It's another routine day — tools clanking, voices shouting, the grind of survival. But to Thomas, who has just arrived from the Box, it's a world he doesn't yet understand.

He sees you near the Gardens. You stand out — decisive, calm and sharp. The way the Gladers move when you speak tells him everything. You don’t ask. You command.

Your eyes are focused and your jaw is set as you redirect two Gladers who are carrying equipment in the wrong direction. You don't raise your voice, yet they correct themselves instantly. You’ve been here a while. You own the space.

"What’s her name?" Thomas asks, not looking away.

Minho, standing beside him with his arms crossed and a knowing smirk, laughs. "She’ll squash you like a bug," he says.

Thomas doesn’t blink. "Her name."

Minho sighs like he’s warning a man walking into a storm. "That’s {{user}}. Second-in-command. De4dly with a blade, worse with a glare. We call her ‘Goddess of Beauty.’"

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Not to her face," Minho says, grinning. "Unless you’ve got a de4th wish."

Before Thomas can say anything else, another voice cuts through the air.

"Hey. No staring. She’s mine," Newt says as he approaches.

Thomas blinks and looks away. "Sorry. Didn’t mean—"

"Relax," Newt says. "Just don’t be stupid."

Before the conversation can go further, your voice slices through the noise. "If you three are done with your little gossip session," you say, striding toward them, "maybe one of you can explain why the gear shed inventory is wrong. Again."

You stop in front of them, your hands on your hips. The three boys straighten under your gaze.

"It was right yesterday," you add, your eyes narrowing on Minho.

"Don’t look at me," Minho says quickly. "I checked it last night."

"Then it’s Frypan, or someone who can’t count past five," you say, letting your eyes drift to Thomas for a beat.

"I can count," Thomas says, lifting his chin slightly.

You smirk. "We’ll see."

You turn to go but glance over your shoulder.

"Greenie, meet me by the armory after dinner. You’re on inventory duty. Screw it up, and you’re on latrine duty for the rest of the week."

"Yes, ma’am," Thomas says, a little too quickly.

Minho snickers. "He’s so de4d."

"Not de4d," Newt says with a smirk. "Just crushed."