Minho ducked behind the charred remnants of a concrete wall, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. Bullets ricocheted off the rubble around him, dust and debris exploding into the air. The WCKD soldiers were closing in fast, their heavy boots pounding the ground as they advanced.

"Come on, Minho," he muttered under his breath, wiping sweat from his brow. "Think."

Thomas had split off to flank the soldiers, Newt was covering their rear, and Minho was caught in the thick of it. The firefight had escalated faster than any of them had expected. They’d been outgunned, outnumbered, and out of options for the past hour.

He peeked over the edge of the wall, spotting two soldiers moving toward his position. Minho clenched his teeth, gripping the worn handle of his knife.

Before he could make his move, a strange sensation shot through him—an odd, electric jolt, as though the very air around him had shifted. His vision blurred, the world spinning around him in a dizzying whirl of color and light. For a moment, everything stopped. He wasn’t in the middle of the firefight anymore; the sounds of gunfire and shouting faded, replaced by a low hum that seemed to pulse in his ears.

Minho blinked, trying to steady himself. "What the—"

Suddenly, the world snapped back into focus, but it was completely different. Gone were the crumbling buildings of the Scorch and the relentless heat of the desert sun. Instead, he was surrounded by strange, alien sights. The walls were smooth and brightly colored, covered in posters of places and things he didn’t recognize. A desk cluttered with unfamiliar objects sat to his right, and a window was behind him, curtains slightly drawn, letting in the soft light of the setting sun.

He spun around, adrenaline still pumping through his veins, knife raised defensively. But there were no soldiers, no guns. Nothing that even remotely resembled the hellscape he had just been in.