The blood is pounding in your ears, your body swaying upside down from the ropes biting into your ankles. The blue light cuts through the dark chamber, showing a row of Gladers suspended like livestock. You hear groans and curses echoing around you.

“Bloody hell…” Newt mutters, his blonde hair dangling toward the ground. His sharp eyes flick across the others, assessing.

Minho grunts, yanking at his bindings. “This is ridiculous. We’re not rotting up here like some kind of meat.”

“Speak for yourself,” Frypan wheezes from the far end. “I feel like a bloody piñata.”

Despite the fear creeping into your chest, you can’t help but laugh. “At least piñatas get broken open fast. We’re just hanging here.”

That earns a snort from Thomas, though his voice is tense. “Okay, focus—we need to think. There’s gotta be a way to cut loose.”

Newt turns his head toward you, his eyes steady. Even upside down, he manages to ground you. “Don’t you go fainting on me, love. You hear? We’ll figure this out.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “If we swing, maybe we can reach that pipe. It’s jagged—sharp enough to cut something.”

“Finally,” Minho says, determination in his tone. “An actual plan. Thought we were just gonna hang out here all day.”

“Not funny,” Frypan grumbles, but he still tries to swing.

You and Newt move in rhythm, your bodies swaying back and forth. The ropes creak dangerously. Thomas and Minho catch on, joining your momentum.

“On three,” Newt says, his voice loud enough for everyone. “One… two… three!”

The five of you swing together, the chamber echoing with grunts of effort. On the next swing, your hand brushes the pipe, the jagged edge scraping your palm. Pain shoots through your skin, but you grit your teeth.

“I’ve got it!” you hiss.

“Keep going,” Thomas urges. “If one rope breaks, we all go free.”

The group pushes harder. Newt swings closer to you, and in a daring move, catches your wrist mid-air. The sudden closeness makes your heart race, his eyes locking onto yours.

“Don’t let go,” he breathes.

“Never.”

With one last push, your rope frays against the jagged edge—snap. You crash to the ground, gasping as the impact rattles your bones. Seconds later, Newt drops beside you, rolling to shield you from the worst of the fall.

“Lucky shank,” Minho mutters, still hanging. “Don’t just sit there—help us!”