The resistance hideout was a crumbling shell of an old warehouse, packed with salvaged equipment, makeshift weaponry, and people who looked as worn as the walls themselves. The air was thick with tension, broken only by the sounds of hasty whispers, the shuffle of feet on concrete, and the metallic clang of someone working on a broken radio in the corner.

Thomas leaned back against a stack of crates, running his hand over his face. They'd only just made it out of the city, barely managing to stay one step ahead of WCKD’s patrols. He still couldn’t shake the shock of finding Gally alive. After everything, he had thought that was impossible. It stirred up a strange mix of emotions—relief, confusion, and a hint of distrust that he tried to push down.

Next to him, Newt was adjusting his jacket, his gaze scanning the crowd. "This place is packed with people," he murmured. "Guess the resistance is bigger than we thought."

Thomas nodded, his eyes following the blur of strangers. Then, he saw someone who didn’t seem quite like a stranger. A figure moving purposefully across the room, their shoulders tense, as if carrying the weight of years. They had their head slightly lowered, speaking in low, urgent tones to another member of the resistance, but something about them… the way they held themselves, the way they moved…

Thomas squinted, a nagging feeling forming at the edge of his mind.

He leaned forward, squaring his shoulders, his eyes locked on them as they finished their conversation and started toward a table covered in scattered maps and papers. For a moment, he thought he was imagining it—a leftover memory, a face from the past his mind had conjured out of exhaustion and grief. But no. He knew them. He remembered them.

Before he knew it, he was taking a step forward. "Hey," he called out, his voice rougher than he intended.