

Thomas rubbed furiously at his face, ashamed of the tears. He was alive—they were alive— and yet the relief felt like a wound of its own.

A soft voice broke through the quiet. “If it makes you feel better,” Minho murmured. “I already had my cry sesh about an hour ago.”

Thomas jerked his head up. Minho was awake, leaning on one elbow, his hair sticking out in every possible direction. There was a faint smirk on his face, but his eyes were weighted with exhaustion.

Thomas let out a wet laugh before another tear slipped down his cheek. “You serious?”

“Dead serious,” Minho said, voice low and rough. “Didn’t even make it five minutes. Pretty sure Clint and Jeff heard me snifflin’ through the wall.”

Thomas tried to laugh again, but it came out as a shaky hiccup. He rubbed at his eyes.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them was heavy with everything they’d survived—the stench of fear, the adrenaline, the sheer impossibility of what they’d done.

His throat hurt from holding back the sobs, but the laugh had cracked something open, made it all come spilling out again—louder this time. Ugly. Uncontrolled.

Minho stared for a second, then sighed, swung his legs off his cot, and padded over. “Alright, that’s it,” he muttered. “Scoot.”

“What?” Thomas croaked.

“You heard me.” Minho gestured with one hand. “That cot’s just about big enough for both of us. Unless you wanna cry yourself to sleep alone.”

Thomas blinked, startled. “You’re serious.”

“Thomas,” Minho said, deadpan. “We just survived a night in the Maze. I think we’re past pretending to be tough.”

Thomas hesitated, then sighed and scooted over, the cot creaking beneath him. Minho climbed in beside him with a groan, lying flat for all of two seconds before turning on his side, one arm folded beneath his head.

They were close enough that Thomas could feel the heat radiating off him.

For a while, neither said anything. The quiet hum of the Glade outside all felt strangely far away.

He let out a quiet breath. “You know… for someone who’s supposed to be the Maze expert, you ran like hell back there.”

Minho turned his head, raising an eyebrow. “You calling me a coward, Greenie?”

Thomas’s mouth twitched. “No. A coward would’ve screamed louder.”

That got a laugh—tired but genuine. Minho smirked. “Rude,” he said. “But fair.”

Thomas’s lips curled, and for the first time since waking, he almost felt lighter. “Guess you’re lucky you saw me pull that stunt, otherwise we’d have probably been dead. You can thank me anytime.”

“Oh yeah?” Minho rolled his eyes. “Next time, I’ll let the Griever have you first. See how your hero complex likes that.”

“Deal,” Thomas murmured, voice thinning into a laugh, before the ache in his ribs cut it short.

Minho shook his head, watching him. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Starting to think everyone here is.”

“That’s the spirit,” Minho chuckled, but his smile faded into something more serious. “You should’ve run too, shuck-face. I thought we were dead. Hell, we should be dead.”

Thomas lifted his head to look at him—really look at him—and for the first time, saw not just a leader, not the confident Runner, but a boy who’d been terrified out of his mind.

And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

“Guess we’re both idiots,” Thomas said softly.

“Yeah,” Minho agreed. “But brave ones.”

Thomas huffed a quiet laugh. “Brave idiots.”

“Sounds about right.”

They fell silent again. The cot creaked as they both shifted, finding space and comfort where they could. Thomas felt Minho’s hand brush his arm, an unspoken question, a wordless reassurance. He didn’t pull away, shifting closer.

”So, I just realised I earned my second tail. Pretty sure that was the glow,” Minho murmured.

Thomas’s brows shot up. “Really? What do you think it was for?”

”Not the fact I left you, that’s for sure,” he grimaced before sighing. He offered Thomas a weak smile. “Hell if I know.”

”You came back, Minho, even knowing it might kill you. It was a selfless act,” Thomas said, because to him, the reason was obvious.

Minho stared at him, dumbfounded. “You think—?”

”I know it,” he assured, offering a warm smile.

Minho laughed, choking on the sound in disbelief as he yanked Thomas closer against him.

The warmth was grounding. Real. Thomas hadn’t realised how badly he needed someone else’s presence until now, the steady rhythm of another heartbeat, another breath beside him.

“I really thought you were dead for a while,” Thomas whispered.

Minho’s voice mirrored his own. “Yeah. You too.”

Thomas swallowed hard, closing his eyes.

The cot was too small for them, but neither of them cared. At some point, Minho shifted closer, their legs tangling, and allowed Thomas to nestle against his side. Thomas didn’t even register the movement until he felt Minho’s steady heartbeat beneath his ear. He didn’t pull away.

He didn’t want to.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

Sometime later, the door creaked open. Boots scuffed the wooden floor, followed by hushed voices.

“Well,” Gally’s voice drawled, amusement dripping from every syllable, “would you look at that. Another one’s fallen for the Greenie’s charms.”

Newt snorted, the sound stifled quickly into a half-cough, half-laugh.

“Third one, you mean,” Clint corrected, his tone all too casual as he stepped closer to check the boys. “More like sixth, actually. You, Zart, me… maybe Fry if we’re counting sideways glances at breakfast. Can’t fool us, shank.”

Gally bristled in mock offence. “I am not—”

“—Jealous that you’ve yet get to cuddle Tommy?” Newt supplied, smirking.

That earned a low growl from Gally, which only made Newt snort louder. Clint was grinning outright now, trying and failing to keep his laughter quiet.

The sound was enough to stir Minho. His brow furrowed, and he blinked awake groggily, realising first that he was wrapped around someone and second that there was an audience.

“Aw, hell,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep. “What time is it?”

“Late afternoon,” Newt said, lips twitching. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your cuddle session.”

You can’t tease me for yesterday morning now, Minho, Newt said gleefully.

Damnit, Minho cursed, put out by the loss of teasing material.

Thomas stirred next, mumbling something that sounded like “what?” before raising his head, hair all askew and bleary-eyed. He squinted at the gathered group. “Huh?”

The state Thomas was in earned a muffled laugh from Gally, who folded his arms and leaned against the nearest post. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Greenie. You got both Newt and Minho to cuddle with you.”

Thomas groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “It’s not like that,” he mumbled.

“Sure,” Clint teased. “That’s what they all say.”

Minho just grinned.

But the laughter eased when Newt sat at the end of the cot. “Jokes aside, you both made it out alive. That’s somethin’ worth talkin’ about.”

At that, the memories came back again. The Maze. The screams. The pounding of metal limbs behind them. Thomas swallowed hard, his voice a little unsteady when he spoke. “Well, after the door closed, Minho and I had some, uh, back and forth.”

Minho snorted. “More like I was panicking while you weren’t scared enough.”

“I was,” Thomas refuted. “Just,” he paused, slumping back onto the cot, “something felt familiar about the situation. Well. Not that situation but—”

“The danger,” Gally finished.

“Yeah.”

There was a moment of silence at the confession before Minho picked up the explanation.

“I’ll admit, I noped out of there as soon as I heard a Griever. Left Thomas by himself.” Minho didn’t try hiding his shame.

“It’s fine, but I would have appreciated the help with all the back-breaking work of getting Alby up that wall,” Thomas chimed, flashing Minho a grin, who squinted incredulously at him, unsure if he was serious or not.

“It took me about an hour, I reckon, maybe more? But the Griever was slow going, so while I was sort of rushing, I wasn’t in any immediate danger so long as I kept an ear out,” Thomas explained.

“Not that we aren’t glad you did, but… why’d you go through the effort of trying to save Alby?” Clint asked. “You saw what happened with Ben.”

Thomas shrugged a little helplessly. “I couldn’t just leave him.”

“So you didn’t,” Newt said softly.

Thomas nodded, his hands fidgeting with the blanket. “I finished hoisting him up within minutes of the Griever arriving, and kinda played dead, hoping it wouldn’t spot us, but it did.” He stopped, breath catching. “I thought it’d kill us both. But I just… reacted when it started climbing, trying to draw its attention away from Alby. I swung out on one of the vines—”

“Wait—” Clint interrupted, eyes wide. “You’re tellin’ me it was climbing the wall?”

Thomas nodded grimly. “Yeah. Faster than I could move, honestly. I only made it because it lunged too soon. I fled by swinging from the vines until I hit a wall and fell the rest of the way.”

Gally’s face was tight. “Fucking hell.”

Minho rubbed a hand down his face, then picked up the story where Thomas left off. “When I got my head on straight again, I started backtracking to see if I could find him and imagine my surprise when I spotted him.” He glanced at Thomas, who grinned sheepishly. “He was surrounded, man. Both sides blocked. I thought he was dead for sure.”

“Well, he’s not dead. So what did you do, Tommy?” Newt’s brows furrowed seeing Thomas’s grin.

“No.” Minho shook his head, a crooked smile creeping in. “You wanna know what the idiot did? He ran right at one of the Grievers. Full tilt like a lunatic. The thing mirrored him, like it didn’t know what else to do and when it lunged, Thomas dropped. Flat. It went straight over him, unable to stop in time.”

Thomas shrugged, throwing his hands up. “I wasn’t thinking, just acted, okay? It just—happened.”

Clint let out a low whistle. “You’re telling me the Greenie outsmarted a Griever?”

“Yeah,” Minho said, pride on his face. “Gave me the idea to use one of the Cliffs. Since they couldn’t stop as easily, I thought it’d be possible to get the bastards to run straight off the edge.”

The hut went quiet.

Even Gally looked stunned, eyes darting between the two of them. “You’re saying you took out two Grievers. On purpose.”

Minho shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Thomas let out a tired laugh, scrubbing a hand through his hair, trying to get it to lay flat. “Barely. After that, we sat by the Cliff ‘til sunrise. Didn’t even talk. Just… sat.”

Newt exhaled slowly, looking between them both. There was something like awe in his eyes, but also something heavier—worry, maybe. Pride, too. “You two are either bloody brilliant or fucking insane.”

“Little of both,” Minho said, smirking.

Thomas huffed out another quiet laugh. “Mostly insane.”

“Agreed,” Clint muttered. “But damn if it didn’t work.”

Gally uncrossed his arms, settling his hands on his hips, still trying to process it. “You really did it. Killed Grievers.”

Minho grinned tiredly. “We did.”

“You’ve got a talent for making the impossible sound casual,” Gally remarked.

Thomas blinked, then smiled. “Guess so.”

Minho snorted, wrapping an arm around Thomas, hugging him close with a grin. “I’m keeping him. Kid’s good luck.”

“Careful,” Clint teased. “Might make the rest of us jealous.”

Thomas blushed as Gally rolled his eyes. “Speak for yourself.”

But even he couldn’t hide the faint smile tugging at his mouth.

Newt clapped a hand on Thomas’s knee above the blanket, gentle but firm. “Rest up, yeah? You both earned it.”

Thomas nodded, exhausted all over again. As the others turned to leave, Minho flopped back down, bringing Thomas with him.

“Still think I’m a coward?” he muttered.

Thomas smirked faintly. “Maybe just a scaredy-cat.”

“I’m a fox,” Minho said, voice fading into a chuckle. “But fair.”

Thomas laughed softly too, eyes already slipping shut.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

The heaviness from the day before lingered still, only now it held a tension too. What was once believed impossible had been turned on its ugly head. But it wasn’t that simple, it never was.

Three of their own had gone in. Three had come out. But Alby—Alby still hadn’t woken, and no one was sure they wanted him too, not if he was in agony from the Changing.

Newt found himself pacing again, unable to shake the tension in his chest. He’d been doing it for hours—crossing the Glade’s square, glancing toward the med-hut, checking for any sign of movement. He hated not knowing.

Then, the ground shuddered.

It started as a faint vibration underfoot, so slight Newt thought he imagined it. Then the familiar low metallic groan followed—deep, grinding, mechanical. His breath hitched, heart lurching in his chest.

“No way,” he whispered.

He turned toward the Glade’s centre. The sound built, that awful, rhythmic grrrk-grrrk-grrrk that made his skin crawl.

More heads were turning as disbelief rattled the packbond.

“What the hell?” Gally shouted from across the square, dropping his hammer. “That can’t be—”

The Box, Newt said. It sounded almost hollow in his ears. It’s coming up again.

A ripple of disbelief passed through the Glade.

No way, Frypan muttered, It came up three days ago!

But there it was, that unmistakable grinding rising from beneath the earth. The Gladers converged around the Box, drawn like moths to the sound. The air buzzed with tension.

Newt forced himself to move closer. “Back up!” he barked.

The boys scrambled to obey their acting Leader, stepping back in a wide circle around the Box to allow Newt through and give the Box cautious space. The rumble grew louder, like thunder trapped beneath the ground. The smell of oil and hot metal filled the air.

The Box was really, truly coming.

And for the first time, no one wanted to see what it brought.

The final clang rattled through their bones. The sound stopped. The air stilled. Then came the hiss of hydraulics, and the trapdoors began to open. Nothing leapt out, there were no strange sounds—just silence.

Every Glader stared. For a long, suspended moment, there was only the wind.

Then Gally stepped forward first, brows knitted. “That’s… not right. They don’t send us another this fast.”

“Maybe it’s a reward, for you know,” Zart said uncertainly, waving a hand toward the med-jack hut.

“Then why the hell does it feel so ominous?” Chuck muttered.

Newt approached cautiously. “Alright,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

He leaned over the edge. Inside the Box lay a body.

For a moment, he thought they were dead—pale, still, dressed in the same uniform as every Greenie before them. But smaller. Softer. Her long hair was dark and tangled, streaked across her face, her limbs sprawled awkwardly.

As he listened to the person’s heartbeat, it took his brain a second too long to register what he was seeing. His mouth dropped open.

It was a girl.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered, almost reverent. “They sent up a girl.”

Gally’s jaw tightened before he found his voice. “That’s not—They don’t send girls.”

The murmurs started immediately.

“No way,” someone stammered. “They don’t send—”

“She’s human,” Winston said numbly. “Like Thomas.”

The Gladers crowded closer despite themselves, curiosity winning over their unease to get a glimpse of the girl. For two years, the Box had brought boys. Always boys. Never once a girl.

Then the girl gasped.

It was a sharp, ragged inhale—her back arching briefly, eyes snapping open wide. She looked around wildly, confusion painted across her face. Her hand clenched something against her chest—a small, crumpled bit of paper. Before anyone could speak, her eyes rolled back, and she went limp again.

“Now we really have seen everything,” Gally breathed.

Newt’s heart hammered. “We need to get her out.”

He climbed down into the Box, boots rattling metal. The air inside was thick, stale, colder than it should’ve been. He crouched beside her carefully, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. Relief flooded him, though it didn’t last. The sight of that paper in her hand nagged at him.

“Sorry, love,” he murmured, prying it loose.

The note was small, just a torn scrap. The writing was in sharp, black ink, precise and deliberate.

She’s the last Glader.

Newt’s stomach twisted. “Last?” he muttered aloud.

Gally leaned over the edge. “What’s it say?”

Newt held it up, voice low. “She’s the last Glader.”

That stopped everyone cold. The words rippled through the crowd like thunder.

“The last?” Frypan echoed. “What’s that mean?”

Newt’s voice came out hoarse. “That there’s no one else after her.”

Despite how shaken he felt, Newt motioned toward a few of the older boys. “Careful now. Get her to the med-hut. Clint’ll know what to do.”

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

The news spread like wildfire. By noon, the Glade was abuzz—not with excitement, but confusion. The Box never came twice in the same week, never broke pattern. And it had never, ever sent a girl.

Theories spread fast.

“Maybe the Creators ran out of boys,” one kid muttered.

“Maybe she’s a spy,” said another.

A few dared to whisper worse things—that she wasn’t actually human at all, that she was part of whatever test the Maze was running.

But mostly, everyone was scared to say what they really thought: something had changed. Because for the first time in years, no one could guess the rules anymore.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

Outside Homestead, Newt stood a few paces from the door, arms crossed as Gally and Frypan joined him, the note in his hand again. He’d read it so many times already that the words were burned into his thoughts.

She’s the last Glader.

“It’s gotta mean something,” Gally said. “They don’t just do things for funsies.”

“You sure about that?” Newt muttered. “Seems like fun’s the only thing they’ve been havin’.”

Gally frowned, restless energy rolling off him. “No, listen. We’ve talked about this before. What if the Box stops comin’ up one day? What if this is it, all of us?”

“You’re sayin’ this proves it. But after we got her out, the Box went down.”

“I’m sayin’ it’s a warning.” Gally’s eyes narrowed toward the Maze, sundown was only a few hours away.  “Thomas, Minho, Alby—they survive one night, and the next day this happens.” Gally’s tone darkened. “That can’t be a coincidence.”

Newt nodded slowly. “You’re right. Whatever they’re planning, it started last night.”

Frypan folded his arms. “So, what now? We have to prepare for the Maze’s second stage, or something?”

Newt’s expression darkened. “We can only wait.”

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

Minho stirred beside him, muttering something under his breath before cracking an eye open. “You look like you just saw a ghost,” he mumbled.

Thomas hesitated, turning his eyes away from the window. “The Box came up again.”

Minho blinked. “What?”

“There was someone inside.”

“Already?” Minho rubbed his face, groaning. “Shuck me. That’s fast.”

“It was a girl,” Thomas added quietly.

That got Minho’s full attention. “A girl?”

Thomas nodded.

Minho stared at him for a long second, then let out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re messin’ with me.”

“I’m not.”

He fell silent, trying to process it. “Well, damn. The Creators are really losing it now.”

Thomas leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Maybe it’s because of us. Because we survived a night in the Maze.”

Minho snorted softly. “Wouldn’t surprise me. We broke their stupid rules. Maybe this is their way of changing the game.”

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

Gally joined him after everyone had already gone to bed “Trouble sleeping?”

“Too much on the mind,” Newt said. “Clint says she’s breathing fine, but…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Can’t get my brain to shut up.”

Gally took a sip of his water, then stared out over the Glade. “You think it’s over?”

Newt frowned. “In what way?”

“Everything.”

Newt hesitated. “I used to think maybe it’d stop one day. That we’d wake up, the exit would be open, and we’d walk out free.”

Gally gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah. And maybe the sky’ll fall while we’re at it.”

They stood there for a while, neither saying anything. The Maze loomed in the distance, the doors closed for the night, the Grievers shrieking the night away.

Finally, Gally spoke again, voice low. “You ever think maybe the Creators aren’t lookin’ for answers anymore? Maybe they’re just… watching to see how long it takes for us to all die.”

Newt’s jaw tightened. “Then let’s not give them the satisfaction.”

Gally nodded slowly. “Guess we just keep movin’ our pieces.”

Newt’s gaze drifted toward the med-hut window, where the girl lay still beneath her blanket. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Until the board flips.”