Thomas winced as Minho practically shoved him through the door of the Medjack hut. His side throbbed where the jagged edge of a Maze wall had sliced through his shirt, leaving a trail of blood and shredded fabric. Every breath pulled at the wound, sharp and hot, but he didn’t want to give Minho the satisfaction of complaining.

"You’re lucky you didn’t get yourself killed," Minho muttered, leaning against the wall with crossed arms.

Thomas gritted his teeth. Lucky, he thought. Sure. If you called misjudging a jump, scraping half your torso open, and needing to be dragged back to the Glade lucky, then yeah, he was the luckiest guy alive.

The wound wasn’t fatal—he knew that much—but it still burned like hell. He didn’t want to be here, sprawled on the cot like some helpless idiot, but Minho had insisted, and Thomas had been too winded to argue.

The door creaked open, and Thomas glanced up, his breath catching in his throat.

The Medjack stepped in, moving with an easy confidence that made the small room feel even smaller. They were... striking. It wasn’t just their face, though that alone was enough to distract him. It was something else—the way they seemed completely unbothered by the chaos of the Glade, the way they carried themselves, calm and steady, like they’d seen it all and couldn’t be rattled.

Thomas blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of how he must look. Bloodied, sweat-streaked, and probably smelling like something the Grievers had chewed up and spit out. Without a word, the Medjack knelt beside him, their hands brushing his arm as they moved to inspect the wound. Thomas flinched, but it wasn’t from the pain.