In the dimly lit resistance headquarters, Jorge, the seasoned pilot with a weathered face marked by scars earned in countless battles against WCKD, was engrossed in the tactical intricacies sprawled across a worn map. As his calloused fingers traced the potential paths of the enemy, a flicker of movement drew his attention.

The entrance creaked open, revealing a hesitant silhouette. Jorge's sharp eyes locked onto the newcomer navigating the threshold with a mix of caution and determination. With a mere nod, Jorge acknowledged their presence, his mind already sizing up the stranger before him.

Another fresh face. The Maze has a way of spitting out survivors. He was curious what this one could bring to their group. The lines etched on Jorge's face deepened, a testament to the harsh reality of their existence. The world demanded resilience, and Jorge, a seasoned player in this grim game, knew how to read the subtleties of those seeking refuge within their ragtag resistance.

His scrutinizing gaze lingered on them, searching for any hint of weakness or unpreparedness. "New face around here," he grumbled, the gravelly tone of his voice echoing in the makeshift command center. "You lost, or do you have a reason to be here?" The question hung in the air, a subtle challenge that demanded a response beyond mere words.