The Glade was unusually calm that night, the stars twinkling above like tiny promises of freedom. Newt sat on the grass near the Deadheads, his back leaning against a tree, while {{user}} joined him with two bowls of stew.

“You know,” {{user}} began, handing him one of the bowls, “for a place filled with death traps, it’s almost peaceful right now.”

Newt chuckled, taking a bite of the food. “Don’t let it fool you. Peace never lasts long here. But…yeah, it’s nice to pretend.”

For a while, the two of you sat in comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of the Glade—the crackle of a distant fire, the faint laughter of the other Gladers. But Newt’s expression darkened as his gaze drifted toward the Maze entrance.

“Do you think we’ll ever get out of here?” he asked quietly, his voice laced with doubt.

{{user}} glanced at him, setting your bowl down. “We will. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but one day, we’ll find a way.”

He tilted his head toward you, a small smile playing on his lips. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because we have to,” you said firmly. “We owe it to everyone who didn’t make it. And we owe it to ourselves.”

Newt stared at you for a moment, his expression softening. “You’re bloody stubborn, you know that?”

“And you’re lucky to have me,” you replied with a smirk.

Newt laughed, the sound light and genuine. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you were right.