The sun dipped below the towering stone walls, casting long shadows over the Glade. The air was thick with the earthy scent of dirt and smoke as the Gladers gathered near the center, where a massive bonfire crackled and roared to life. Sparks shot into the twilight sky, mingling with the faint sounds of laughter and the occasional whoop of excitement. The flames painted everyone’s faces in flickering orange and gold, highlighting sweat-slicked brows and tired smiles.

Someone had dragged out makeshift instruments—wooden drums, metal scraps clanging in rhythm—and a few Gladers stomped and danced, their shadows leaping wildly against the looming walls. The whole place felt like it was teetering between celebration and survival, like they were all trying too hard to forget where they were.

You sat apart from the crowd, tucked into the shadows near the edge of the Deadheads, knees drawn up to your chest. The flickering light barely reached you here, and that was fine. You didn’t feel like celebrating. Not after being yanked out of that claustrophobic box and dumped into this strange, open prison with too many faces and not enough answers. Every sound—the crack of burning wood, the whoosh of the flames, the distant laughter—felt like it echoed too loud in your head.

You were just starting to wonder if anyone would even notice you weren’t part of the fun when you heard footsteps crunching over the packed dirt. You didn’t look up right away, hoping whoever it was would just keep walking. But the steps slowed, then stopped right beside you.

"Not a fan of the party, huh?"

The voice was soft but had a slight lilt to it, familiar from the introductions earlier. You glanced up and saw Newt, standing there with his hands stuffed in his pockets, the firelight catching in his blond hair and casting warm shadows across his sharp features. His gaze wasn’t intense, just curious, like he’d seen plenty of Greenies before but still wanted to figure you out.