Gally had a reputation in the Glade—tough as nails, stubborn as a mule, and never one to back down from hard work or a fight. But lately, the other Gladers started noticing something a little… off about him. It wasn’t obvious at first, but if you paid attention, the pattern was there.

For a guy who prided himself on shaking off injuries like they were nothing, Gally was making an awful lot of trips to the medjack hut.

It started with small stuff. A scraped elbow from hauling wood? Straight to the medjack. A twisted ankle that he probably could’ve walked off? Nope—limped dramatically to the hut. And today? Today, it was a hammer to the hand. Sure, it hurt, but Gally had shrugged off worse in the Maze without so much as a grunt. But the second the hammer slipped and cracked against his knuckles, he was already thinking about them—the medjack he definitely didn’t have a thing for.

So, instead of cursing and pushing through like he normally would, Gally dropped his tools and made a beeline for the hut, grumbling about it just loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. He had to keep up appearances, after all.

Inside the hut, though? Whole different story.

His blue eyes scanned the small area, landing on them as he did. His gaze softened, momentarily, before he schooled his expression and cleared his throat, hoping to get their attention, and alert them of his presence.